#i want to write a fic but this will do for now

[dilf-docs]

My Baby's Fit Like A Daydream

husband!pedro pascal x younger!reader

summary: your relationship is finally out to the world. now, pedro and you will explore what it feels like to have your love out in the open.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, FLUFF, the empire of bad humor strikes again, hurt/comfort bc all roads lead back to angst, a brief mention of bodyshaming, this is lowkey pwp my bad, dirty talk, fingering, p. in v., bathroom sex ijbol, exhibition kink (they be fucking everywhere but in a bed), degradation kink (he calls her a slut twice), the one and only creampie (twice), so naturally: breeding kink, ALSO pls stop the husband!pedro reqs, i beg. a delulu girl can only take so much 💔

word count: 10,991 words

side note: not one but two requests to be fullfilled! this is as a sequel to call it what you want. also, spam time: i happen to write in wattpad as well, and i have a pedro pascal social media fic going on :) but it's on spanish tho. if u speak the language and would like to tune in, read it here AND spam again but speaking of the ptwt dynamic, why don't we become moots? check my (new) stan twitter account here (i had one in 2022 that i had since 2016 but entered a crisis and deleted it lol)

part: I/II

The news had spread like wildfire.

As soon as you hit the red carpet, hand on hand, rings finally on display―shining under the spotlight, your phone had been blowing up nonstop: every show, podcast, tabloid, news outlet and social media had been talking about it. California had turn into an easter egg playground; everyone was eager to know it all.

(They had found the church where you married, the dress boutique, jewelry shop where Pedro bought the rings―the employees ratted him out, even sharing pictures of the moment, your husband posing with them without knowing of the future treason. They too had found the place where the reception took place, and even the name of the priest who had married you, but he refused to give the hungry press any details. God Bless)

In short, it had been a hell of a week. You figured dissapearing for a while was for the best, but with some interviews still left, that option had been discarded. Still, doesn't mean you couldn't retreat for a couple of days to the tranquility of your home while it was time to show up again. Well, as peaceful as it could get, since reporters were camping near your house and roaming around Hollywood Hills like vultures; the neighbour's nagging was just another layer of problems in your shit cake.

"I'm sorry, Louis. Walks will be postponed for a while" you talk to your cat, but the lazy bastard just stretches and lays down again. "Yeah, I can see you're affected. Don't cry"

"It's not the cat's fault" Pedro emerges from behind, "don't take it out on him"

He takes a sit next to you, two mugs in hand. He gives you the one with a chocolate steam, a souvenir he bought when you visited your home country last summer. You wonder if that's a trip you'll ever be able to make again.

"I'm not. Just- It's horrible that I can't even go outside my own house and walk the same roads I've walked in four years because the press is hidden with cameras in, I don't know, bushes!" you exclaim, quiet rage carried within your words. "It's unfair, really. All I want is to walk my damn cat without a flash up my ass"

Pedro nestles his face in your neck, nose carressing the skin. Giggles leave your lips, the sensation ticklish.

"It'll pass. It always does" he says, voice assuring, probably because he's used to the violation of privacy, but you're not. Getting bigger, is this the price to pay for making a name for yourself and claiming out loud who you love?

"I hope so" you murmur above the quietness of your home, a sound as eerie as fake, devoid of it's tranquil nature as a world of invasion awaits outside.

"Do you trust me?" Pedro speaks, voice unwavering. He holds your gaze, steady brown challening your shaky orbs.

"I do" you speak up, yet you wish you could believe it. You believe in him, there's no question to that, but do you believe in yourself? That the love you'd put out to the world would be treated with the same care and respect you have treated it in secret? For a fleating moment, you miss the secrecy.

"Then trust me this will be over sooner than expected" he presses a kiss to your lips, soft and sweet, feeling remanents of chocolate he licks away, as you mockingly yell ¡Qué sucio! but it's devoid of malice. "In time, this will become another anecdote we'll share with our kids, and laugh with our grandkids when we get older"

You smile, feeling tears in the corner of your eyes. Oh, doesn't he turn you into a pathetic sappy wife?

"Well" you sniffle, giggling to push back the tears away. "About the old part..."

He playfully kicks your side. "Uno ya no puede ser romántico, que le salen con estas cosas. Your generation could use some respect, you know?" (one can't simply be romantic anymore)

Pedro gets up, picking the mug from your hands as both rings brush together, the gold shinning under the morning Californian sun.

"And your generation could take a joke" you quip, lips curled up like you hadn't in weeks.

"Very funny, y/n. Thought you loved me" but then he's pressing a kiss to your temple like kissing you once isn't enough, promising to return after washing down the mugs.

"I do!" you shout to his dissapearing broad frame as he enters the kitchen, and he playfully makes a dissmissing move with his palm.

The laughing dies when your phone chimes next to you.

You shouldn't really, but the curiosity that draws you in is as intense as a magnet. The phone burns on its position, screaming for you to open it, despite being told by your husband that the best was choice was to ignore it until the buzz had died down, but you're afraid the turmoil isn't nowhere to be finished. Comments can be mean, he'd said, they can hurt you. Pedro said he'd learn with time to ignore it, but he was experienced. You weren't, so naturally, as your husband and protector, he wanted to shield you from the pain.

Although, both of your fandoms had been pretty supportive of your relationship, some user even claiming to suspect it, making threads full of easter eggs and connections that validated the theory which was now a reality. I've connected the dots, followed by pictures of you sharing wardrobe, slips on interviews, similar backgrounds in your posts across social media, and of course, the two Gladiator Ii interviews. Many resorted to making edits or screaming over your pictures in the premiere, demanding for more content you had yet caved in to share (there was a gigantic carpet of evidence sitting heavy in your cloud).

So, in a way, this support made it hard for you to truly dimension the hate Pedro warned you about: all you saw was fans being happy and showering you with love, making paparazzi to be the only problem as for now.

That's it.

You cave in, turning the phone on as you bite your lip, searching first your Instagram: a bunch of new followers, many with variations of ispunk on their usernames, as well as a swarm of comments on your recent posts. There's a small voice in your head telling you to turn away, but your thumb moves without thinking, clicking on pictures of the red carpet―a carrousel of you and then a picture of you both at the end, one fans had been gushing about the last couple of days, rings on display, practically up their noses. You were smiling, and Pedro was looking at you fondly, his other hand holding Lux but his gaze never leaving yours; he was too perfect to be real―yours.

You unconsciously smile at the captured moment, love obvious on your faces, so you open the comments, thinking it would be the same support or love radiating of the comment.

But boy, weren't you wrong?

It was all the same, support lost between waves of hate. Variations of bodyshaming, age shaming and even gold digger claims were on full display across the comment section. "She's ugly" "In it for the money, am I right?" "I thought Pedro had better taste, lol" "She got the role in Gladiator II because of nepotism. Or cocksucking" and then a cruel answer that read "Right, threesome with Ridley. Ew, what a whore!"

Worst of it all, some even had Pedro profile pictures, or usernames and accounts dedicated to him.

Your heart was beating like crazy, chest heavy and hollow, face red with emotions you couldn't quite place (embarrasment? fear? rage? sadness?) as you kept searching across Twitter*, doing a quick skim of the trendings that included you. The same hate speech pattern was all over the timeline, some betting for divorce in a couple of years (even months!), while others took their time dissecting your looks and relationship. As if they knew. Long gone were the edits and harmless threads: the hate wave was here to stay. Some where even being a bit racist, the irony of it all, being Pedro himself was latino and didn't shy away from it, rather proud as he didn't miss an opportunity to shot out his dear Chile. Or any social issue, as a matter of fact, very vocal on his political beliefs.

This was fucking ridiculous, and if the cameras were an issue, this swarm of negativity is what really took a toll on you, the flashes as you went grocery shopping now barely a scratch. No, this was worst. All you wanted to do was cuddle in a blanket while wearing one of Pedro's shirts and dissappear. Too much noise. Too much hate. You can feel it creeping up your body, tainting your soft curves, wrinkles, acne scars and face. It's like rough hands, tugging harsh, ripping your vocals because you can't scream; no words to express this pain.

You knew one day it would come, but never imagined the hurt and to what extent people were capable of. Cruelty. Dissecting your life and body like it was a show for them to be entertained: your marriage was a circus and your body a joke.

It hurt their condescending dismiss of your love, questioning as if the gap were only numbers and not a pillar of your relationship that made you and Pedro closer, despite the bridge in age. You were reduced to a middle-age crisis, and he to a filthy man pinning for a younger girl. Your body was turn apart, despite no real flaws existing. Humans are meant to be so, not perfect, but real, and that was the problem: you had turn into an object―a target for their dards to pierce through.

Your body shakes violently with cries, deafening your ears that you don't hear when Pedro walks in.

"Why are you crying?" he rushes to your side, panic on his voice. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

You barely manage to shake your head, and then his eyes scan all over your features, until they land on the phone on your hands. The worry turns to anger as he asks:

"You looked at them, didn't you?"

He isn't yelling, but it would be better if he did. This contained fury, fading into dissapointment, as if you were a naive child scolded by their parents makes you feels small and stupid, as if you knew no better.

"I'm sorry-" you manage to choke out among tears, "I know you told me-"

"I told you" he interrupts, words laced with wrath, "so this wouldn't happen. See what happens?"

"Why are you talking to me like it's my fault?" you yell, and Pedro sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. "I didn't ask to receive all this! Do I deserve the death threats, shame and hate?"

He walks past you, and it's like a slap to your face. Was he going to behave like this? Didn't it matter how you felt, or was it something childish that could be brush to the side like nothing? Insecurities you hadn't even think of come crashing down on you, doubts creeping up and attacking you from all sides. It's horrible. You try to hold onto the good memories, praying you don't loose him. You can't. You just can't.

"Answer!" you demand, tears spilling like a broke dam.

"I was just closing the windows. Or do you want to fuel the talk, huh? Give the hungry hoard more to bite?" Pedro then stands to hold your gaze, and you hate that you can't place his emotions. Anxiety corrodes your brain: was this really the beginning of the end?

"Do I?" you dare to speak up, and even if its loud, it comes out drowned, the exhaustion from the emotional turmoil taking its toll on you. "Do I deserve it?"

"No, you don't, carajo!" Pedro bursts. "You don't deserve any of that, which is why I didn't want you looking at those things!"

He sighs, realizing the anger is misdirected.

"I'm sorry"

Your broken wails are the only thing to be heard. He hates himself for being a part of it, even if not the biggest.

"No, I'm sorry for being so stupid" you sob. "I-I just wanted for people to be as happy for us as I am with you"

"Come here" but he's the one cutting the space to embrace you.

His scent calms a part of you, body still rocking with violent shakes.

"You're not stupid. Nor ugly, or any of those things people are calling you. No, mi amor. You're beautiful, smart and talent. They fail to realize I'm the lucky one. So please, don't be hard on yourself, yeah? I can't bear to see it. Less if I know it's not true. You didn't ask for it; you don't deserve all that bullshit"

He presses a kiss to your temple, arms that hug you tighter holding you close close up to the point his heartbeat melts within your own.

I won't let you go. You won't fall as long as I got you.

"We'll get through this, yeah? Think of the future, and what's to come. It's hard, that I know, but let us enjoy the moment. Life is too precious to waste it away" he brushes stray tears with his thumb, softly and full of love that words aren't enough to express. "I'm here" the out loud, "and I'm not going anywhere. That's a promise"

Later that day, Pedro posts a carrousel of unseens, even one of your wedding (a video of your first dance), telling people to leave you alone. That he loves you, and that no malicious news, fans or comments will ever change that―suck it energy laced within his rageful statement.

Safe to say, in the next weeks, hate is barely a small voice whispering in the back of your neck, one that hushes down with each kiss and/or words uttered by your one and only devoted husband.

mandoshoney: y/n protection squad pull up, we ride at dawn starlightt180: unhing3dprincess WHERE ARE U??? PTWT IS IN SHAMBLES AND NEEDS U MY SHAYLAAAAAAAAAA elysyannemimi: i feel like a kid scolded by their dad. pedro has achieved the ultimate daddy status bobgirlll: is no one going to talk about how rageful/protective pedro sounded in that story????? NEED MORE FERAL PEDRO RN GRRrrrr ps. photos so cute, wish that was me lol pyramiidsf: i hope y/n is okay, ppl can be so cruel sometimes but at least she's got pedro on her side <3 he's such a perfect man :,)

It had been days since your fight.

In an sweet attempt to cheer you up, Pedro had taken you out for dinner to a fancy restaurant you can't remember the name of. If they'll snap pictures of my wife without my permission, I might as well show you off. So, per his petition, you had wore a little black dress that hugged every curve of your body perfectly and pushed your tits to the top. Stunning, he had growled, and it had been hard to push him off as he devoured your mouth in your house's doorstep.

"Let's give them talk" you had agreed.

So now you sat at the restaurant, Pedro filling your cup of wine for the third time in a row, talking about all and nothing: about politics, the weather, your siblings, Louis the cat, upcoming gigs around your home you wanted to go to, how support had risen and the hate had dwindled, the numerous calls of job offers and interviews to keep on milking your relationship... life had never been more hectic.

"You know, maybe the dress was a bad idea" he takes a bite of his meat, tone nonchalant.

"Yeah?" you challenge, cheeks flushed with alcohol, "why's that? I thought I had to look good. What changed your mind?"

"Turns out" he looks at you, gaze piercing through your body, brown warm eyes darkening, "I figured something"

You know your husband. It's still fresh in your mind the first day you took a notice of it: jaw clenching, gaze fixated at nothing and white fists balled up on to the sides, arms swinging while fingers itched. A vein on his forehead would pop, and brows would melt together in a furrow. It happened when you got recognized by a fan, on your early days, and he had taken a picture of you, uploading it to social media. Dating Pedro had been going on for little to five months, and the way this guy hugged you from behind, hand resting above your ass, had made your then-boyfriend see red. His posture stiffened, demeanor changed and face adquired all the characteristics above. There was only one correct answer: Pedro was jealous, so fucking jealous.

So here he is now, jealous to the bone, alcohol increasing the rage.

"And that is?" you push his buttons, something you normally wouldn't do, but you're drunk and God, so sex-starved. His possesive side was always hot, yet now? It had a layer of allure it didn't have before, the idea of calming him down long lost.

"You know what it is" he answers, but you tilt your head to the side, acting confused. Pedro growls, clenching the glass a bit too tight; you fear it'll break.

"No, I don't" you serve more wine in your glass, savouring the liquid. Some spills into your mouth, and you lick it while not breaking eye contact. "Enlighten me"

"Turns out" the words come out strained, a whirlwind of emotions burning in the tip of his tongue, "that I wanted people to look at my wife, but I looked their looks and realized I don't like how they look at her"

He rambles the words out, speech pattern slurred and ideas clashing into one another, clearly drunk.

"I see" you draw out, demeanor calm, but your panties have started to get wet.

"No" he hits the table, making your eyes go wide and people turn to your table. You should be embarrased, but you're only aroused. "You don't see what I see. And I hate it, I fucking hate it" he seethes, words spit out over your unfinished meal.

"Dessert?" the waiter appears from seemingly nowhere, menu on hand.

Pedro doesn't even look when he answers, "Sure. Bring your best"

"The chef's suggestion is Soufflé, a classic dessert from his country"

"That'll do" Pedro looks at you, but his brain seems to be somewhere else. Like he's thinking. "How long will it take?"

The waiter ponders the answer, yet doesn't think any weird of it.

"About twenty to thirty minutes. Would that be alright? Or would you prefer to switch to one of our quick-fixes? They're as delicious as our fresh and-"

"No" your husband interrupts, eyes shinning with something akin to dangerous. "We'll take the soufflé. Just want my wife to eat the very best"

The waiter smiles. "Sure, will be back in a few. More wine?"

Pedro stops the action, removing the bottle's neck from pouring more red liquid in your glass.

"Won't be needed"

They excuse themselves, leaving both of you alone. The restaurant bubbles with chat and instrumental music from a band playing on a corner, but all you hear is his heavy breathing and your heart.

"I wanted more wine" you pout, not even knowing why you said it.

He smiles devilishly. "I'll give you something better than that"

How does it happen, you have no idea, but then Pedro gets up with a brash move, chair making a sound that draws attention. He smirks, his auburn reflecting on the candle glowing in the center with a light that's menacing.

"I'm going to the bathroom" an announcement that feels like a threat that runs through the newfound tension; it could be cut with even a butterknife.

You sit there in silence, too stunned to speak. Your phone chimes in what feels like an hour (it's been a few minutes, probably three). You open the notification, a single text from Pedro.

I'm waiting.

So this was his plan all along, huh? Maybe he's gotten bored of sex on a bed and room like normal couples, because ever since that time you sucked his dick in his trailer, Pedro has shown an appetite for public sex. Well, more like just shown but never done. Guess that changes as of tonight.

I'm coming.

Truth is, after the reveal and fight, you hadn't had sex since that time before the London premiere. Press tour hadn't finished, and the movie was still playing in theathers, but it feels much longer the time you had gone without having his dick rearranging your insides. That changes as of tonight.

You practically leap out of your sit, rushing to the restroom, which is too fancy for your liking. You're unsure how to proceed, and it should be because you realized how stupid and reckless this is, but it's more because you don't know which door Pedro is behind: men or women.

You knock softly on the ladies room first. "I'm here" you speak, voice small.

After a few seconds, a muffled voice from behind replies: "Me too"

You giggle as he pulls you inside, mouth devouring yours in a hot kiss.

"The lock!" you squeal, yet Pedro is busy buring his face between your breasts, pulling the dress down until he's nipping at the skin before licking the spot with his tongue. Your back is pressed against the tiled white wall, cold meeting your now heating skin.

"Mmm, missed this" he mumbles in a drunken state. "Needed my girls so bad"

His words elicit a moan out of you, a way to comunicate that your body too had been aching for this.

"Please, Pedro-" you whimper, trying to get rid of the pretty dress. He doesn't say it, but his movements command for power, big hands dragging your dress down until the black cloth falls to the floor in a sound filled with grace, it feels merciful.

"Black panties? But I thought I was a man with a plan" he groans, calloused digits ghosting over the wet patch in the middle. He smells your arousal off his fingers, and this is so nasty but you're so into it.

"Two can play" is all you answer, eager fingers unbuckling his belt as you unbutton the formal pants and pull them down to his knees, so with his underwear.

"Sure thing" he chuckles darkly. "Just look at you, baby. So loud, but you gotta be quiet. ¿Quieres que alguien entre y te vea así? Fucking slut, begging for my cock" (do you want someone to come in and see you like this?)

He's always been sweet-talking you through sex, and you know he doesn't mean it aside from being lewd words, but you also didn't know you could be aroused by it. Change is welcome, to say the least.

His hard dick is immediately stroking at the apex of your thighs, like he's got no time to loose, kissing you roughly like he hasn't eat and your mouth is his meal.

"Twenty minutes" he grumbles, groaning.

"Or thirty" you add, whining when his cock brushes dangerously close to your dripping folds.

"Can't believe you're this wet already" he chuckles, but it sounds more like a breathy sigh, lost in the inside of your mouth.

"I've been wet since before we left the house and you kissed me"

"And I kissed you" he adds. "No sé ni por qué putas te traje si sólo quería quedarme en casa y comerte" (i don't know why the fuck i took you out if all i wanted was to stay at home and eat you out)

You moan at his dirty mouth, clicking your tongue as a way to say so.

"You dirty old man-" it dies in your throat when he glides inside your folds with ease, a finger slipping in, then two, as he curls them. Your head rolls back, landing against the door with a hollow thud.

"Dirty? But you enjoy this, don't you?" his fingers buried up your hilt. Your eyelids flutter, whimpering drowned by your lips, bitten so deep you think you start to taste blood. "Bad news, mami. You're as dirty as me"

You choke in your words. "No-"

"No what?" Pedro mocks, sliding his digits out of you and shoving them inside his mouth, sucking on them while looking at you. You whine at the display and loss of them, knowing he's tauting you for fun. "Don't tell me you don't want someone to come in here and see you acting like a dirty slut? To see you almost coming here and now with just two of my fingers"

"Fine. What if I want to, huh? Just give me your damn cock already and quit teasing"

Words were lewd, but Pedro smiles with adoration.

"That's my girl"

His length springing free to slap against his now smooth stomach, your mouth drooling.

"Sit"

He glares back, "in the toilet?"

"Well, do you happen to see a couch or bed?" you quip. "That's right: you were the one who chose the bathroom, desperate old man. So needy, aren't you?"

You see your husband turning around, ashamed, and you laugh. "I didn't think it through" and you avoid to add a that's quite obvious snarky type of reply.

"Want me as much as I do?" Pedro doesn't protest anymore, grunting some spanish curses before sitting on the cold surface. "Good. Then comply"

You swing a leg over his lap, not afraid if the thing breaks, dragging your wet folds against his cock. He moans, gripping your thighs hard, biting at your lower lip to hide a growl that seems to erupt from deep within his chest.

"Gonna ride you, baby. Is that okay?" you take the lead, and Pedro gets frustrated that you're taking up a plan that was originally his. Despite such, he just finds himself nodding wordlessly like a fool.

You line up, desperate to have him inside of you. But you go slowly down, taking his size, maybe because you're drunk or because you'd never fucked in a bathroom before. Because, really, how will you even try to explain your PR team a broken bathroom?

You gasp as he bottoms out, struggling to catch your breath with the relentless push. His strong arm cages your waist, as he moans in your ear, bodies going up and down in sync. His slides are smooth across his length, helping you find your pace.

"Fuck" you whimper, legs starting to shake. "I think I-"

"I know" he interrupts you, a quick kiss to your earlobe. "It's okay; I've got you, linda"

He thrusts upwards, toilet creaking as Pedro keeps you in place.

You bury your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your moans, skin slapping against skin loudly, his movements becoming faster. The pressure keeps on adding, until the tightness on your walls is too much, and you're collapsing over his chest, folds spasming as he empties his load inside of you, seed deep in your walls, dripping down your legs.

"Oh, shit" you gasp, "Pedro!"

"Perdón!" he shouts, then covers his mouth. "Mierda, no quise ser tan ruidoso. Ay, carajo. Didn't want to spill all over you-" (sorry! didn't mean to be so loud. oh, fuck)

"There's a sink" you start, "and toilet paper. We'll manage"

"Right" he looks at his watch, "we got about ten minutes"

You smile, cheek resting against the warm skin of his neck. "If the chef took the whole thirty"

"There's only one way to find out" he gasps for air. "Pero, ¿no estás llena? Still up for dessert?" his big hand finds it's way to your tummy, you still contentedly stuffed full of him. It lingers, and when you look into his eyes, he averts his gaze, ashamed of whatever he thought. (but, aren't you full?)

"After this, I need some sugar to make it home" your eyelids drop. "I'm starving"

He presses a loud kiss to your head, "that's my girl"

"Yours" you pull back to rest your forehead against his. "Just yours"

He jolts forward, capturing your mouth in a hot kiss, and you smile into it.

"Good. Now, I'll give my good girl what she deserves" he takes some toilet paper to clean his spilling load out of you, kisses running from your face to neck. Then, gently so, lets you dress in again, exiting the bathroom first to give you some cleaning up space. When you come back to your table, the Soufflé is there.

"Eat" he commands, voice thick and rough. You smirk, giving it a bite as you look into his eyes: hair disheveled, puffy lips and droopy eyes. The bite mark seems to shine, or maybe you need to lay down for a while. "Y no mires atrás, ¿sí? We got ourselves a crowd" (don't look back, yeah?)

That night, you upload a story with a picture of the dessert with a caption that reads: best meal I've ever had. The context is lost until news of your bathroom affairs hit headlines next morning, but you don't notice: your phone happens to be dead, and you're too busy getting railed in what could count as round two to charge it.

pompeiianbollockr: hello just woke up and saw the pictures WTF TMZ??? did they really do #that 😭 bring back public shaming unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they fucked in that fancy ass restroom ㅤㅤmostannoyingbillioner: unhing3dprincess QUEEN U ARE BACK 😭 BETTING UR GRANDMA AGAIN? OH IKTR WE WERE LOOSING THE ANCIENT TEXTS poppysplayground: ohhhhh they're so nasty (do u want a third) ㅤㅤann-gell: poppysplayground fr like INVITEN

The interview for Entertainment Weekly's behind the cover for Gladiator II was supposed to just include Paul and Pedro, but taking advantage of the free publicity and buzz your announcement made, they added you. Especially after the news about your restroom affair had hit, courtesy of TMZ; the rumor wasn't taken into account in the beginning, but now added gasoline to the gossip fire. Just what the movie needed: free promo.

You're sat in the middle of the two men, dressed in white as well, to match their attires with a flowy dress that loosely resembles that of Rome's. Then, Paul begins to speak.

"I saw the film for the first time when I was about 13 with my dad" he talks about the original movie.

"I saw it in the movie theater when it came out" you imagine a young Pedro lined up to see Russell Crowe's magnetic performance and let out a small smile. "I saw it twice, because of how emotional the movie was. Obviously it's incredibly visceral, and epic and the kind of movie you rarely get to see made, uh, these days"

You look at him, elbow resting on the arm chair as your body is all turned to his side. Truth is, you love listening to him, especially when he seems so invested, love for the subject rooted in each word.

Pedrito, you'd affectionally call. Ésto es una conversación, no un monólogo. And he'd blush embarrased, only for you to laugh it off, saying you would turn mute if that meant for him to continue speaking. (this is a conversation, not a monologue)

"It had an impact emotionally. I remember that, I guess, sadistically I was drawn to a second time go back again because, weirdly, it was very comforting. I remember it perfectly came out in year 2000. Right?" he asks, and Paul and you agree with a yeah. "I can remember what theater I was in and everything-"

"What theater was it?" Paul interrupts his passionate talking.

Pedro stops, "It, uh-" he rambles, before you all laugh.

"What about you, y/n? Were you even born?" Paul jokes, making you roll your eyes at his antics and deliberate desire to keep nagging you like some older annoying brother.

"I was like, born a year after you, Paul. But I didn't watch the movie until I was fifteen" you feel the gaze of both men fall upon you. "The first Ridley Scott movie I watched was Thelma and Louise, as you all know. Then my dad insisted I should watch it, and finally, at fifteen, when I had given up on my dreams to go on one last epic trip to the Grand Canyon, he played it. My eyes, they were, like, glued to the screen. I couldn't stop thinking about it for a while" you leave a small lingering touch on Pedro's arm, "just like he said: epic and emotional. Also, I had a huge fat crush in Joaquin Phoenix that lasted until I was twenty"

"That was like, seven years ago!" Pedro yells, making Paul snorts. "I feel deceived"

"Qué dramático. We're both married, you big baby!" you laugh, then make a joke before the next conversation starts: "You wouldn't think he plays an epic Roman General, would you?" (how dramatic)

They film some shots of you and the boys before moving to the next talk.

"I was doing a play in London at the time. I'd met with Doug and Lucy who are the producers of the film in LA, and then a zoom was set up and I spoke to Ridley for about 5 minutes about what Gladiator was going to be about. And then we spoke for the next 25 minutes about like, gaic football and dogs, and then I thought we'd do like camera tests and- but no, he just-" he shrugs. "I found out about two weeks later"

Now it's Pedro's turn.

"I knew that the project existed. I knew that Paul was doing it. I think it started with an actual like meeting with Ridley to go and sit down with him and I, whether or not the movie was going to happen for me or not, I was like I'm going to go meet Ridley Scott" he jokes, making you both chuckle. "It wasn't even about getting the job, it was like I'm going to go and sit down maybe five minutes, ten, twenty, as many minutes as I can"

"It was in LA" you speak up, "in his offices"

"Yeah, and thankfully he was willing to talk about all the things I wanted to know about, in terms of other movies, and that's what it really turned into"

"He's a wonderful Storyteller" Mescal compliments. "You could sit down with Ridley for-"

Pedro makes a joke, speaking over him. "Give me another one, give me another one-"

You still kind of hate the guy after his supposed comments on your husband's weight, but won't talk bad about a man who gave you work and your biggest role to the date yet, so you explain how it happened to you.

"I wasn't even planned to appear on the movie. As a matter of fact, my character was squeezed in last minute. Ridley is, just as they said, indeed, a storyteller" you smile. "The truth is, I worked with Cuba, his granddaughter, on a proyect together, a photography one. I was in London at the time, auditioning for a movie, when we met"

"London?" Paul asks.

"Yes" you laugh, ashamed. "I traveled to London with some of my savings, because you know what they say about not doing and then regretting. But I do regret it; I cried for my money to be back!"

"You didn't get the part" Pedro adds, barely containing a snicker.

"I didn't" you sigh, "Cuba saw me sitting alone on a café, eyes red with tears of failure and talked me into capturing such vulnerable moment. She didn't know me but made my day better, and she took some of the most beautiful pictures I've seen of myself. So, in a way, I won. I mean, she's the reason I got the role: my name came up on a phone call with Scott, as I had already made a name for myself, and showed him the pictures. He got in contact with my agent and I got the role after auditioning. Call that friendship nepotism"

"Didn't Pedro tell you about it? I find it funny that he was in the movie and didn't get you in" Paul comments, curiously.

"We were supposed to remain a secret, and the sudden connection when we had barely interacted according to the public, would've been weird. So no, Pedro rubbed his role on my face and then I came home with the new script as he received his. We both won our roles separately, and until we got it both, we realized just what it would mean"

"But now we're here" Pedro speaks fondly, taking your hand. "Rome conquers it all"

You can only hold his and stare back lovingly.

"Oh" the Irish man feigns disgust, "don't get all lovey dovey on me!"

The topic changes again, as Paul speaks.

"We meet early in the film, and this is again kind of Ridley's genius. He shoots it in a way that it feels plausible, but in like- the real action of that there's no way-"

They start talking ovwe each other excitedly about the process of filmaking, Pedro listing all the settings were the epic action takes place.

"We lock eyes" Pedro jests, "we lock eyes"

"All right" Paul plays along. "Three, two, one"

"i'm right here" you say, pushing your body to the front. "You got me third wheeling in my own marriage"

Paul laughs, breaking contact.

"Time for you to get a taste of your own medicine. You've made the rest of this press tour unbearable!" he protests, but his tone is devoid of complain.

"Marcus Acacius represents like-" Mescal then speaks about your husband's character, "he's a Roman general"

"No, he is the general of Rome" you correct, smirking.

"Be careful, princess. Don't let the emperor see you all over his General" the blue-eyed man next to you mocks, and you roll your eyes again.

"Will you ever let me live?"

Paul then talks about his character. "I'm like a lieutenant in the numidian Army. I kind of see Acacius as this, he- he represents everything that I hate about, uh, the Roman Empire"

"Well, the Roman Empire is expanding and expanding" Pedro takes the word, "and invading Numidia just to gain more and more power, and we realize that there really is kind of no ceiling to the lust of that power"

"And that's to do with the Emperors, right? Like, played by Joe and Fred who are wonderful" Paul adds, complimenting both actors in the process. "And let's not forget our Empress too"

You make a face at that, feeling in the need to defend your character.

"Empress Alba is tragedy. I think she embodies well the feelings of helpnessless all women felt during that time. She's an object, another shiny possesion subjected to her husband's amusement, so she drowns in all pleasure available to forget her existence. Lucius hates her because he sees all the filth of Rome in her, like, this whole debauchery and squandering while the people beg for scraps. But it's a pattern seen across history, isn't it?" you pause. "I think it's interesting to compare her to Lucilla, because she's loved by the people, seen as human- despite being noble. It's sad because it's until too late that Lucius realizes she's a victim of the system he hates"

Pedro smiles at your little intervention, loving the way you explain a character you'd play so graciously. One of your favorite movies is Marie Antoinette, by Sofia Coppola, so probably it felt personal to you in some level. God, hadn't you made him watch it at least ten times?

"It unravels through the film that I've kind of miscalculated who I think Acacius is, just as with Alba" Paul comments.

"His character misunderstands my character just like Paul misunderstands us" Pedro quips, making both of you laugh.

"Then it kind of culminates in a big fight that we have in the-"

"Doesn't it always?" you add. "Wouldn't be an epic without it"

"Do you want to talk about it?" Paul dares, jokingly.

"No we're not talking about it" he cuts him off.

"Who's the better fighter'" Paul asks after some silence. Pedro dares him with a go on.

"I would say I'm better the better share. What you think?"

"I would say Lucius is the better fighter"

"Lucius is the better fighter" Pedro repeats slowly, incredulous. "Do you want us to fight? Lucius is a better fighter than the general of Rome, who survived decades and conquered" Paul tries to defend himself but Pedro doesn't let him. "I fight four men before I get you, and I call it off!"

"Yeah, but I think if you hadn't called it off -"

"You don't think I would have do some sort of mature aged learning-"

They end up discussing a bit more until you clear your throat.

"Why don't you ask for a third party to break your tie?" and you point towards yourself, mouthing a cute me with your painted pink lips.

"No!" Paul immediatly opposes, "It would be biased, silence her!"

"Have you seen Acacius' arms?" you gauge Pedro's arms, biceps flexing under the white attire. "It definitely isn't biased, at all"

The conversation carries on after some more shots. In some, you pose seriously, but in between such, you laugh along with them, Pedro even hugging you and Paul from behind in one of both. No kisses yet, but you know fans will be rabid just with the lingering touches and flirty undertones in your interactions.

"We began together in Morocco, and I think seeing that set and the scale of the production so quickly, desensitized me to the scale of the of what- Malta was in the Coliseum, and Ridley moves at such a pace, which I actually think really helped me because you don't have time to kind of sit there and and kind of bask in the wonder of it" Paul talks. "Because you're shooting three or four scenes, build your expectations of how to meet the size of, it or anything 'cuz 'cause it's impossible" Paul looks at Pedro and asks: "and I think Ridley; did I tell you what Ridley said first day of shooting to me? He came out to the tent while they were dressing the set, thousands of extras, everything fire, camels and he comes in, and he's- he's smoking a cigar, and we're all stood around and he's like Are you nervous? and we're all like No and he slaps me on the back and goes Your nerves are no good to me, before we filmed anything. But I think it was like- it's funny, but it's this idea that this is your playground, and you have to kind of step into it and own it. So, I-I don't actually really remember my first walking into the Coliseum, 'cause I feel like I lived in the Coliseum for about three or four weeks"

"You lived in the Coliseum of your mind" Pedro quips, making Paul laugh.

"I do remember, you know, when I first walked into the Coliseum, you know. It- it gave me chills. Like, literally chills. Look! I still get the goosebumps" you point your arm. "Honestly, all of it felt just too real, and I couldn't help but for a moment, think I actually was in Rome- that I belonged to nobility"

Pedro takes your hand and kisses it gently. "That's because you do, princesa"

"One of the things that I have never experienced on a movie before, is that there was so little left to the imagination" Pedro expresses. "Me and the rest of the ensemble are together in the emperor's box, and there's this enormous battle that's taking place, and Ridley composed all of the off camera for us in the emperor's box, with Paul leaping from one ship to another taking two men down what would you call that?"

"A cloth line flying" Paul answers.

"Clothes line?" you try.

"A flying- a flying clothes line" Pedro decides, carrying on "just so that we could know what we were looking at. I couldn't f*****g believe it"

"That's true" you remark. "The result goes so hard- I mean, it looks amazing" you sheepily laugh. "The action, the violence, the epic... it all shines through. It just- it makes sense"

The conversation shifts again.

"The legacy of the first film is so profound, and has such a strong place in so many people's, like, hearts and minds, it's inescapable, but I was looking at it- and I was like" Paul shares. "The screenplay does a lot of that work for you in terms of like, the rubbing the dirt between the hands. the kind of DNA and the genetics that Lucius inherits. I remember reading the script and there's like, a moment in the script where it's Lucius puts on the breastplate and it's written like Lucius now becomes Maximus"

"But Lucius, despite being a son, is also a man" you counter. "He isn't Maximus"

Paul agrees.

"I kind of tried to park that to one side, because ultimately, where Lucius is coming from at the start of the film, he has a very different journey than Maximus does, and I was hoping that whatever DNA- and even just the physical gestures, was going to be one part of- a kind of small part of the performance" he explains. "What I tried to do is figure out exactly who Lucius was and where those differences lay between Lucius and Maximus"

"One of the things that I loved most about my character is that he's introduced in the beginning of the movie, in this very epic battle sequence, that I think in its own way homages the first film" Pedro shares. "But even better, because we follow him back to Rome and discover his direct connection to one of the only characters that is living and with us from the first movie, and I loved being a a kind of thread, an invitation, into what we know from the first movie by being Connie Nielsen's man"

Paul looks at you silently, before poking your side: "Someone is real quiet with that comment"

You narrow your eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about"

"I am Connie Nielsen's man as Marcus Acacius, but as Pedro Pascal, I'm all y/n's"

Your face goes red at how easily you are to be understood, your husband answering just what you wanted to listen.

"Ha! Look at your face, I was right!" Paul ridiculises you.

But after such an embarrasing moment, he shifts the conversation again.

"There's a moment where Pedro has this, uh- it's so clever from a- from an acting standpoint, but also in the in the script like, you see this brutalizing Force come into Numidia, and there's this section where there's the burning of the bodies, and that it's one of my favorite shots in the film" Paul muses. "It's this closeup on Pedro, when he says Vae Victis to the conquered, and you feel like it's a really difficult thing to communicate in one line, that you see: Oh, this General is, kind of wearing this responsibility with great difficulty and shame"

"I wasn't doing that at all" your husband deadpans. You stiffle a giggle.

"You were very good in it" Paul argues back with a smile.

"That wasn't what I was playing" he insists, serious but Paul asks What were you playing? and you all laugh.

"If I had a favorite scene, I'd say it'd be naval fight" you mention. "The colliseum is filled with water, and it's this- it feels like a thing that has never been done before, and with the people cheering and the buzz, and the announcement and echo of the drumming, it's as if you were there, in the crowd. The tension is palpable, the violence is thrown at your face but the scariest one, is the one that lies underneath. Uh, Lucius character tries to attack the General while we, you know, the royals and especial guests, are sitting at our box, and he gets so close, it serves, I think the bottom climbing the ladder to bite the ankles of the top. Obviously, that before we know who Lucius actually is, but I think it's kind of cool"

The interview is ending, the last of your twelve-minute conversation being filmed now.

"I am really excited for everyone to see Paul" Pedro beams, making the younger one laugh. "I'm sorry but it has to be said. You are sensational in the movie" then adds, "and pretty easy on the eyes"

"Everyone in this movie is easy in the eyes" you quip, looking at your side. Pedro coughs a bit before speaking again, even if a faint blush is coating his cheeks.

"-And he worked so hard, and I got to see that happen like, in front of me, and on the day and just lead with Ridley, this enormous crew and this enormous cast... To get to see that, on the big screen, is really exciting and I think people are going to- they're going to love it"

"That's very kind" you exclaim softly with a smile, then add. "I'm sure of it, especially if you were a fan of the first. Both are very interwined, although each film is its own thing" you comment.

"For a lot of us, the actors, we haven't worked on a film on that scale" you violently shake your head "and I think, there's a little bit of trauma bonding that went on with, kind of having to- kind of feel like, total impostor syndrome within it all. But to see your friends operate at that level on a film of that scale, doing like incredible work. I think, across the board, I haven't seen a film on this scale for a long long time rhat's rooted it has the scale and the performances, and I personally think it's one of Ridley's greatest pieces of work"

senhoritamayblog: y/n was SO REAL holding pedro's arm and talking abt how he'd beat paul bc he's beefy ME WHEN moltisantiii: you know what i think ridley's greatest piece of work is? giving us this trio youlooklike-clarabow: y/n is truly a princess 🥹 i don't know if i want to be y/n to be with pedro or pedro to be with y/n ㅤㅤann-gell: youlooklike-clarabow well, she's the people's princess after all!

You haven't even left the room when Pedro is all over you, kissing your neck on that sweet spot of yours that elates a little breathy whine. Doesn't he know you well?

"What are you doing?" you manage to squeak out as his needy big hands grope your body, flesh soft under the flowy white dress. He grunts when he catches your panties, embarrasingly wet already at just a few sloppy kisses and eager touches.

"What do you think?" he whispers against your ear as you both try to walk away from where voices can be heard, and then Pedro is guiding you to a room, closing the door behind him. If he was able to walk to the room while kissing you, he must've seen it in a passing. Had your husband plan this all along? Greedy needy old man.

"What I think, baby, is you're forgetting something" you push him off, giggling. He makes a little pout, making it hard to keep your ground. "Now that everyone knows we're married and we suddenly both go misteriously missing at the same time, they'll just put two and two together. I mean, does it really take a smart person to figure it out?"

Pedro doesn't back down, still caging your frame against the locked door.

"So?" his annoyed and tense voice only makes you laugh more. That turned on was he? Pedro seems annoyed at your fit of laughter, his pants tight.

"What do you mean so? We almost got caught by Paul last time!" you chuckle amused. "And, are you seriously going to pretend TMZ didn't air our bussiness just about last week?"

"Well, maybe you should've thought about it before" he goes back at the task of attacking your mouth, words spewing in between hungry kisses. You mouth a little taunting innocent looking Before what? and then Pedro is talking while his gaze is glued to yours, tightening his arms around you, and the answer is just about that. "You should've thought about it before getting all flirty with me, grabbing my arm in front of the camera like the naughty girl you are. So fucking needy you can't hide it for a few hours, can't even go through an interview without touching me, looking at me, being possesive at a fictional marriage even" your face burns hot with embarrasment at that. Oh, was he being nasty on purpose? Why bring that up? "Haven't I taught you manners?"

It's hard to force yourself to hold his gaze while standing still. Taunting. Defiant.

"José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you chastise, "do you want people to know we are raw dogging in the dressing room? That's the manners you so badly talk about"

His face goes red, his demostrations stopping for a bit as he studies your now serious face.

"Wait, do you want to raw dog in the dressing room?" he gasps at the boldness in your words, which, to be fair, is kind of exaggerated, as you both have said worst stuff before. "That's not what I had in mind"

"That's not?" you arch an eyebrow. "Oh, no. Absolutely not. You can't just kiss my neck greedily and touch my body eagerly like a goddamn starved horny idiot, and then expect me to not act up on it, you old man"

There's silence before he speaks up again. "Y/n, you talked about manners"

You take a deep breath in, making sure the door is actually locked.

"Well, fuck them manners"

You capture his lips on a hungry kiss, same kind of force you had made fun of him, just minutes ago. He's pushing his tongue inside of you, as his hands move up to your shoulders and back down to your waist. You rub yourself against him, looking for some kind of friction, and his big calloused hands pulls your waist closer in an attempt to do the same.

"Manners maketh man" he's reciting, and such stupid proverb and line from one of his old works shouldn't turn you this much. Pedro lifts up the dress until your body is devoid of the cotton, murmuring about how unfair it was for you to taunt him with translucent cloth, tender flesh hiding under the white. So hard to focus on interviews, mami, when you're close to me or something like that, as you're too lost in the fire. No bra? Fuck, baby. Do you want to kill me?

"Sofa" you command, eyes darting to the furniture so you can show him where. "Now"

You take off your panties in a go, revealing the slick that's just a few seconds from running down your legs.

"I see, my legs won't be the only thing drooling" you mock his agape mouth. He takes off the blazer with shaking hands, sitting as you get on top of him. Pedro kisses his way down your neck, sucking on the skin. How will you get out of here without comfirming suspicions? Surely, there must be something inside here that could be of help.

"Well, I've wanted to do this for a while" he mumbles against the now red patches of before honey-ed skin. Again? you think.

"Have me or fuck again in public?" you ask out loud, and even if you're laughing, there's a layer of fondness in your voice. "I'm starting to wonder if you have an exhibition kink, papi"

He breathes a little no before biting right above your collarbones, his tongue then releaving the pain with a wet slick move over the flesh as you let out a whine.

"Busy schedule, mami. A husband's gotta find a way to make time for his pretty wife, even if it means fucking her in the goddamn dressing room" he says into your ear. Pedro had done more interviews than you, and between that and filming for his other projects, he's right. "So what if they find out? Need them to know who you belong to. I'm just a devoted husband, will you punish me for that?"

You caress his face, pristine hair now disheveled, the gel succumbing to the heat and sweat trapped in the room.

"Look at you, naughty boy. El burro hablando de orejas" you laugh, "but of course I won't. Need you too so bad" (look who's talking)

His finger wanders down to your pussy, big hand roaming around the area. His middle and ring finger run over it, the golden band starting to shine with your arousal. Fuck, that just made you wetter.

"Shit, baby. You're so eager... wasn't lying when you talked before"

"Needed you since you kissed me today, when you woke up" your teeth grit at his lingering digits. "Your dick rubbed against my bare thigh, fucking hard"

Truth is, you're always horny; being married to Pedro Pascal does that to you. But mornings? Waking up to that handsome face and girthy dick? You really be testing yourself sometimes.

"Jesus, mami" he whistles. "So fucking dirty, thinking about me all the interview because my morning wood grazed your skin, you dirty naughty girl"

Pedro finally slides his fingers inside of you, making you squirm under his gaze as your back archs. "So fucking beautiful, can't believe you're all mine" he moans and you squeeze his shoulders, nails digging and bruising his skin under the shirt that sticks to his skin, body heating up like a furnace.

"Please, Pedro" you plead, lip biting your under to supress a whimper. "Please curl your fingers, need to have you- feel you inside. Fuck-"

Your words cut off as he moves his fingers with learned ease, his thumb rubbing your clit as a treat.

"Mmm" you murmur with pleasure, back arched again, your tits too dangerously close to his face. Without much thought, he licks your nipple and then devours the whole breast with his mouth. All while looking at you, this absolute horndog. Your nails dig in deeper as you pronounce his name in a shaky exhale. Wanting more. Begging for more.

"Mmm? That's right" his palm on your waist squeezes lightly, more pressure on his grip. "Can't speak 'cause I'm making you feel so good, huh?"

You don't answer, instead throwing your head back, nails digging deep to the point he winces, making a face by the pain. You mouth an apology, but then he licks your nipple again, and teeth move to your nibble your earlobe―you're not sorry anymore.

"S-stop" you choke out, body shivering.

"What? Can't take what you asked for? No muerdas más de lo que puedes masticar, niña mala. Bad girl" (don't bite off more than you can chew, bad girl)

His lewd words elicit another moan out of you.

"I-I can. In fact, I want- no, need more. I don't want to cum on your fingers" you whisper in his ear, hot breath probably why he shivers. "Pull down your pants, pretty boy, because I want to cum on your dick"

"Fuck, mami. What a dirty mouth" he moans.

Eager hands try to lower his pants as your fiddle with the same feel, the borrowed wardrobe struggling to get off in the current position. His underwear goes next, and you squirm as he aligns his tip with your dripping entrance.

You moan and he grunts, as his dick enters your tight folds, sounds clashing onto each other as so do your bodies, fitting perfectly. His hands travel from your waist to ass, his head against the back of the sofa, your hands that were before on his shoulders now on his chest.

"Such a pretty view you're giving me, wifey" he tries to laugh, but the sound comes out strained along each powerful stride of his cock that buries inside of you, each bouncing harder, his hands pathethically running over your ass, back, hips, and legs, as his eyes devour the way your tits jiggle with each thrust, tongue burning with desire to suck on the skin again. "So beautiful, and all mine. Only mine. Mía"

His words drip with devotion and wordship; all the love in the world. Pedro calls you beautiful, goddess, and a string of spanish words crossed with adoration. Mami. Linda. Princesa. Diosa. Hermosa. It has your orgasm looming over, head spinning and pussy stretched, walls tightening.

"I'm close" you whisper, riding him with soft-paced movements as his turn sloppy.

You see stars, walls almost kicking his dick out as you coat it in your slick, arousal dripping down until it's coated his balls and smeared the white attire. Fuck. Now Pedro's moving his waist, hunting for his own orgasm.

"Me too" he breathes out, "stay with me"

His hands travel sloppily to your waist, lazily holding you still with his calloused digits.

"Quick, baby" you breath out, "I'm sensitive"

"I'm almost there. Just hold on a little longer" then a whine before shakily pleading. "Please, please, just wait for me"

You move your hips slowly, aroused by his needy pleads, robbing a moan out of him. "Cute" you praise, making his cheeks redden with sweat and blush.

He is cute: hair messed up, mouth red and puffy, and brown puppy eyes.

"I love you so much" Pedro let's out, and it sounds like a confession, despite being married for so long.

"I know, baby, I know" you reach for his face, removing some sweat beads from his forehead, and he leans on the touch, closing his eyes as another gutural growl erupts from his chest. "I love you too"

You keep on riding until you feel his dick twitch inside of your walls.

"We need to stop doing this" you pant out.

"Too late for that, bonita. At least no one found out this time" Pedro laughs. "But you like the talk, don't you? Gonna give 'em something to talk about" he pants, "will fill you up so good you won't be able to walk without my seed spilling from you" sweat beads from your face fall onto his. He obscenely licks the salty drops. "Te voy a dar tantos hijos, que no cabrán en la casa. That way they will know you're mine" (will give you so many kids, they won't fit in the house)

You moan loufly, folds now coated on thick ropes of hot cum, as his movements come to a stop, slowing down until all that can be heard is your uneven breaths trying to recover.

And on cue, there's a knock at the door. Shit. You both remain silent, as if it would stop, but the knocking turns persistent.

"Pedro, I know you're in there"

It's Paul freaking Mescal, again. You might just have to invite him next time if he keeps showing up like that.

"Should I go?" Pedro whispers, and you shrug, stating it would be weirder to pretend he wasn't if Paul knew he was. "How do I look?"

You eye him up and down, eye glistening with dissaproval, red cheeks giving away your thoughts as if the furrowed eyebrows and ashamed gaze didn't already.

"We are fucked"

"No" he giggles, "we just fucked"

"That's not funny!" you roll your eyes, playfully smacking his chest. "Please, look into the mirror and try to fix yourself a bit. If not, we're doomed to be remembered as a horny couple. Oh, we were going so well! Fans will make fun of us and the press will call us horndogs" you lament, exaggerating your voice.

"Oh, shush. We wanted to be able to be in public. This is what it feels like"

You blush. "Maybe we can reduce the public aspect a bit..."

Pedro snorts before doing a quick fix to his appearance, walking to the door where Mescal patiently waits behind. Oh, of course; that little fucker. After the TMZ news dropped, he connected the dots and know that whatever happened in that trailer when Pedro told him to fuck off, wasn't holy at all. Now, he's probably laughing or scheming.

"Paul!" Pedro opens the door. "W-what's up?"

The younger man does a quick scan of his friend, barely able to hide a laugh.

"Looking radiant, my friend" he answers with a shit-eating grin. "They need to do some re-shootings. Have you happen to seen y/n? She just keeps dissappearing when you- oh, when you do!" he mocks. "Well, if you ever happen to find y/n, tell her you both need to get a good fix unless y'all want to show up on TMZ again. I'm pretty sure you can find something in this dressing room to cover those marks, yeah?"

He finally breaks down laughing in front of Pedro's shocked face.

"Ah, you guys are the absolute worst" he folds in a fit of laughter, "so fucking horny you end up fucking in bathrooms and dressing rooms!"

Your voice can be heard from inside as you growl, face red with fury and shame:

"Hijo de puta" (son of a bitch!), "don't make me bring Daisy Edgar-Jones into this!"

l-u-n-a-m: they're just milking their relationship atp for promo but i'm not complaining need more pictures of the photoshoot NOW vnightx: istg if they don't stop flirting in front of my single ass face. i need a gun at0michips: have i gone insane or does pedro have love bites ㅤㅤmybritishstyle: MI HIJO DOES NOT HAVE LOVE BITES. HE JUST FELL DOWN THE STAIRS

*i'm never gonna call twitter as X. it's still twitter, and will always be. fuck that ugly bigot filthy billionaire hoe called elon-trump-cocksucker-musk.

[enwoso]

Hi, would you write a lovie fic where she’s learning how to ride her bike? And in the learning process she takes some tumbles, but in the end she learns it.

BALANCING ACT | alessia russo x child!reader

grumpy masterlist

it was a sunny day in london, painting the backyard in hues of gold and orange as alessia crouched down, adjusting the pink helmet strap on your chin, to stop it scratching. your wild little curls peeking out from under the helmet and a determined glint in your big blue eyes as you gripped the handlebars of your small pink bike. 

the training wheels had officially came off and alessia's heart was doing an uneven dance between excitement but also worry and dread. 

"you ready then, lovie?" your mummy asked, giving your cheek a gentle squeezed as you looked up a big grin on your face.

you had been begging your mummy for the past few weeks to take the training wheels of your bike telling her you were a big girl and didn't need them anymore and had nothing to do with the fact that all your friends from school were also learning to ride their bikes without training wheels.

"i'm ready!" you declared, your tiny hands tightening on the handlebars as your mummy positioned you so you were facing down the driveway as she silently hoped you were out the way of her car - not wanting it to get scratched.

with a soft smile, alessia placed her hands on the back of the seat, steadying the bike for you. "okay, remember to look ahead and keep pedalling. i've got you." 

you gave her a resolute nod as your face scrunched up in concentration, alessia pushed gently on the back of the seat as she jogged alongside you as the little bike wobbled forward. and for a few glorious seconds, you were actually doing it. the pedals turned and you and the bike seemed to stay upright as you let out a excited giggle.

but then, the inevitable happened. the dread that had lingered in alessia's head happened.

the front wheel veered slightly and you tipped to the side, alessia's hands reached out trying to catch you but it was too late as you tumbled onto the grass on the side of the pavement.

you sat up, your lip quivering as you clutched your scraped knee. "owie" you whimpered, your fingers hovering over the fresh scrape.

"oh, lovie" your mummy cooed, scooping you up into her arms, kissing the top of your head as she brushed a stray tear that had escaped from your cheek, "lets get you inside and patched up!"

alessia carrying you into the kitchen before lifting you onto the counter and rummaged throught a drawer for a box of plaster, ones with a cartoon character of course as in your mind they worked so much better than the boring normal ones. 

your tiny legs swinging back and forth as you watched your mummy carefully clean the scrape with a damp cloth. "does it hurt a lot?" your mummy asked softly, placing the cloth to one side.

"a little" you admitted but your voice wasn't as small as alessia had expected it to be.

"okay, now this plaster is magic" your mummy said with a grin as she peeled of a bright blue strip decorated with cartoon stars, "this will make you all better in no time!"

you gave your mummy an amused look, "magic?" 

"absolutely, doctor mummy guarantees it!" alessia pressed the plaster gently over the scrape, giving it a little pat for good measure. as alessia turned to toss the wrapper away, she heard your little voice, matter of fact and full of determination.

"can we go back outside now?"

alessia froze, blinking as she processed the request, turning back to you as you were already trying to wriggle off the counter, "wait- you want to keep trying?"

"yeah!" your face lit up with a smile as you spoke so full of confidence as if it was the most obvious thing you could have ever said. "i need to learn by myself!"

for a second, alessia just stared at you, a tiny whirlwind of stubbornness and resolve that you were as alessia thought back to her own childhood and how she would always feel more determined after the smallest of failures.

but here you were, your knee scraped most likely still stinging and you were ready to jump back on the bike as if nothing had happened. a big swell of pride filled alessia's chest it was making it ache slightly.

"okay," your mummy said, brushing a small strand of hair out of your face, "let me just grab a bottle of water first. and if you feel tired we stop, okay?"

"ok mummy!" you chirped and already halfway to the door to put your trainers back on after your mummy had dumped them at the front door when she carried you in.

once you both got back outside the sun was lower, as it casted shadows across the grass. alessia steadying the bike once more, her hands firm but gentle on the seat.

"let's try again," this time, alessia could tell something was different. your wobbling was a little less wobbly, your pedalling was a little more confident as then all of a sudden, you didn't need your mummy's hands there to keep you steady.

"thats it! keep doing it!" your mummy cheered as she clapped loudly her voice high with excitement. your face breaking into a wide grin as you realised what was happening. 

you were riding your bike. by yourself.

"im doin' it! mummy! look i can do it!" you cried with excitement as the same small giggles left your lips. alessia clapped her hands, pride radiating from every pore as she jogged beside you. tears pricking at her eyes as she blinked them away, focusing on this moment.

when you finally came to a triumphant stop, as the pavement has ran out, you hopped off the bike, throwing your arms around your mummy's leg as she scooped you up into her arms. "i did it!"

"you did it, lovie!" your mummy murmured, twirling you around with chorus of cheers and laugher, "i'm so so so proud of you!"

you grinned, resting your head on your mummy's shoulder, "you were right the plaster was magic!" you giggled out.

alessia laughed as she held you close as she shook her head, "no baby, your the magic."

in the glow of the setting sun, you rode your bike back home perfectly before leaving it triumphantly in the garage before listing off what you wanted for dinner that nigh as alessia while listening to your list realised she had just witnessed a small but extraordinary moment - your first taste of determination and victory.

[angelesca]

w.c. ~5k hooooly balllls | game system au! phainon x npc!gnreader, short stories, in da clerb, we all fam with the amphoreus cast, puppy phainon yippee, bantering with the game system, trying to avoid raising phainon's affection points but failing horribly💖reader has a lil' nickname ('moonlight'), goofy antics ofc ofc, finally some physical contact (it's a good day), written during ver.3.0! (forgive me for any poor characterisations!) [𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐬]: 1 ┃ 2 ┃...

a/n: here i am again with another stupid idea (who is surprised). okay but the nymph emoticons lit a lightbulb in my head and BAM i gave birth a second child. drew inspo from [svsss], [orv], and [villains are destined to die]!

!!! disclaimer (read me) !!! in the game, there's no night in okhema city (as of writing this), but in this fic it happens! it's explained as best as my dumb brain could^^

“what… the… fudge.” you stare at the system pop-up, almost drooling from how long you’ve had your mouth open in disbelief.

marmoreal market. amphoreus’s civilians walk by you as if you are a passing breeze. in their sphere of natural time flowing, you are stuck with defective clockwork, unmoving in the present reality. what was once a screen of predictable code on your gaming device, is now alive. 

this must be a dream, an illusion drifting by in your head. it's that damn phone, isn't it? you need to stop staying up all night reading fanfic.

you shut your eyes.

…

… ping!

…?

groggily, you open your eyes. in front of you is the perpetrator:

[ヽ(o＾▽＾o) hi~]

angrily, you press the ‘x’ button and close it.

[ what's that for?! (ﾉಥ益ಥ)ﾉ ]

you mash your finger on the blue window repeatedly, poking the emoticon in the eye. “you did this to me, didn't you? you kidnapper!” your voice is brimming with fear, overflowing with confusion.

[ WHAAAAT?! (凸ಠ益ಠ)凸 just hear me out- ow! i’ll help you! and stop poking my eye already! yeowch! my nostril! ☆(＃××) ]

pausing, you take a deep breath. the gazes of alert onlookers are beginning to settle goosebumps on your skin. there’s not much that can be done for now, honestly, your best bet is to place some faith on this mysterious system. “... what do you want with me?” you whisper in the lowest volume your anger would allow.

[ hehe~ (o´▽`o) ] you don’t like that expression at all. [ it’s exactly as i’ve told you from the start: become the main character of the newest update in honkai star rail, amphoreus! ] (this is not an advertisement)

“nah.” unamused, you walk through the window which shatters dramatically.

[ (°ロ°) hah? ] 

you scoff. the troublesome titankin? unending side quests and puzzles? responsibilities? fighting a literal god? who the hell wants to do all that? clenching your fist, resolve reconstructs your confidence. and you definitely don't want to listen to an annoying emoticon who forced you here. “i… will live quietly as an npc!” don't let the system have their way!

[ HAAAaAH???! Σ(ﾟ口ﾟ;) ]

you find your 88th chest of the day. it's pretty much stealing yet no one bats an eye, do amphoreus civilians also happen to offer customary welcomes for robbers in their houses? at least you are adapting to the world quickly given your game knowledge.

[ surprised you haven't encountered any enemies this past month. usually, the mc has to do some fighting... ┐(￣ヘ￣;)┌ ] is what the system said. guess the npc life was made for you.

when you open your 88th chest, you immediately regret it. a purple void cleaves the air and a familiar character dives out. it emotes cheekily, swooping the chest like an eagle to prey. “teehee~ this is mine now!”

[ that’s bartholos the spirit thief. ( ° ∀ ° )ﾉﾞ] [ new achievement: 'meeting bartholos!' ]

bartholos, spirit thief. distasteful memories rewind their tape in your head. the anger you felt seeing this thief pop up, doing the tedious minigame... fury untethered, its primordial tides stirs the previously calm waters of your mind. [ -75 sanity... ]

“... you lil’ flappin’ shirthead. i will rip your throa buy you a lovely necklace and stew you cook you my favourite stew!” 

[ bartholos is confused! ]

“you fu***** bi** sh****** p******* **@^*)>{“£$^*!!!!!” [ OMG! the system can’t keep up with the filtering! ｏ(＞＜；)○ ] “*****pots clanging*****cats meowing*****???***more farting***??”

[ shots fired! it's extremely effective! ]

“o-o-okay! geez, take it… ” bartholos drops the chest, hands in the air. “damn, is it that serious?”

[ w-what kind of npc are you? ( : ౦ ‸ ౦ : ) ]

"what do you mean?" you pant, "that was totally npc-like." rule #1 in 'the npc survival handbook': gotta make a living somehow.

[ oh, there's an injured pers- don't just ignore them! (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ ]

you had just passed by a dark alley, genuinely not having noticed someone laying there because of the night shadows. and not because you were stuffing your face with sagelore fruit. rolling your eyes, you say, "pay me (nom nom)."

[ huhu (μ_μ) you're so cruel... ]

you cock an eyebrow. "and who forced me here (muffle muffle)?"

[ new side quest: 'be a good person!' ] [ reward: 1500 credits ]

squinting, you read it over - the reward is quite hefty? rule #1 resounds in your head: 'gotta make a living somehow'. retracing your steps, you decide to investigate the shrouding darkness, fingers tracing along the walls.

[ take this! ψ( ` ∇ ´ )ψ ]

your foot catches onto a stray object. "huh?!" the ground slips beneath you and gravity is pulling you by the hand. fortunately, you land on top of something. a solid hand is placed on your lower back, having caught your fall.

analysing whatever it is, you recognise its familiarity: white hair, heroic armour, long cape... oh. oh. oh no. oh nonononono. [ oh yes (≖ ͜ʖ≖) ]

rule #2 in the 'npc survival handbook': do not get involved with the chrysos heirs. you gulp. "yo, i'm outta here-"

[ new mainline quest! complete the scenario to advance~ ]

"you littl-" [ violation of system rule #87: do not speak out of character ] "wha-"

[ please choose out of the following options]:

[ i love you! ]

[ let's arrange a marriage NEOW (charisma check) ]

[ if you and i were socks, we'd make a great pair! ]

your eyes could pop out of their socket. what is the system trying to do here? worst wingman in history! without meaning to, you choose the secret fourth option: silence. you awkwardly stare at each other. [ he is confused! ] [ hehe~ okay, i'll stop~ (o^ ^o) that was fun ]

"you shouldn't be here," a serrated voice, sawing into your ears, slices through the stiff silence.

[ 'ooc' turned on ] you feel your throat clear, recclaiming your words. "yes, i agree." you nod your head enthusiastically. "i should be home, cosy in bed." [ oh, come on (￢_￢) ]

"haven't you noticed it's night time?"

"uh," you crook your head up. "i did[n't]." now that he mentioned it, no one else was awake in ohkema city, as if in hiding.

"then please find somewhere safe," he pushes himself up with ripened strength. "it's dangerous to-" he winces. you back away, searching for the site of cause. blood is pooling on his abdomen.

you didn't expect him to be in such a state. how many enemies was he fighting off? glass fiddles in your pockets, reminding you of your spoils. hurriedly, you hand him a health potion that you definitely did not steal. then, painkillers, disinfectant, and so on.

he asks quizically, "how do you have so many things in your pockets?"

"don't worry about it." just videogame things innit. silently, you tend to his wounds though your effort is clumsy.

he looks up at you. his hand timidly ghosts along the road of your working arm, driving closer and closer, as if he's navigated it before. a familiarity that suggests crossed trajectories, but with the way you avoid his eyes, the paths quickly rupture back into parallel lines.

ping! [ new achievement: 'meeting phainon' ] [ phainon's affection +1! ]

you had to repel phainon, but he's strongly magnitised. it's been a few days like this and you don't know why - it's not like you have dog food in your pockets.

"so, what do you do for a living?" oh no, he's is showing interest and his imaginary dog tail is wagging.

your mind blanks. it's not like you can tell him you steal chests and spit bars at bartholos. that'd be a prison speedrun. "i... i'm a professional npc..." [ great impression (￣_￣) ] you groan at the system message.

he tilts his head, curiousity shining in his eyes. "en... pee... sea?"

"uhhh," you falter. then, a lightbulb. wait, wouldn't this is be a good opportunity to change his impression of you—for the worse? anymore association with a chrysos heir is basically a life sentence to becoming the mc, right? "... i," you tinker with your head. "... i sniff armpits..." [ ... my ears hurt (¯ . ¯;) ]

phainon can only smile stiffly. "ahaha?" [ phainon is... intrigued? what's with this guy ] [ phainon's affection +1!(?) ]

... that did not work. rule #3 of 'the npc survival handbook': don't draw attention to yourself (failed).

another day in your life...

"do you know about the other chrysos heirs?" phainon asks, carrying your haul of limited edition honeycakes. [ w(°ｏ°)w finally, the plot is moving! ]

"no," you refuse adamantly, "and i don't want to know because it's too much exposition to listen with no skip butt-"

"hello..."

you jump. "wah?!" the girl bloomed by death's hand studies you, her dark circles accentuating her eyes.

a deep voice thrusts himself in. "are you phainon's new sparring partner? hmph."

"the new traveller? you must be the one the threads were whispering about... why don't we have a chat later?"

"we welcome you to ohkema! isn't it great?!"

"isn't it great...?"

"isn't it great? hmph."

[ isn't it great? ＼(＾▽＾)／]

why in kephale's name is every chrysos heir suddenly here? is this a family gathering or what? it's like you're meeting your in-laws, ready to get their blessings for phainon's hand in marriage.

[ your future husband ] phainon smiles warmly. "well, now you know them." [ handsome as always (＾་།＾) ] [ new achievement: 'meeting the family!' ]

"do you want to embalm a corpse with me...?"

"are you really phainon's sparring partner? come, let me test your prowess in battle."

both of your sides are occupied. along with a tall puppy, there's also a purple butterfly and a tabby cat apparently [ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ]. "don't you guys have to save the world?"

castorice nods slowly. "indeed... finding thanatos, i hope to recover my past too..."

mydei crosses his arms. "of course i want to defeat nikador and return to castrum kremnos one day. but who says heroes don't need rest?"

"and you both decided to spend it with me of all people?"

"phainon mentions you a lot... we simply wanted to see for ourselves," castorice replies, "should we invite tribbie too?"

"please don't," you shrug your shoulders. "i'm only an npc, nothing to see here." [ are you sure about that? 🤨 ] suddenly, emojis?

"en-piii-she...?" castorices points a finger to her lip.

"em... piss... cee? what's that?" mydei lifts an eyebrow.

you were not gonna answer that again. [ castorice's affection +1! ] [ mydei's affection +1! ]

in the distance, threads begin to murmur a song. the dressmaster's fingers weave through her strings, strumming each one to orchestrate amphoreus’s future stage.

aglaea’s eyebrows dip. tribbie's ears opened at the first note, wary. "the threads are strained..."

[ (＠＾◡＾) ~ ] "phainon, dearie, how have you been?"

[ ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ ] "phainon, come look at the fresh fruit!"

phainon, is admittedly very popular, a stark contrast to you, like day and night. "how do you have so much energy to interact?" you question.

phainon is now petting a large dog, wearing a large grin when the dog licks his face. in your eyes, they are a pair of twins playing with each other. "i think it just comes naturally. it's a part of my duty to the citizens."

duty. the word is tiresome in your head. you crouch down, rubbing the large dog's fur. "then, is there anything you want to do for yourself?"

"oh..." he trails off, stealing a glance at you. the steady waves in phainon's eyes shine blue, finding your reflection in them on his horizon. "there are many things i'd love to do. you know, i'm jealous of you." [ (╬`益´) HE'S LYING-! ] you press the mute button.

"what do you mean?"

sunlight perches itself on top of his head, kissing the crown of his head like a tender mother to born babe. you feel your breath being stolen. he is surely nature's revered child. "i hope to be as free as you someday, doing whatever i want," he says (he doesn't know about the chest-stealing, does he?). a face steeled from suffering, regret, and past mistakes, smelts under your warm gaze. if you were to lift his lips up with your fingers, you would find it malleable without resistance. "away from all the chrysos heir business - it gets stressful at times."

your heart skips, understanding. beneath the exterior of a hero is someone who wants to live like every other ordinary person. your heart skips one more time, hearing how you could inspire a chase for freedom in him. [ your understanding of phainon has deepened ] an unsuspecting heat runs laps across your cheeks. you both wave goodbye to the dog. "so... you want to be an npc too?"

"n-p-c," phainon recounts, "an armpit sniffer?" he teases.

"nevermind." unconciously, you brush away the strands of hair obscuring phainon's eyes, taming his fur. his eyebrows lift, eyes radiant. ears redden. "ah..." a timid disappointment when you stop, fluffy ears drooping.

silently, you think the conversation over. duty... is that what creates purpose? should you find one too? does an npc need to think this extensively? perhaps this is a part of you speaking, begging to fit in with this foreign world.

freedom and obligation. can't both co-exist?

one day, you're haggling at the market stalls, firing words no one could understand. [ phainon's affection +1! ]

another day, you're falling off the dromases every minute. phainon watched you get strapped to the saddle with rope when all else failed. [ phainon's affection +1! ]

today, you ate agalae's stock of afternoon tea desserts. [ phainon's affection +1 ]

and tomorrow, you'll ask castorice and mydei to fight to the death to settle the philosophical dilemma of the 'unstoppable force vs. immovable object'. you told him of your evil plans. [ phainon's affection +1 ]

"uh, can you stop doing that?" you turn towards the human-sized dog behind you. [ phainon's affection +1 ]

phainon stops in his tracks. "doing what?"

you point at him. [ phainon's affection +1 ] "... nevermind." you give up. it's a bit endearing, honestly. you've come to appreciate his presence accompanying you. a small smile plays on your lips. [ phainon's affection +10!!! ] ..?

[ new mainline quest! 'chat with aglaea.' ]

that's was a great start to your morning; the deafening system alarm was a nice touch. you threw a fist at the pop-up, annoyed. [ this is abuse!! (ಥ﹏ಥ) ]

so now, you are in the bathhouse with aglaea [ and me! (*ˊᗜˋ*) ]. she slides a thick envelope across the table you were both sitting at.

hesitantly, you take it under her inspective gaze. apprehension takes root in your guts. you open the envelope. [ 7-7-7 TRILLION CREDITS??!! =͟͟͞͞(꒪ᗜ꒪‧̣̥̇) ] you look up at her, stunned. you only know how to mutter her name, "aglaea...?"

"i urge you to take it and travel far away," she explains, tapping the table with her finger. "the strife titan is closer than ever and amphoreus is losing itself to dark nights due to the black tide. yet, phainon is distracted at this crucial moment." the tapping stops. "and i suspect you are the cause of his straying mind."

you point at yourself, disbelieving [ (⊙_⊙) ☜ ? ]. "me?" you've seen this in dramas before - the part where the mother-in-law bribes her son's partner. you could almost laugh at the comparison. realistically, you would choose the money...

"-but that's not up to you," you frown, remembering yesterday. "phainon can choose what he wants to do."

you have come to understand each other, yes, the stars are re-writing your definitions - phainon, the great warrior who yearns for a quiet life, pledging to his one moon, and you, an outsider who went as they pleased yet also wanted to belong. if aglaea is to deny his longing desires, then it is to deny your existence.

"don't make me laugh," aglaea reprimands sternly. the threads in the air are tense, ready to cut. your throat cinches. "freedom is something we gave up long ago to devote ourselves to amphoreus's amity." a pained expression fades within a split second.

a heaviness spears into you, weighing you down. you look at your feet. she is right, but you can't help but feel pierced into. silence reigns the air.

ping! [ hey! (눈_눈) ] you look up. [ what are you doing right now? ]

...? [ you said you'd live freely! (albeit as an 'npc') why are you hesitating now? you're letting the system win! ]

"huh?" isn't that what the system wanted though? to have you obey the rules and the role of a typical mc. then again, when did you ever listen to it? "uh, well..."

aglaea stands up. "that's all i want to convey."

"wait," the words suddenly burst out, a wave of energy surging. [ go go! ] "... saving amphoreus, it's not only an obligation, but something all the chrysos heirs chose for themselves." [ ∑d(°∀°d) ] aglaea raises an eyebrow. she is letting you speak what could be your final words.

"... castorice wishes to recover her past. she will defeat thanatos and save amphoreus, to discover the world with newfound purpose."

"mydei hopes to return to castrum kremnos and sever the last ties. he will defeat nikador to protect amphoreus and his new life."

"and phainon has people he wants to protect. and to do that, he will save amphoreus to keep them safe."

"the chrysos heirs all share the same feelings as you, hearts strong; saving amphoreus, but to also save a future of their own as well. so... put more faith... in them..." the words die out when you realise that what you've been saying, to aglaea of all people. her stare is critical, analysing your flaws. "or don't..." well, it was a good life.

you are expecting the sweet release of death. but nothing comes. it is silent before aglaea sits back down, one leg crossing over the other. she rests her chin on her hand, looking into the distance. seemingly conflicted, as if not wanting you to look at her, but hoping you'd stay for a bit longer. the ice in the air warms bit-by-bit. you process the silent understanding with her, watching the water flow. [ aglaea's affection +1 ]

"don't die guys. seriously." you give mydei a pat on the back, and castorice a thumb up because she'll instantly dissolve you otherwise. "where's phainon?"

"i saw him on the rooftop... i think he's wait... ing..." castorice trails off, head bobbing from a lack of sleep presumably.

mydei scratches his head. "we'll head off first then," he sighs. "don't keep him any longer than you have to."

"why am i-" the pair gradually get smaller into the distance. "-the one to go?" [ new mainline mi- ] "yeah, yeah, i get it." you wave the message away. [ 凸( ` ﾛ ´ )凸 ] you smile. [ YOU LAUGHED- ] muted.

sure enough, you find the missing person on a rooftop. phainon is surprised to see you. you wave, approaching him. "yo."

"... yo." he mirrors, brightening like the sun. but behind the smile were shadows.

"what's up?" you ask.

phainon is in quiet contemplation. "i'm afraid, honestly," he starts, "i do want to defeat nikador. it's been a life-long goal."

"but... i wish i could run away too, away from the commitment. rest my eyes and not have to think or worry."

insecure, anxious. you saw hints of it before, but now he has cracked completely, revealing to you. the calm before the storm. a final exchange of all the unwritten words.

you make an inch for his hand, but unsure, you retract it. "you sound as if you'll die."

his eyes widen. "i didn't mean to insinuate..." he looks down forlornly, at the distance between his and your hands. the quiver in his fingers craves, agitated. "i can't die yet, there's too much i want to do." his eyes move to yours. but the embarassment he feels when you reciprocate it quickly deflects his gaze away.

skin to bone; rust to metal. they only rot to the test of time, and it is only in this way that phainon will release himself from the overworld. not to the titankin, not to nikador, but a natural harbinger. that way, every breath, down to his last, can be spent on you.

you really want to pet his head. thinking back to the conversation with aglaea, you construct your words, "come home after this. to amphoreus, to the chrysos heirs. afterwards, there will be time for your heart to rest."

all these answers but phainon didn't find one to the question he is searching for. he tugs at your sleeve, eyebrows frowning. you feel almost shy looking into his faithful eyes. "will you be there too?"

your mouth opens, "me?" his ears wait for an answer. his fingers fiddling your fabric to as if to annoy a response out of you. reject, accept, deny, he's begging for anything. it doesn't matter.

phainon is entirely devoted to you, for reasons he had yet to explain. this part of his story is not left out. claim, discipline, stipple your mark into him and his skin will not rebound from your carving. until skin melted into flesh, and flesh peeled off his bones, and bones pulverised into dust, everything would remain as history written on his body until then.

at the end of the day, into the night, he is waiting for you. he's hoping you'll do the same.

a velvet smile paints your face, heart beating, your answer as natural as day and night: "i will be waiting too." for him, and his story of devotion.

"when we reunite, let's make a world of our own. one we both belong to, and one where we are free to do everything we want. where the sun guides us and the moon watches over, co-existing." [ ... ]

rule #2 in the 'npc survival handbook': do not get involved with the chrysos heirs.

phainon finds solace in the crook of your neck, strong arms wrapped around you but his hold trembles. you let him do as he please - let his heart, something he almost gave up, finally express itself, and you can hear his heart beat prove its existence. quietly, you card through his white strands with your fingers.

the sun begins to set.

"phainon, i order you to track this outsider. i do not know how they happened to breach okhema, but i suspect they fell from beyond the sky," agalae instructed, eyes sharpened. "if they make any suspiscious movement, or mention the forbidden, they must be dealt with swiftly."

thus, phainon watched over you, playing executioner. another mission, nothing new. leave them alone if proven harmless, execute if necessary.

standing upright on a rooftop, the first time he laid eyes on you, you were in the middle of marmoreal market, dazed, speaking... to no one? then the chest stealing, the sagelore fruit stuffed in your mouth, doing everything that you pleased - riding the loose currents of freedom, unrestrained by rules. without knowing, bright laughter left his rigid lips.

as days passed, disturbance grew. for whatever reason, the titankin were strongly attracted to you, as if you were an anomaly they had to eliminate. before one of them could strike you-

"hm?" as soon as you turned around to look, there was nothing there but the glaring sun quietly protecting you all along.

months passed like this and phainon slowly carved your existence into amphoreus. from the big movements, the twitching in your expressions. to the hollowness in your eyes when you watched the people chatter, the children running by, the scholars conversing. he saw it then. a black sheep walking among the herd; a shard of the night misfitting itself into bright daylight.

chaos worsened. the black tide brought night and agitated harmony's wavelengths. the titankin spiralled and even more were after your throat. took its toll on phainon as he stayed by your side when amphoreus was asking for him. it was one of the few times that he let his duties go for something he freely chose to do. although, the price to pay was hefty - it was him against many. and the threads hummed tunes about his misdeeds.

as much as the dark scared him, the night carried you to him on that fated day. you were going to kill him. open his stomach. stab his chest. those were most effective. but you felt so warm in his arms when he caught you.

in the back of his mind, a nagging hope procured a promising premonition. a hope brought to flame, his studying that came to fruition, when you tenderly looked after him.

he looked up at you. the moon softly caressed its shimmer upon you. you were moonlight. and from there on, the sun orbited the moon. a devotion that naturally made sense, that was meant to be.

days turned to weeks. you tried not to think about the emptiness. who are you? someone waiting for their husband to return home from war?

"hey kid, watch out." you steady a brown-haired kid before he could fall over again. he bows, thanking you. you learned his name was theophis.

"buying more sagelore fruit? come, come! the produce this season is at its ripest." their name was auguste.

"good morning, dearie. is phainon not here today either?" her name was hegesia.

again and again, you strolled around okhema, sticking names to familiar faces. the people grew to know you as time moved its hands - a sense of belonging and purpose in a place once foreign. you found yourself engaging with them, not because of a reward, or even being forced to do it.

it is then that you realise it. chatter, talking, noise. yet, everything is too quiet at the same time. no banter, no teasing remark... nothing.

in the middle of marmoreal market, you stand dazed again. something is supposed to guide you in moments like these. your heart is heavy, mourning a loss.

"system?"

the wind slips through your fingers, proudly holding your hand. it answers your call.

you are sound asleep when the night courses through your balcony, blowing the curtains with its star-glistened breath. the cautious clicking of boots unheard. fingers delicate, lips yearning, but settlling for gently pressing their head against yours, lightly rubbing back and forth. so careful, too delicate, a touch that only borders the rim of a minute gap between you and him, afraid to rouse you from your dreams.

"my moonlight... "

strangely, you slept well last night. and the night after that. and the next one too. you did your usual routine in marmoreal market and were about to head home when a strong gust of wind attacks you. "woah!" you hold your arms in front you.

the breeze gradually calms, tugging at your clothes. slowly, you lower your arms, feeling the familiarity in its touch. the wind guides you by the hand, dragging you hurriedly to the rooftop and you recognise his back.

"phainon?" he jumps a little at the sound of your voice, his tail wagging. his owner has returned. he awkwardly rubs a hand on the back of his neck, bashful - those ears are red again. what's he hiding?

his shoulders shake slightly. it is taking all his strength to not run into your loving arms. before he could, there was something in his cards to reveal. he turns around, closing the distance, and you finally meet his face. a very flushed one, that is. but a face you missed all the same. he clears his throat. "i want to explore amphoreus, find a quieter place," he says, structuredly, "i will return to okhema when needed, of course, but for now... the heart wants to rest," he extends his hand towards you. "will you come with me?" his hand trembles.

no pressure, no forcing. he is letting your heart decide the flow. he would go anywhere you wanted, as your desires are also his as much as it is yours. this is the freedom he wants, a drift of the wind that you decide, as long as he can ride along it with you. the direction does not matter when the amphoreus is only a speck in the universe, with so much to explore.

a smile creeps onto your lips. you steady his hand into yours. even after all this time, he acts like he's meeting you for the first time. "why wouldn't i?"

"oh," phainon immediately brightens. "g-great!"

you remember the well-rested nights. "but it was you, wasn't it? how come you didn't reveal yourself sooner?"

his encompassing hands fidget with your ring finger. "i... was practicing my lines for days." he looks away. "i was really nervous," he mumbles.

you grin. "what were you so afraid of? it's only me."

he chuckles. "you're right..." slowly, he takes your hand and presses it against his cheek. your cradle is a fondness reserved only for him. in his eyes, an affection that has accompanied you everywhere, since you first got here. a love that didn't need recognition, it only asks to follow you and shower him with the sound of your laughter when he gets lonely. "about everything, about us, i want to tell you how it all started from my eyes. ever since you got here..." -the sun had always followed the moon. he kisses your palm.

and before he forgets, phainon hands you an envelope. it is as heavy as you remember it to be. "all their blessings are in here, the chrysos heirs."

it really sounds like you are getting married. you let out a tired laugh.

there are no more rules. whether from a sense of obligation, freedom or loneliness, you'll both live how you want. become the main characters of your own stories.

"let's go!" with no time to waste, phainon excitedly takes you by the hand, legs flourished by the wind and trails of good fortune. the day is beginning to rise, and the sun is more than happy to follow his moonlight into the next day, and for all of infinity and evermore.

"godspeed to you," tribbie clasps her hands together in prayer, looking down at the pair from the far above. then, she smiles, her head swaying side-to-side. "searching for a small world of their own. it's almost like an elopement, isn't it, agy?"

aglaea hums, hand on her heart. the threads chime a ceremonial aria, the ice melts ever so little. "the heart... knows what it wants."

a person closes the novel they were reading. sighing, they pick up their phone and start typing again:

"this author has balls of steel to come back with another disasterous novel. so criiiiiiinge. where was castorice at the end? i was waiting for her! why is the male lead, a powerful warrior, reduced to a lovesick puppy? how does that make sense, you stupid author! such abysmal writing full of holes, leaking enough to fill an entire ocean. insanity, i say!" this random nobody criticises, slamming their fingers on the screen. they clear their throat. "hmph. the next volume better be coming soon."

a/n: im pooped, expect my third child to come out next year probably. everyone's invited to the baby shower, just make sure to bring ur best costumes. my back breaks everytime i have to argue philosophy with the reader and the characters like,, im being attacked from all sides. fun fact: ever since i prematurely posted my sunday fic, when im sleeping, everytime i hear a phone notif i instantly wake up bc i get scared thinking i accidentally posted again. so thats cool. new trauma gained ig😜 idk what else to say. like and subscribe, hit the bell icon for notifications. lemme know ur fav toothpaste brand. [ new achievement: 'thanks for reading!!' ヾ(*'▽'*)' ]

[syluslnd]

Big fan here!! I'd love to read where MC is secretly writing a fic about Sylus. she accidentally left her screen open when she stepped out for a moment just to come back filled with horror seeing Sylus reading the screen. He proceeds to ask if the story was about him despite the male character being unnamed. He teases her about certain scenarios she was imagining.

Happy writing and cant wait ^^

ʚɞ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ʚɞ

You walked back into the room, carrying a cup of tea, only to freeze in the doorway.

Sylus was sitting at your desk, his intense crimson eyes scanning the screen of your laptop. His posture was relaxed but there was an undeniable air of authority and curiosity in the way he held himself.

Your heart skipped a beat as your gaze flickered to the open document on the screen.

Your fanfic.

The one you’d been writing about him.

You hadn’t saved it properly and now it was sitting there in all its unpolished glory, an embarrassing reminder of the fantasies and scenarios you’d been daydreaming about and now, sylus—was reading it.

Oh no.

You tried to compose yourself but the horror in your eyes was probably impossible to hide. Sylus smirked, sensing your presence before even hearing you approach. Without looking away from the screen, he teased “Interesting read, sweetie.”

Your heart raced as you quickly walked over, trying to act casual, though your cheeks were already burning. “w-what are you doing?”

Sylus finally looked up, his eyes gleaming with a teasing light and you saw that smirk spread across his lips, dangerously amused.

“I didn’t realize you had such… vivid imagination” he purred, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms. “I would have never guessed you fantasized about me like this.”

Your eyes widened. You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t even respond. The words you’d written about him, for him were too intimate. Too personal.

You cursed yourself.

“Don’t look so embarrassed sweetheart “ Sylus continued, his voice smooth and taunting. “I know exactly what you’re thinking. You didn’t even have to mention my name for me to know the story was about me. The details give it away, darling.”

Your gaze snapped up to meet his and he was still smirking, clearly enjoying the fact that he had caught you in this vulnerable moment.

You took a step toward him, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep up your neck. “I didn’t—”

He stood up slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch in your throat. “You didn’t think I’d notice? No, darling” he said, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. “Its almost like you wanted me to read this and now, I think we need to have a little chat about the fantasies you’ve written about me.”

You took a small step back, your pulse pounding. “What—what do you mean?”

Sylus didn’t answer at first. He just closed the distance between you and you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the control he exuded in every step. You were completely aware of how much power he had in that moment.

“Let me remind you what you’ve written” he started, his voice low and steady, dripping with dominance. “Pinned down. Helpless. Trapped by my Evol, unable to move. Teased, edged with until you can’t even speak… sounds pretty familiar, doesn’t it?”

Your stomach dropped as he came closer, each word from his lips like a sensation moving through you. The way he said it was mockingly soft, as though he was enjoying the power he had over you at this very moment.

You tried to hold your ground but you couldn’t help the way your heart raced. His presence was suffocating, and there was nowhere to run. You were entirely at his mercy.

“You know, darling” Sylus continued, stepping closer still until he was right in front of you, his voice low and silky, “It’s interesting to think that you’ve imagined me using my Evol to pin you down like that. To tease you. To make you beg for more.”

His hand reached up, his fingers lightly brushing your cheek. The light touch sent a shiver through your body, and you could feel the heat in your face intensifying.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” he asked again, his voice an almost dangerous whisper now. “Did you think I wouldn’t realize just how much you enjoy the idea of being controlled by me?”

Your breath caught in your throat as Sylus stepped even closer, leaning down slightly, his lips brushing just above your ear. “You wrote about me using my Evol, darling. You wrote about how I’d fuck you until you couldn’t even think straight,until you were nothing but my human toilet,well I’m not just going to stand here and talk about it.”

Your body froze, realizing what was about to happen.

With a soft click of his tongue, Sylus snapped his fingers and just like that, his Evol was in control your body shifted to the bed all four of your limbs spread across the bed frames ,your body was locked in place unable to move as if his very presence had anchored you to the floor.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” His voice was playful, but there was something darker lurking beneath the surface. “You wrote all of this. Now, I think it’s time you experienced it for yourself.”

You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak and every part of you screamed at the sheer dominance in the air. Sylus wasn’t just reading your fanfic anymore he was turning it into reality.

and you have no choice but to take it.

“You think you can just write about it and escape the consequences?” Sylus chuckled darkly, as his Evol continued to keep you in place. “I do enjoy a good story but now it’s my turn to write the next chapter.”

Your eyes widened but Sylus only smirked, knowing exactly how to push your limits. “Let’s see how well you handle it.”

and just like that, you realized you were now his story to control.

[arilevenatz]

Unscripted

Pairing: idol!Yunho x idol!Reader

Genre/trope: fluff, idol romance

Word count: 8.4k

Warnings: very, I mean veryyyy minute talks of suicide, reader has trauma, she had a bad childhood, Imk if I missed any

AN: I always wanted to write an idol x idol reader. And now here we are, our own golden retriever got a fic now. Yes I had fun playing with the characters. The group I created, I really loved how it turned out and I will be using this group again in future idol x idol projects

Yunho had always been the one to capture attention. With his bright smile and natural charisma, he easily stood out. As the lead dancer and main vocalist of ATEEZ, his talent was undeniable. His 6’1” frame and athleticism only added to his presence, making him a natural on stage.

Performing live was where Yunho truly thrived. His dance moves were smooth yet powerful, and his deep voice melted effortlessly into each melody. The energy he brought to every performance made it clear that he was in his element, pouring his heart into every note.

Offstage, Yunho was the playful mood maker. He was always cracking jokes, pulling pranks, or finding ways to make the group laugh. But his fun-loving side hid a deep dedication to his craft. He spent countless hours perfecting his moves, driven by a desire to do his best for ATEEZ and their fans.

Despite his lively exterior, Yunho often found himself reflecting on his connections with others. His passion for music had always led him to form bonds with fellow idols, but lately, he couldn’t help but feel that someone new was beginning to take up more space in his thoughts.

The girl group was called Elysium, a name that captured the dream-like, otherworldly energy they exuded on stage. Elysium’s music was a blend of powerful performances and deep, emotive lyrics, making them stand out in a crowded industry. Their fandom, known as Stellar, was dedicated, passionate, and fiercely protective of the group’s integrity. Elysium had quickly risen to fame, drawing attention not only for their talent but for their strong bond as a group.

---

Lee Yeji

00', Aries

Leader, Rapper

Yeji was the fiery leader who held the group together with her unwavering confidence. As the lead rapper, her verses were fast and powerful, leaving an impression every time she stepped up to the mic. Her assertive personality made her a natural leader, always taking charge and ensuring the group stayed on track. Offstage, Yeji balanced her strong exterior with a deep care for her members, always looking out for them like a protective older sister.

—

Hwang YN

01', Gemini

Producer, Lyricist, All-rounder

YN, the second oldest in the group, had a deep, commanding voice that often startled people when they first heard it. As a producer and lyricist, she played a key role in crafting Elysium’s unique sound. While she often appeared emotionless on the outside, YN had a dry wit that made those around her laugh without her intending to. Her calm demeanor and focus on the creative side made her a cornerstone of the group, though her voice alone commanded respect.

---

Jang Wonyoung

04', Sagittarius

Center, Visual, Vocalist

Wonyoung was the visual and center of the group, with an almost ethereal beauty that captured attention immediately. As a vocalist, her voice was sweet and clear, adding a unique texture to Elysium’s sound. Despite her grace and elegance, Wonyoung’s warmth and playful energy offstage made her approachable and beloved by fans and fellow idols alike.

---

Phan Hanni

04', Virgo

Main Vocalist

Hanni’s voice was the heart of Elysium’s music, with a range that effortlessly transitioned between delicate ballads and powerful anthems. Though she was soft-spoken offstage, her voice spoke volumes in every performance, conveying emotions with a depth that moved listeners. Hanni's humble nature and dedication to her craft made her one of the most respected members of the group, always striving to perfect her vocal technique.

---

Kang Haneul

05', Libra

Lead Dancer, Maknae

As the youngest, Haneul was the maknae of Elysium, but her skills as the lead dancer made her shine brightly on stage. Her movements were a blend of strength and grace, making every performance feel like an art form. Despite being the youngest, Haneul’s maturity and dedication to dancing set her apart. She was quiet and reserved offstage but showed an intensity and passion whenever she was on the dance floor.

Elysium’s concept was unlike anything the industry had seen before. They blended nostalgic, early-2000s vibes with a modern twist, creating a sound that felt both fresh and timeless. Their aesthetic was a blend of minimalist cool and raw authenticity—think vintage street style meets ethereal elegance. Each member’s individuality was celebrated, with no exaggerated theatrics or over-the-top concepts. Instead, Elysium’s power lay in their simplicity and authenticity, capturing the hearts of fans by just being themselves.

Their music was a perfect mix of catchy hooks and introspective lyrics, with a laid-back, almost effortless vibe that made each track feel personal. They didn’t rely on flashy choreography or ostentatious visuals; instead, their performances were intimate, like you were watching them in a moment of pure, unfiltered connection.

Elysium’s fashion mirrored this concept—loose, comfortable fits with a nostalgic edge, often accessorized with subtle details that gave them a chic, effortless flair. Their look was cool but approachable, embodying a laid-back confidence that made them stand out without trying too hard. Their style was a reflection of their personalities: fresh, real, and a little bit rebellious.

Their concept was bold in its restraint—no gimmicks, no forced personas—just raw talent and a genuine connection to their music and fans. Elysium wasn’t just a group; they were a movement, breaking barriers with a sound and aesthetic that felt both innovative and incredibly personal.

Elysium debuted in 2020 with their breakout single "Timeless Echoes", a song that perfectly encapsulated their unique blend of nostalgia and modernity. The track featured mellow, laid-back beats with hauntingly beautiful vocals that echoed their raw, authentic energy. The lyrics, penned by YN, were introspective and reflective, exploring themes of self-discovery, love, and the passage of time. "Timeless Echoes" became an instant favorite, resonating deeply with fans who were drawn to its simplicity and emotional depth.

Their debut album, "Elysian Days", was a seamless reflection of their concept—minimalistic, authentic, and grounded in real emotions. Every track on the album had been carefully crafted by YN, who not only wrote the lyrics but also produced the sound with an understated elegance that defined the group's style. The album was a mix of mellow ballads, introspective mid-tempos, and smooth, groovy beats. Each song felt like an intimate conversation, where listeners could connect deeply with the group’s journey, vulnerabilities, and experiences.

Songs like "Daydreams", "Quiet Storm", and "Wanderlust" followed, each contributing to the cohesive, yet diverse, nature of the album.

"Daydreams" captured a sense of youthful wonder and longing,

while "Quiet Storm" was a deeper, more reflective ballad about inner strength and the quiet battles people face.

"Wanderlust" was a smooth, breezy track with a laid-back vibe, encapsulating their desire for freedom and exploration.

"Elysian Days" set the stage for Elysium’s journey, marking them as an artistically bold and boundary-pushing group in the K-pop scene. They had a sound that was distinctly their own, and with YN's vision and leadership, Elysium was poised to redefine what it meant to be an idol group in the modern music landscape.

The 2020 MJK Awards buzzed with energy as the biggest names in the industry filled the grand venue. ATEEZ sat at their assigned table near the front, their growing fame landing them prime seating. Yunho, ever the curious observer, scanned the room, taking in the glamorous chaos around him. His eyes flickered toward a group seated a little further back, where five girls sat quietly, looking slightly out of place amidst the glittering stars. They carried themselves with an understated confidence that intrigued him.

It was Elysium’s first award show, and though they were new to the scene, their name had already started making waves. Yunho had heard whispers about them—their unique concept, their music written entirely by one of the members, and their captivating simplicity. But it wasn’t until they took the stage for their performance that Yunho truly understood the hype.

Their performance was brief—award show rookie slots were always short—but it was enough to command the room’s attention. The stage lights dimmed, and a haunting melody began to play, accompanied by YN’s deep, rich voice that sent a ripple through the audience. The blend of their vocals, fluid choreography, and the raw authenticity they exuded was magnetic.

Yunho found himself leaning forward in his seat, captivated by the girl with the emotionless expression and commanding voice. There was something about her—how effortlessly she moved, how her voice seemed to echo with a depth beyond her years. She didn’t try to steal the spotlight, but it seemed to find her anyway.

When Elysium was announced as the Rookie of the Year, the girls stood in shock before making their way to the stage. YN stood at the back as Yeji, the leader, delivered a heartfelt thank-you speech. Yunho noticed YN bowing slightly to the crowd, her face still unreadable but her eyes glinting with a quiet pride. She looked at her fellow members with a subtle smile, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.

As Yeji wrapped up her heartfelt speech, thanking their fans, company, and team, she suddenly turned toward YN with a teasing smile. “Our producer should say something too, right?” she said, nudging her lightly.

The other members chimed in, giggling and encouraging her. “Come on, YN unnie!” Wonyoung whispered, while Haneul gave her a playful push forward. YN hesitated, glancing at the mic with a faint frown, clearly preferring to stay in the background.

But with the crowd now cheering lightly for her, she sighed and stepped closer to the microphone. The room quieted in anticipation.

“Thank you,” YN began, her voice low and deep, resonating across the venue like a bass note. It was so unexpected—such a rich, commanding tone coming from someone with such a small, unassuming frame—that it stunned everyone into silence.

She continued calmly, “I just want to thank our members for trusting my music and making it come to life. And to Stellar, for believing in us and helping us get here. We’ll work harder to show you more of what we can do.” Her delivery was concise, professional, and almost emotionless, but the sheer contrast of her voice and presence left the room mesmerized.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the audience. Yunho, sitting at the ATEEZ table, felt his eyes widen as he exchanged a look of surprise with Wooyoung. Even some of the seasoned idols were caught off guard, their expressions ranging from awe to disbelief.

By the time Elysium returned to their seats, the buzz around YN had already started. Clips of her speech began circulating online before the event had even ended. Fans titled the videos "Idols Reacting to YN’s Voice", showing the surprised expressions of seniors in the audience, and "Rookie Idol Shocks Everyone with Her Deep Voice."

Within hours, hashtags like #YNsVoice and #ElysiumRookieOfTheYear trended worldwide. Some fans joked, “How is her voice deeper than most rappers?” while others were in awe of how effortlessly she spoke, carrying such a commanding presence without trying.

YN, meanwhile, remained oblivious to the storm she’d caused online, quietly congratulating her members and reminding them to stay focused on their next goals. Little did she know, her unique voice and unintentional charisma had left a lasting impression on everyone who heard it—including a certain tall, wide-eyed boy named Yunho.

Elysium’s viral moment following their award show performance had propelled them into the spotlight, and their schedules quickly became packed. One of their most exciting activities was participating in TikTok dance challenges with other idols, a promotional move that fans loved. For their latest collaboration, they were paired with none other than ATEEZ.

YN, as always, stood quietly to the side. She was assigned to lead the challenge, given her knack for precision and her ability to pick up choreography quickly. When the staff revealed the pairings, Yunho’s heart sank.

“Okay, for this one, we’ll have Jongho, Seonghwa, and YN,” the director announced, clapping his hands.

Jongho, standing beside Yunho, grinned and clapped his hands together. “Let’s do this!” he said enthusiastically.

Seonghwa nodded, his elegance evident even as he stretched, preparing for the shoot.

Meanwhile, Yunho stood frozen, his expression falling into something close to disbelief. Of all the people who could’ve been chosen, why not him? He watched as YN walked over to Jongho and Seonghwa with her usual quiet confidence, her deep voice breaking the silence as she asked, “What’s the move for the transition?”

Yunho’s stomach churned as Jongho started laughing and explaining the steps to her, the two of them already getting along. Seonghwa added a few tips, and she nodded, her focus entirely on the choreography.

The shoot began, and the trio nailed the challenge effortlessly. YN’s fluid movements and sharp execution stood out, earning her subtle admiration from Seonghwa and Jongho. The staff clapped as they wrapped up, and YN offered a brief but polite bow before stepping back to join her group.

It was a quiet evening when YN decided to go live on Elysium’s official account. Sitting comfortably in a simple hoodie with her hair tied back, she greeted her fans with her signature calm demeanor.

“Hi, everyone,” she said in her low, steady voice. “I’ve been seeing your requests for a live, so here I am. Let’s talk.”

The comments flooded in instantly, with fans typing questions faster than she could read them. YN scrolled through with a small smirk, answering a few at random.

Fan: What’s your favorite food these days?

YN: “Ah, lately, I’ve been eating way too much tteokbokki. Spicy food keeps me awake when I’m working late.”

Fan: Who’s the funniest member in Elysium?

YN: (without hesitation) “Wonyoung. She doesn’t even try, but the things she says are hilarious. And Haneul is secretly funny too—she just doesn’t realize it. Hanni is just a yapper.”

Fan: Do you have any hobbies?

YN: “Producing takes up most of my time, but I’ve been getting into reading mystery novels lately. It helps me unwind.”

Fan: What’s your favorite song you’ve written so far?

YN: “That’s like choosing a favorite child,” she said with a faint smirk. “But if I had to pick… maybe ‘Wanderlust.’ It’s a personal one, so it means a lot to me.”

Fan: What do you do when you’re not working?

YN: “I sleep,” she said bluntly, earning a flood of laughing emojis in the chat. “But if I’m not sleeping, I’m probably reading or eating.”

The questions kept rolling in, and YN answered them with her usual calm wit, making fans laugh with her unintentional humor. Then, as if it were an afterthought, she brought up something no one had asked.

As the questions continued, a fan comment caught her attention:

Fan: Who are your favorite groups?

YN tilted her head thoughtfully. “Hmm, favorite groups? That’s hard,” she said, looking genuinely torn. “I really admire Seventeen. Their stage presence, their music, and the way they work together as a team are incredible. My bias is S.Coups. He’s an amazing leader.”

“And... I also really like ATEEZ.” Her voice dropped just slightly, her expression remaining composed, but the slight tilt of her head hinted at something unspoken.

The chat went wild.

Fan: ATEEZ?! OMG, finally someone appreciates them like we do!

Fan: What’s your favorite ATEEZ song?!

Fan: She said it so casually, but we know it’s not casual!!!

YN read through the comments, her lips twitching into the faintest smile. “ATEEZ has an amazing stage presence,” she said, carefully picking her words. “They’re one of those groups that really pour everything into their performances. It’s inspiring.”

Then, as if testing the waters, someone in the chat asked the inevitable:

Fan: Do you have a bias in ATEEZ?

YN’s calm demeanor wavered for the briefest moment. She paused, as though considering her answer, and then let out a soft chuckle. “Ah, I don’t really have one. I’m just... a fan of all of them.”

Her mention of ATEEZ and that small, telling hesitation didn’t go unnoticed. The chat exploded.

Fan: She’s lying, she totally has a bias!

Fan: YN, we can tell! Just say it’s Yunho, we won’t tell!

Fan: Why does this feel like a confession?!

YN shook her head, her usual emotionless expression tinged with faint amusement. “You guys are so quick to jump to conclusions,” she said, her deep voice betraying nothing. “But really, all of ATEEZ is talented. That’s all I’ll say.”

As the live progressed, YN’s usual calm, no-nonsense demeanor took a sharper edge when she noticed the comments spiraling. Fans were already speculating and joking about her mentioning ATEEZ, and while some of it was lighthearted, she knew how quickly things could escalate.

She leaned closer to the camera, her deep voice cutting through the excited chatter in the chat. “Alright,” she said, her tone firm, “before anyone gets carried away, let me be clear. I don’t want to see any unnecessary rumors or assumptions about what I said.”

The chat paused for a moment as fans processed her sudden shift.

“I admire Seventeen and ATEEZ, just like I admire a lot of other groups,” she continued, her gaze steady. “They work hard, and they’re talented. That’s it. Please don’t create unnecessary drama out of this. Focus on supporting the artists you love instead of making things weird.”

Her straightforward approach silenced most of the speculation, with fans quickly apologizing or reassuring her in the chat. Still, clips of her stern warning made their way online, and while many praised her for setting boundaries, others couldn’t help but laugh at how serious she became.

A few days later, the members of ATEEZ were scattered around their dorm, enjoying a rare break. Yunho was scrolling through his phone, absentmindedly liking posts when Wooyoung suddenly gasped from the other side of the room.

“Guys!” Wooyoung yelled, nearly tripping over himself as he ran to the living room, phone in hand. “You have to see this!”

“What now?” San groaned, but he leaned in as Wooyoung shoved his phone in their faces.

On the screen was a trending hashtag: #YNWarnsFans, alongside clips of her live where she mentioned ATEEZ and later shut down the rumors.

“Wait,” Jongho said, narrowing his eyes. “She mentioned us? During her live?”

“She didn’t just mention us,” Wooyoung said, his grin widening. “She told her fans not to start rumors because she respects us so much.”

Yunho froze in his seat, suddenly hyperaware of his teammates' reactions. “Why are we even trending? She probably mentioned other groups too,” he said, attempting to downplay it.

“Oh, she did,” Seonghwa replied, calmly sipping his tea. “But the way she said our name was... interesting.”

“What do you mean interesting?” Yunho asked, his voice rising slightly.

“You know, it had weight,” Wooyoung said, mimicking YN’s deep voice dramatically. “‘I also really like ATEEZ.’”

San burst out laughing. “I think she scared her fans into behaving! Look at this.” He pulled up another clip from the live where YN firmly told her fans to focus on supporting artists instead of causing drama.

“She’s strict,” Jongho said with a chuckle. “I respect that.”

“But why do her fans think there’s more to it?” Mingi asked, looking genuinely confused as he scrolled through posts.

Wooyoung leaned closer to Yunho, smirking. “Because, dear Yunho, they picked up on something. Maybe we should too.”

Yunho shoved Wooyoung away, his face heating up. “You’re all reading too much into this,” he muttered, though his heart was racing.

But even as the teasing continued, the thought of YN deliberately mentioning ATEEZ—and how she handled the situation so seriously—lingered in Yunho’s mind longer than he wanted to admit.

A few years after their debut, Elysium had solidified themselves as one of the most unique and beloved groups in the industry. Their artistry and authenticity had earned them a loyal fanbase, and their ability to stay grounded despite their success only made fans adore them more. So, when YN was invited to participate in a new, groundbreaking show where idols opened up about their lives and struggles, fans were both thrilled and nervous.

The concept of the show was simple: one idol, one camera, and complete vulnerability. It wasn’t scripted or rehearsed, just an intimate conversation that allowed idols to connect with their fans on a deeper level. YN, known for her reserved and straightforward nature, was an interesting choice, and many fans wondered if she would even share much.

The studio was dimly lit, the focus entirely on YN as she sat in a simple chair, dressed casually in a white sweater and jeans. The setup was minimal—just her, the camera, and a producer sitting off-screen to guide the conversation.

After a brief introduction, the producer asked the first question. “Let’s start with something simple. How would you describe your journey as an idol so far?”

YN leaned back slightly, her deep voice calm but reflective. “It’s been... fulfilling, but not easy,” she admitted. “I think people assume that just because we’re successful now, everything was smooth sailing. But that’s far from the truth.”

The producer nodded, encouraging her to continue. “What were some of the challenges you faced?”

YN took a moment to gather her thoughts. “When Elysium debuted, we weren’t like other groups. Our concept was different, our music wasn’t the mainstream sound, and we didn’t fit into the mold of what people expected. At first, it felt like we were always trying to prove ourselves. I remember the pressure was so intense that I barely slept those first few months because I was constantly writing and producing, trying to make sure we stood out.”

She paused, her expression softening slightly. “But the hardest part wasn’t the work—it was the doubt. There were moments when I wondered if I was good enough to be the producer and lyricist for a group like ours. I knew my members trusted me, but I didn’t always trust myself.”

The producer gently asked, “What kept you going during those times?”

“My members,” YN replied immediately, a rare, small smile gracing her lips. “Yeji, Wonyoung, Hanni, and Haneul—they never doubted me, even when I doubted myself. They’d stay with me during late-night studio sessions, bring me snacks, or just sit quietly while I worked. It sounds small, but it reminded me that I wasn’t alone.”

The conversation then shifted to her personal life. “Fans have always admired your confidence and maturity. Have you always been like this?”

YN let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. “Not at all. Growing up, I was pretty shy and quiet. My voice was always deeper than the other kids’, and I got teased for it. It made me insecure for a long time, but eventually, I learned to own it. Now, I think my voice is one of my strengths.”

The producer hesitated before asking the next question. “What’s something most people don’t know about you?”

YN’s expression grew serious, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. “I think people assume that because I’m strict with fans and straightforward in interviews, I’m... cold or distant. But the truth is, I care deeply about the people around me. I just don’t always know how to show it. It’s something I’m working on.”

The producer wrapped up the session by asking, “What would you say to your fans who are watching this?”

YN looked directly into the camera, her deep voice steady but warm. “Thank you. For believing in us, for giving us the chance to grow, and for supporting us even when things weren’t perfect. I know I can be tough sometimes, but it’s because I respect you all and want to protect what we’ve built together. So... thank you.”

The producer leaned forward slightly, their voice gentle but curious. “What are your fears, YN?”

YN’s calm demeanor faltered just a bit as she shifted in her seat, her fingers lightly brushing against the edge of her sweater. For a moment, she seemed hesitant, but then she answered, her deep voice steady and straightforward.

“Deep water. The ocean. I hate them,” she said bluntly.

The producer looked surprised. “Really? That’s interesting. Why is that?”

YN exhaled softly, her expression unreadable. “There’s something about it... the unknown. It’s so vast, so unpredictable. You don’t know what’s underneath, and that terrifies me. It feels... suffocating.”

She paused, her gaze lowering slightly as she continued. “I think it’s the idea of being completely out of control. You can’t see, you can’t touch the bottom—it’s just endless. It’s not something I’ve ever been able to get over.”

The producer nodded, sensing the depth of her fear. “Have you ever had to face it?”

YN shook her head firmly. “No, and I don’t plan to. I’ll admire the ocean from a safe distance, thank you very much. But you won’t catch me on a boat or anywhere near deep water. That’s non-negotiable.”

The producer hesitated before asking the next question, clearly aware of its weight. “Can you tell us about your family?”

YN’s usually calm expression shifted slightly, her deep voice quiet as she began, “My family…” She trailed off, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. For a moment, it seemed like she wouldn’t answer, but then she exhaled deeply and decided to speak.

“When I was 11, everything changed,” she started, her voice steady but void of emotion. “My dad lost his job. At first, we thought it was temporary, that things would get better. But they didn’t.”

She paused, her eyes glancing briefly off-camera. “He started drinking. A lot. And gambling. He couldn’t handle the stress, I guess. It became this... downward spiral. Debt piled up, and suddenly, money lenders were showing up at our house, banging on the door.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line before she continued, her voice a fraction quieter. “There were times I had to hide. My mom would pull me into a room and tell me to stay quiet while she dealt with them. She tried to protect me, but I could hear everything—the shouting, the threats.”

The producer stayed silent, letting her speak at her own pace.

“My mom... she’s the strongest person I know,” YN said, her tone softening slightly. “She held everything together when it felt like the world was falling apart. But I’d see her break, late at night, when she thought I was asleep. She’d cry, or just sit there, staring at nothing. It was like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.”

Her gaze darkened as she continued. “And my dad… he’d talk about ending it all. Killing himself. He’d say it like it was a casual thing, and I didn’t know how to react. I was just a kid, and I felt so helpless. There were days I hated him for what he was putting us through, but at the same time, I was terrified of losing him.”

The producer’s voice was gentle when they asked, “Did you have anyone else to lean on during that time?”

YN shook her head, letting out a bitter laugh. “No. I’m an only child, and my cousins—they weren’t exactly kind. My parents borrowed money from everyone in the family, and that became the reason I was bullied by my cousins. They’d call me names, make fun of how my family couldn’t afford things. It got to the point where I dreaded family gatherings because I knew I’d be humiliated.”

She paused, her voice tightening slightly. “My studies fell apart. I used to be a good student, but I couldn’t focus. Everything felt meaningless when your home life is a disaster. And I didn’t have best friends or anyone to turn to. I was alone. Completely alone.”

The room was silent for a moment, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air.

“But,” YN said, her voice regaining some strength, “I think that’s what made me who I am today. I had to grow up fast. I learned how to survive, how to be self-sufficient. And when I finally got the chance to chase my dreams, I put everything into it because I knew what it was like to have nothing.”

The producer nodded, visibly moved. “You’ve come so far, YN. Thank you for sharing something so personal.”

The episode aired a week later, and fans were stunned. Many had known bits and pieces of her story, but hearing her lay it all out like this was heartbreaking. Social media exploded with messages of support, with hashtags like #YNStrong and #ProudOfYN trending for days.

Yunho couldn’t stop thinking about YN’s story. He’d always been a fan of her work, admiring her talents as a producer, lyricist, and performer. But after hearing about her past, his admiration transformed into deep respect. She wasn’t just an artist he looked up to; she was someone who had overcome unimaginable challenges to stand where she was now.

“She’s incredible,” Yunho murmured one evening while scrolling through clips of YN’s interview on his phone.

“What’s that?” Hongjoong asked from across the room, looking up from his laptop.

“YN,” Yunho said, setting his phone down. “You watched her interview, right? She’s... amazing. I mean, her talent was already obvious, but after hearing her story, I respect her so much more. She’s been through so much and still came out stronger.”

Hongjoong nodded, leaning back in his chair. “She’s definitely one of the most genuine idols out there. Her story hit hard, and the way she handles herself? It’s admirable.”

Yunho hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Hyung, you’re good at networking and... you know, initiating things. Don’t you think it’d be great if we worked with her? Like, a Collab? She’s a producer, you’re a producer—it just makes sense.”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Is this about work, or is this about you being a fanboy?”

Yunho flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s about work,” he insisted, though the slight stammer in his voice gave him away. “Seriously, though. A Collab with her would be amazing. She has such a unique sound, and I think we could create something incredible together.”

Hongjoong chuckled, but there was a thoughtful look in his eyes. “You’re not wrong. Elysium’s sound is distinct, and her skills as a producer are no joke. It’d be interesting to see how our styles would blend.”

“So, will you reach out?” Yunho asked, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

“Sure,” Hongjoong said with a shrug. “I’ll bring it up with the company first, then see if Elysium’s side is interested. But don’t get your hopes up too fast. These things take time.”

Yunho nodded eagerly, already imagining what a collaboration with YN could look like. It wasn’t just about the music—though he truly believed they could create something amazing together. It was also a chance to work with someone he admired deeply, someone who inspired him not just as an artist but as a person.

A few days later, Hongjoong brought it up during a company meeting, pitching the idea with his usual confidence. The team seemed intrigued, and word was sent to Elysium’s management.

Unbeknownst to Yunho, YN herself was surprised when her company informed her of the request. A collaboration with ATEEZ? Specifically involving Hongjoong? She respected ATEEZ as artists, and the idea piqued her interest.

But for YN, who always approached her work with precision and seriousness, this wasn’t just about making a hit song. It was about finding the right synergy, the perfect balance between two distinct artistic visions.

As the initial talks began between the two companies, Yunho could barely contain his excitement. This was the beginning of something big—he could feel it. Whether or not YN would ever know how much her story and strength inspired him, Yunho was determined to give this project everything he had.

After the collaboration, Yunho finally decided it was time to approach YN. He couldn’t ignore the pull he felt toward her anymore. Her story, her strength, her talent—they had all left a deep impression on him. But more than that, he wanted to know the person behind the stoic demeanor, the person who had fought through so much to stand where she was.

He asked Hongjoong for advice. “What do I even say? I don’t want to freak her out or make it awkward.”

“Just be honest,” Hongjoong said simply. “She doesn’t seem like the type who likes sugarcoating. Just tell her how you feel.”

So, a few days later, Yunho worked up the courage. They crossed paths backstage at a music event, and he casually approached her during a quiet moment.

“Hey, YN,” he said, his usual bright smile lighting up his face. “Do you have a minute?”

YN turned to him, her expression unreadable but polite. “Sure, what’s up?”

Yunho hesitated for a split second but pushed forward. “I wanted to say... I really admire you. Not just for your talent, but for how strong you are. I know you’ve been through a lot, and... I’d like to get to know you better, if that’s okay.”

YN blinked, clearly caught off guard. She wasn’t used to people approaching her so directly. After a brief silence, she let out a small sigh. “Sunbaenim, I... I appreciate that, but I’m not in the best place right now. Mentally, emotionally—I’m just... not okay. I’m so busy, and I have a lot on my plate already. I don’t think I can handle a relationship, or even—”

“I’m not asking you to handle anything,” Yunho interrupted softly. His usual playful demeanor was replaced with something serious and genuine. “I’m not here to add to your burdens. I just want to be there for you. To take care of you, in any way I can.”

YN looked at him, her guard slipping slightly as she searched his face. “You say that now, but... I’m not easy to deal with. I have days where I can barely hold myself together. I don’t want to drag anyone down with me.”

Yunho smiled, his voice steady. “I’m not scared of that. Everyone has their struggles, and you’ve been carrying so much on your own for so long. Let someone be there for you for once. I don’t need anything from you—I just want to help lighten the load, even if it’s just a little.”

YN’s lips pressed into a thin line as she considered his words. Part of her wanted to push him away, to stick to the walls she had built around herself. But another part of her—the part that had spent so many years feeling alone—was tempted to let someone in, even just a little.

“...You’re persistent, aren’t you?” she finally said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Yunho grinned, his warmth returning. “You have no idea.”

YN shook her head, but there was a softness in her eyes now. “Alright, Sunbaenim. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I can handle it,” he said confidently. “You’ll see.”

It was a small step, but for Yunho, it was a start. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he was determined to show YN that she didn’t have to face everything alone anymore.

Yunho didn’t back down after that conversation. If anything, it seemed to fuel his determination to show YN that he was serious about what he’d said. He didn’t push her boundaries or overwhelm her—instead, he made his presence known in small, thoughtful ways.

It started with endless messages. Texts that weren’t demanding but comforting.

“Hope today’s schedule isn’t too hectic. Don’t forget to eat something good!”

“Just heard a song that reminded me of you. Maybe we can listen together someday?”

“Don’t overwork yourself. You’re doing great.”

YN would read his texts late at night, her lips twitching into an involuntary smile. Sometimes she replied with a quick “Thanks” or a simple thumbs-up, but Yunho never seemed discouraged. He’d keep sending messages, as though he didn’t expect anything in return, just wanting her to know he was thinking of her.

On social media, Yunho started dropping subtle hints. Nothing too obvious, but enough to make fans and even his members suspicious. He’d mention how much he admired producers who put their heart into their work or casually praise Elysium in interviews.

In one live, a fan asked him what song he was listening to lately, and he grinned. “Oh, there’s this really cool track by a certain producer I admire. It’s on repeat, but I won’t say who. Let’s just say they’re super talented.”

ATEEZ fans picked up on it quickly, speculating wildly about who he was talking about. Meanwhile, YN watched the chaos unfold on Twitter, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it all. She knew exactly who Yunho was referring to, and though she tried to act unaffected, she couldn’t help the warmth that crept into her chest.

Even his fellow members started teasing him.

“Yunho, are you trying to be sneaky with those hints?” Wooyoung asked during one live, grinning mischievously.

“Hints? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yunho replied, his tone light but his smile betraying him.

“You’re so obvious,” Seonghwa added with a knowing smirk.

But Yunho didn’t care. He wasn’t trying to hide how he felt—he just wanted to take his time and let YN see that he wasn’t going anywhere.

The fans weren’t the only ones who noticed, though. YN’s members caught on too.

“Yunho’s really persistent, huh?” Yeji teased one day as they scrolled through comments under one of his interviews.

“I think it’s cute,” Wonyoung chimed in, grinning.

“More like annoying,” YN muttered, though the faint blush on her cheeks said otherwise.

Haneul smirked, nudging her. “You like the attention. Admit it.”

“I don’t,” YN said quickly, but her voice lacked conviction.

Despite her protests, YN couldn’t deny that Yunho’s endless effort was starting to chip away at the walls she’d built. His sincerity, his warmth, and his determination to make her feel cared for—it was something she hadn’t experienced before.

She wasn’t ready to fully let him in yet, but she found herself replying to his messages more often, even if it was just to tell him about her day or share a funny meme. And every time, Yunho’s responses were full of enthusiasm, as though he cherished every word she sent him.

Slowly but surely, Yunho was proving to her that he meant what he said—that he would take care of her, no matter what. And while YN was still hesitant, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to keep pushing him away.

One evening, Yunho went live, sitting comfortably in a hoodie, his radiant smile lighting up the screen. The live started like any other—him chatting with ATINY, answering questions, joking around, and sharing a bit about his day. But as the live went on, his tone shifted slightly, becoming more reflective.

“ATINY,” he began, leaning closer to the camera, his expression sincere. “You’ve been with me through so much—my ups, my downs, and everything in between. I’ve always felt your love and support, and it’s what keeps me going every day.”

The chat flooded with hearts and messages of encouragement.

He chuckled softly, scratching the back of his neck as if gathering his thoughts. “But there’s something I’ve been thinking about lately. I’m getting older, and I know that as idols, there’s this expectation... to focus only on our careers. To be... untouchable, in a way.”

The chat slowed down as fans sensed he was about to say something important.

“But I want to be honest with you,” Yunho continued, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “There may come a time when I fall in love with someone. I don’t know when, and I don’t know who, but when that happens, I hope you’ll love me no matter what. I’ve always wanted to give you my best, and I will continue to do that, but I also want to be true to myself.”

The chat exploded with messages of support.

“We’ll love you no matter what!”

“You deserve to be happy, Yunho!”

“ATINY will always stand by you!”

Yunho smiled softly, his eyes glistening slightly. “Thank you. That means more to me than I can say. I’ve been so lucky to have fans like you—people who understand that we’re human too, with dreams and emotions like anyone else.”

He hesitated for a moment, then added with a playful grin, “But don’t worry, ATINY. For now, I’m still all yours. Just... if the day ever comes, I hope you’ll support me the same way you always have.”

The live ended with Yunho thanking everyone and promising to work harder for ATINY.

Within minutes of the live ending, hashtags like #WeLoveYouYunho and #ATINYSupportsYunho trended worldwide on Twitter. Fans posted clips of his heartfelt speech, praising his honesty and maturity.

“Yunho deserves all the happiness in the world.”

“This is why we stan him—he’s so real and genuine.”

“No matter who he loves, ATINY will always be here!”

Even Yunho’s fellow members teased him afterward, showing him the trending hashtags. “Look at this,” Wooyoung said, laughing. “You’re literally trending everywhere.”

Yunho just smiled, feeling a sense of relief and gratitude. He didn’t know what the future held, but knowing ATINY had his back made him feel braver about whatever lay ahead—especially when it came to someone like YN.

A year after Yunho’s heartfelt live, the news that fans had been quietly speculating about finally broke. Dispatch, the notorious news outlet, published an exclusive article revealing that Yunho and YN were allegedly dating. The article included photos of the two of them together on several occasions, some taken during casual outings, others during events where they’d been seen talking closely, laughing, and even holding hands when they thought no one was looking.

The news spread like wildfire across social media, causing an immediate uproar. Fans were quick to react—some in shock, others in support, and a few, unfortunately, in anger. The inevitable backlash began to rise, fueled by certain fans who felt betrayed or disappointed that their favorite idols were in a relationship. They bombarded social media with their opinions, criticizing both Yunho and YN for being “unprofessional” or “disrespectful” to their fandoms. But what they hadn’t anticipated was the unwavering defense that came from both Yunho and YN’s fans.

ATINY, in particular, stood as a united front. The fanbase, known for their loyalty and dedication, came together like never before. Tweets flooded the timelines, filled with messages like:

“Yunho deserves love just like anyone else! #WeLoveYouYunho” “YN is amazing, and they make each other happy. Why can’t we just support them? #WeSupportYNandYunho” “Love isn’t a crime. Let them be happy. #ATINYSUPPORTSYNANDYUNHO”

The hashtag #YNandYunho began trending worldwide, and posts defending the couple filled every social platform. ATINY showed their devotion not only to Yunho but also to YN, who was just as much a target of the hate. Elysium’s fandom, although smaller, also rallied behind their idol, and soon, the combined power of both fanbases made the negative voices seem like a distant echo.

Even YN, who had always been known for her more private nature, made a statement on her social media:

“To all the people spreading hate, I just want to say that I’m happy. Yunho is someone I care about deeply, and we’re both doing our best to navigate this world as we see fit. I hope you can respect our privacy and our decisions. Thank you to everyone who has supported us with kindness. We see you, and we appreciate you.”

Yunho, too, shared his thoughts:

“Thank you to ATINY for always having my back. I know this might be a lot for some people to understand, but YN and I are happy, and we’re just two people who care about each other. We hope you can support us as we continue to work hard for you. Love is love.”

The company quickly addressed the situation as well, confirming the dating rumors. They emphasized that both Yunho and YN were adults who were fully aware of the impact of their relationship and the responsibility that came with their public lives. The statement also reassured fans that their careers and work ethics would remain unaffected, and they would continue to put their best foot forward in everything they did.

Despite the hate, the overwhelming support from fans made it clear that they were not alone. The strength of ATINY and Elysium’s support made Yunho and YN’s bond feel more solid than ever. And while the situation was far from perfect, it showed that love—true love—could thrive even in the world of K-pop, where idols are often seen as untouchable. Together, they navigated the challenges that came their way, knowing that the people who mattered most—each other and their loyal fans—had their backs no matter what.

YN, as always, found herself overthinking everything. The moment the rumors broke, she spiraled into a sea of doubts. The backlash wasn’t easy to ignore—she could see the comments, the subtle whispers, and the hate that was beginning to flood social media. Despite the overwhelming support, the negativity seemed to weigh heavily on her heart.

She constantly found herself checking her phone, replaying every moment, every interaction with Yunho, wondering if it was all worth it. Was she just dragging him into the chaos of her own life? Could she really handle being in the spotlight like this? Was it fair to Yunho?

Her mind raced as the pressure mounted. What if things didn’t work out? What if the hate only grew stronger? And what if it affected his career, his image, his future?

“YN?” Yunho’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. He’d noticed how distant she’d been recently.

She looked up at him, her eyes tired and full of uncertainty. “Yunho… I just… I don’t know how to handle all this. It feels too overwhelming. What if—”

Before she could finish, Yunho pulled her into his arms, his warmth surrounding her like a protective shield. “Hey, listen to me. You don’t have to handle it alone. I’m here. We’re in this together. And if anyone hurts you, I swear I’ll take care of it.”

YN shook her head, pulling back slightly. “I don’t want you to do anything drastic, Yunho. You can’t just fix everything with threats. We can’t handle it that way.”

He sighed, a little frustrated but understanding. “But if it were up to me, I’d sue anyone who dares to disrespect you. They’ll learn that no one gets to hurt the people I care about.”

YN laughed, despite herself, shaking her head. “Yunho, please. You can’t go around suing people because they say something rude. That’s not how it works.”

But Yunho wasn’t ready to back down. He reached for her hand, his gaze firm. “I’ll do a live. I’ll threaten them, make it clear that anyone who hurts you will face consequences. I’ll make them understand, YN.”

YN looked at him, her heart swelling at the sight of how much he cared for her. But as much as she appreciated his protective instinct, she knew it wasn’t the solution. “You don’t have to fight my battles for me,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. “I can’t let you do that. Please don’t. I don’t want anyone to think you’re only with me because you’re trying to fix things.”

He looked at her with unwavering determination, but she could see the understanding in his eyes. “I just want to protect you, YN. I care about you so much.”

“I know,” she whispered, her heart aching. “I care about you, too. But we have to be strong together. Not because of what they say, but because of how we feel.”

Yunho’s expression softened, his arms wrapping around her again. “I love you, YN. No matter what, I’ll love you. And I’ll stand by you through all of it—good or bad.”

YN closed her eyes, leaning into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his love and support. She knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy. There would be days when the world seemed too harsh, when the hate would feel unbearable. But with Yunho by her side, she knew she wasn’t facing it alone. He was her strength, and she was his.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Thank you for loving me.”

“I’ll always love you,” Yunho said, his voice full of quiet confidence. “No matter what.”

And despite the uncertainty that still lingered, YN felt a flicker of peace. With Yunho, they could handle whatever came their way. Together.

The days that followed were still filled with challenges, but something about their bond made everything seem a little lighter. Yunho and YN grew closer, their moments together filled with laughter and quiet comfort. The hate that once surrounded them felt distant, as the love and support from their fans only seemed to grow stronger.

On the rare days when they had time off, they would meet up in small, cozy cafes or take walks in the park, just enjoying each other's company without the pressure of the world around them. Yunho would always find a way to make her smile, whether it was with his cheesy jokes or by simply holding her hand, offering her the kind of warmth that made her forget about everything else.

One evening, they sat together on a bench in a secluded park, the sunset painting the sky with soft pinks and oranges. Yunho rested his head on her shoulder, his hand gently intertwined with hers.

“You know,” he said softly, his voice filled with contentment, “I’m glad I didn’t back down when I first decided to love you. All of this… it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

YN smiled, her heart swelling with emotion. “I’m glad you didn’t either. You’ve made everything feel a little less overwhelming, Yunho.”

He looked up at her, his eyes full of affection. “And you’ve made me believe that love is worth fighting for. That it’s worth all the risks. I’ll always be here for you, YN. Always.”

YN leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “I love you, Yunho.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered, his voice full of warmth and sincerity.

They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the peaceful silence, content in each other’s presence. No drama, no expectations—just the two of them, surrounded by the quiet beauty of the world and the unwavering certainty of their love. It was a love that had stood the test of everything that had been thrown their way. And, as they held each other close, they knew they were ready to face whatever came next—together, as they always had been.

And for once, everything felt right.

[moni-logues]

i need to stop spouting nonsense opinions about genres and tropes i don't like because

an insane(ly loyal) violent man who is soft for me is the unhinged dream

and i loooooooooove pain so much so even though this did have a happy ending (yay woohoo etc whatever) my favourite parts were the bad parts. i just cannot say enough how much i love the fucking stupid stone-cold stoicism in the face of overwhelming emotional pain thing. like, inject THAT shit into my veins. I LOVE HIM. I LOOOOOOOVE HIM. I want him.

i also really loved the part where she stabbed yijun a lot. like idk man maybe it's my period or maybe im still stressed but I fucking FELT that

i have skim-read a few responses to this (because i don't want spoilers and i don't like reading other people's opinions first), people being like, i can't stop thinking about this and unfortunately (for my sanity) i am going to be one of those people now

and if i may provide a backhanded compliment that doesn't show me in my best light, i honestly get annoyed when you post something because I'm like UGH *sigh* ANOTHER fucking incredible fic with SO much creativity and invention and world-building that just fucking sucks me in and feels SO rich even in a short amount of words (relative to like, a full novel) and now I have to read it 🙄🙄 like GOD get off my fucking NECK hali just SUCK for once ok instead of writing these men (MEN I DONT EVEN CARE ABOUT OK!!!!!!!!) that put me in a chokehold and dont let go. i don't want to read your shit because once i've finished reading it, i will have finished reading it and then what am i supposed to do!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

anyway im normal bye

Baby (k.sy)

Pairing: Soongyoung x f. reader

Summary: Soonyoung had been in your life for as long as you can remember. You haven’t spoken since your wedding to someone who isn’t him, but when you uncover your husband’s plans to turn against your family, you don’t know who else to call.  

Word Count: 29,988

Genre: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Childhood Friends/Exes to Lovers

Type: Smut, Heavy Angst

Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

Warnings: Full warnings available under the cut.

A/N: This fic was posted on my original blog which has been deleted. I am now reposting it. I hope it does half as well as it did when I originally posted this story - thank you to everyone who left amazing feedback the first time. It genuinely made me so happy and I am so sorry that it got sent to the moon where I can no longer read it.

A/N 2:  Thank you @daechwitatamic and @eoieopda for beta-reading this fic.

Main Masterlist | The Syndicates Collection | Ask | Playlist | Read Next

Warnings: Graphic violence generally associated with mafia behavior, mentions of murder and blood, morally grey characters, themes of codependency (a little bit), a bit of a toxic relationship with Soonyoung and reader at times (they like to make each other jealous), bar fights, women being very petty, recreational drinking and drug use, heavy angst, depictions of death (funerals for parents), fight scene that ends in death in a domestic situation, difficult relationships with parents, reader and her husband have a terrible relationship and hate each other, depictions of blood and stabbing in one scene (it is the most graphic scene in the whole fic but kept short), reader agonizes over decisions she's made and struggles mentally with a lot of it, depiction of a full blown anxiety attack, sexually explicit content including fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, crying during sex, a lot of making out and biting, multiple orgasms... sorry this is so long, I want to over-warn for everything happening here so if I have missed something you think needs to be warned, please tell me!

Kwon Soonyoung is crying the first time you meet him. It’s a loud, warbling cry that you’re not used to, and you flinch at the pitch as you hide behind your mother. Soonyoung and his mother are standing in the grand foyer of your home, his fists twisted in her tweed skirt as he begs her not to leave him. 

His mother sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. You’ve seen her around before on the arm of her husband at your family dinner parties and for afternoon tea with your mom. This is the first time you’ve seen Soonyoung, though, and you’re unimpressed as his shrieking only gets louder when she crouches down to look him in the eye fondly, brushing the tears from his face. 

You don’t know a lot of other kids, but the noisiness of him startles you. Unsettles you. Sensing your unease, your mother reaches to pull you from behind her, giving you a single look that you know means please behave. You straighten immediately, turning to watch the sniffling boy as he calms down. 

Soonyoung is round-cheeked, his dark eyes swollen and face reddened from working himself up. His mother murmurs something to him and he nods, wiping the snot from his face with the back of his hand.

Seungcheol must notice the crying has stopped. He appears from the kitchen, giving Soonyoung an unimpressed once over as he strides toward you and your mother. She clucks her tongue at the cheek of her eleven year old, giving him a hard look. 

“Seungcheol, don’t be rude,” she admonishes. “Greet our guests properly.” 

Your older brother glances at you and you lift a shoulder. He’s going to lead the family one day, it’s important for him to show manners. You know this even at a young age - have always known what his place is among your family, what your place is. 

Cheol is in line to become the Tower of the Choi Syndicate, an empire that you cannot fathom at your age but you know is important. You are its insurance, a second heir if something happens to the first and a bargaining chip for future partnerships. A potential logician, if you’re good enough. 

Turning to Soonyoung and his mother, Seungcheol bows politely. “It’s nice to meet you, Soonyoung. Are you here to play video games?” 

Soonyoung perks up at that, looking at his mom, eyes going round. She grins and nods her head, pulling her hands from where they rest on his shoulders. “He is,” she agrees. “We thought it might be good for you to become friends.” Her gaze drifts to you. “All three of you.” 

That makes you frown. You don’t really like playing video games. Seungcheol never lets you win and forces you to play for hours in exchange for him letting you borrow his AetherLink at night to scroll the internet. You’re not allowed to have one yet, even though you’re only four years younger and all of your other friends have them to enter virtual chat rooms and play online games.  

“Do I have to?” you ask your mom, looking up at her. 

“Yes,” she says firmly, gently nudging you by the shoulder toward where your brother is not so patiently waiting to escort you to the gaming room. “Go.” 

“Why don’t you want to play?” Soonyoung asks, pouting a little.

“I’m not any good.”

“That’s okay. I’ll let you beat me.” 

Seungcheol moans. “Ugh, don’t let her win. Come on. I got the new Grid Fighters game on the Reality Rift console!” 

“No way!” 

Seungcheol grins and shoots off toward the gaming room, Soonyoung hot on his heels. You hesitate for a moment, staring after them with indignation. Soonyoung stops at the doorway, turning to you. His face is still ruddy from crying, but he’s suddenly smiling, cheeks round and smooth.

“Come on,” he whispers. “I’ll let you win, I promise.” 

“Holy fuck, can you let me win for once?” Soonyoung groans, rolling over on the mat. He’s dripping in sweat, wiping it away from his brow as he stands with effort. 

Grinning, you skip away from him, reaching for your water bottle. Music pounds through the speakers of the training room. Overhead, the blue neon casts an eerie glow over the two of you. Seungcheol ignores you both in favor of using the weight machines in the far corner of the room. 

On the far wall, your health and fitness data is displayed, each one of your bodies outlined and flashing as new data comes in. Right now, you’re in the red zone, heart pounding hard from your bout with Soonyoung, who is in the orange zone. 

Which confirms your suspicion that he’s not trying as hard as he could be. 

“Maybe if you weren’t afraid to actually hit me,” you offer. The water helps cool you down as you eye Soonyoung. Even at fourteen, he’s started to fill out his form more, arms corded as he hones himself into a weapon. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Seungcheol scoffs from across the room. Maybe he wasn’t totally ignoring the two of you. He drops his cool-older-kid act to turn and grumble, “He’d put you on your ass, Baby. Lucky for you, he always lets you win.” 

The nickname makes you bristle. You hate when people point out that you’re the baby of the family, like you’re something less than or incapable of keeping pace. You especially hate it when Seungcheol uses it to put you in your place, reminding you that one day your shithead older brother is going to be leading the family business. 

The family business is the reason you spar with them at all. Occasionally Vernon joins, though those days are as unpredictable as his appearances. Usually when he’s over at your house, it’s never a good thing. His arrivals are always bracketed with the sound of his father’s manic yelling and his mother’s frantic begging, followed closely by slammed doors and your father’s calming voice. 

Today it’s just the three of you, though. Soonyoung comes over and sits on the mat by your feet, holding a hand up to you. You pass him your water bottle, rolling your eyes at him even though it doesn’t really bother you. 

Nothing Soonyoung does really bothers you. Since that first day he showed up at your house sobbing because his mother was leaving him for the day, he’s grown on you. More than grown on you, in fact. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t noticed your lingering gazes and the way he flusters you when he gets too close, and you hope to keep it that way. 

“I don’t want to hit you,” Soonyoung offers gently, voice low over the metal clang of Seuncheol’s weights. “And it’s not ‘cause I don’t think you can’t take it,” he adds with a grin, bumping his shoulder against your leg. “I just don’t like the idea of you getting hurt.” 

“Everyone treats me like a baby.” 

“You are. But it’s not a bad thing. For example, you say jump and everyone says how high. Even my dad.” 

That makes you smirk a little. You look at the floor, letting his words wash over you. They do ring true - there’s no one in the Syndicate who would deny you anything, and though you’re utterly terrified of Soonyoung’s dad, he would do anything for you. In a way, it was the Kwon family’s divine purpose to be by the side of the Chois. 

“What about you?” you ask. 

“What about me?” 

“Jump.”

Soonyoung grins and sets the water bottle down, getting up to his feet at your command. “How high, Baby?” 

Soonyoung doesn’t shed a tear on the day of his parents’ funeral. He’s a far cry from the little boy who showed up at your house to play video games and become friends. 

Instead, he sits in silence, eyes raging - always raging, now. You don’t think the fury stops, his gaze burning the entire ceremony. His grip on your hand is like iron, and after a while, your arm tingles with pins and needles. You say nothing, willing to endure. Eventually, your arm goes numb entirely, and he keeps holding your hand. 

Afterward, Soonyoung says nothing. You do the talking for him, accepting the hand shakes and bows on his behalf when he doesn’t reach out to accept them, thanking those who have come to offer him condolences and respect when he doesn’t speak.

His grip on you is steadfast. Iron and fire. Even when your father drops his gaze down with a look of disapproval, Soonyoung doesn’t let go and you don’t ask him to. If there’s any day that you can break decorum and tradition, it’s certainly now in the wake of Soonyoung’s loss. 

They don’t need to know you’d let him hold you anyway.  

The boy who existed before the murder of his parents is dead. You knew it before the funeral. But when the last guest finally leaves the Choi Estate and Soonyoung doesn’t shed a tear, you realize it isn’t just his parents that you’ve buried. 

The sweet, gentle boy who had cried those tears for fear of his mother leaving him has died too. And you don’t think you’ll ever see him again. 

-

“You want me to do what?” Soonyoung asks, pulling you into his room and looking out the cracked door to make sure no one else is around. “Where is your brother?” 

“I have no idea.” 

“You can’t just- ” Soonyoung fumbles for words as he shuts the door and takes a few steps past you into his room proper. It’s dark, safe for the glow of his AetherLink glowing with a paused video game. “Did he see you follow me up here?” 

“Why are you being weird? I’m in here all the time. You live here.” 

“I’m being weird? You just asked me to kiss you. Neither your brother nor your dad want you in my room in the middle of the night.” 

You frown. “Since when? Look, I’m sixteen and I’ve never been kissed, and Lin just lost her virginity to Jeonghan. What happened to when I say jump you say how high?”

“Oh don’t start with me. Who cares if Lin is giving it up to Jeonghan. She blew Wonwoo like two weeks ago. It’s not a competition.” 

You cross your arms over your chest, caving in on yourself a little. Maybe it was a stupid idea to ask Soonyoung after all. But you can’t get over the way all of the other girls were clinging to Lin’s every word as she spilled the details of sleeping with Jeonghan. Everyone else in your friends group had at least made out with boys - you had nothing. 

Being the daughter of the leader of the Choi Syndicate has its benefits. Being accessible to do things like kissing boys and going out with your friends to new cool clubs like Echo Space and Hyper Vibe were not one of them. Getting any of the boys your age to even look you in the eye was impossible, the fear of catching the wrath of Seungcheol and your father looming over them like the Sword of Damocles. 

Soonyoung is Soonyoung, though. Your father has brought him into the fold like one of his own, keeping his oath to Soonyoung’s parents to always watch over him and protect him. You’re old enough now to understand that the bonds between higher members of the Syndicate are bonds of faith and blood, of family and something more. 

If anyone shouldn’t be afraid to kiss you, it’s Soonyoung. He lives down the hall from you, and he’s best friends with your brother. It wouldn’t be that weird. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you lay awake in your bed at night while you stared at the ceiling, fingers trailing your lips. 

Now, you’re not so sure. The way Soonyoung recoils makes you realize you hadn’t thought of the single most important thing before marching in here and asking him to be your first kiss: maybe Soonyoung didn’t want to kiss you. 

It hadn’t even crossed your mind - one of the many downsides to getting mostly everything you wanted. You’re so infrequently told no that in the light of rejection, you don’t know what to do, recoiling like you’ve been mortally wounded. 

Nodding your head, you turn away from Soonyoung, throat tightening as the new wave of emotions threatens to spill over. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” 

“Baby,” he sighs. You ignore him, bolting for the door. Soonyoung is fast, though. He snatches your arm and drags you back toward him, though you turn your face away from him to hide the evidence of oncoming tears. “Don’t be like that.” 

“I’m not being like anything. It was a stupid favor to ask.” 

“Would you look at me?”

“No.”

He sighs heavily. “Why are you being so difficult?”

Trying to wrench your arm from his hold is useless. He’s not hurting you, but the grip on your bicep is firm. “Well if I’m so difficult then let me go.”

“Baby.” The frustration in his voice is evident. You ignore the way your nickname rolls off his tongue, the way he’s the only person you don’t absolutely hate the name from. 

“Just let me go!” 

“No. Why do you want me to kiss you?”

The question is like nails against chalkboard now, your embarrassment peaking. “Forget I even asked, just let me go!” 

“Fuck - are you crying?”

“No.”

“Baby, look at me.”

Too afraid that the wavering in your voice will give you away, you shake your head, refusing to turn and face him. With a growl, he gives a sharp tug on your arm, spinning you toward him. You let out a noise of protest, ready to lash out at him again when you feel his mouth on yours. 

Startled, you don’t do anything at first. Soonyoung’s grip is still on your bicep, firm and steadfast. Your eyes blink for a second before they flutter closed, unsure exactly what to do beyond lean into him a little, pressing your lips firmer to his. 

It’s somehow exactly what you expected and totally unexpected at the same time. Soonyoung’s mouth is softer than you were ready for, slotted gently against yours. He’s warm and smells like vanilla and sandalwood, a scent you’ve grown familiar with. Your thoughts peter out, enjoying the way he holds you to him, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. 

When Soonyoung pulls away, you look up at him through half-lidded eyes, your breath shaky. He doesn’t pull back very far, looking down at you with a dark gaze. This close, you can see the real Soonyoung. His expression is soft, eyes sparkling in the blue light of his room. He looks so young suddenly, all of the rage and wrath that lurks under the surface of the calm mask he wears gone for just a moment. 

“You have pretty eyes,” you whisper. His mouth twitches at the corner, an almost smile. “I’ve always thought you had beautiful eyes.” 

He opens and closes his mouth again, trying to find words. You wait him out, heart thudding. He’s still holding you close to him, fingers digging desperately into your arm. 

Footsteps thundering up the stairs wake him from his daze, Seungcheol calling your name. Soonyoung drops his hand and steps away from you, a cool mask of calm sliding into place, the vulnerability gone in an instant. “There’s your kiss,” he murmurs. “Is there anything else you need from me or do I need to jump too?” 

Synth pulses through you, vibrating your very bones as you lounge on the velvet couch in a private section of the club. The lights above you are hazy, but you can make out the shapes of holographic dancers, their graphics so high definition that you can see the sweat beading down their bare backs. 

From the VIP section, you have the perfect view of the DJ platform. Screens flash behind it, holographic wonders of creatures and places and visuals flashing brightly. Writhing bodies twist on the dancefloor around the DJ like a pit of snakes. Among them, you know your father’s Taps slither among the crowd, pushing drugs and psychedelics into the hands of those who can afford it. 

A trained eye can spot a Tap well enough. Though they blend in with the nylon and leather of the partiers, they tend to be sharp eyed and lucid, chewing on stim pops or some other substance to keep them awake and alert. 

It’s not the drug dealers in the crowd who keep drawing your attention, though. You shouldn’t be able to spot Soonyoung in the mass of bodies so easily, but you do. His hair is bleached, reflecting the flashing lights around him as he presses in close to the girl attached to him, hips swaying.

Your mouth sours. Leaning forward you snatch one of the bottles from the ice bucket and pour a shot into a crystal glass. Angel raises her brows as you slide the glass over to her and pour another for yourself. She’s not much of a drinker, but she takes the glass wordlessly, sensing your need to have a partner in crime.

Knocking it back, you hiss as the liquor burns all the way back. Even the high grade alcohol is like fire, washing away your irritation for a dizzy moment, veins buzzing. Leaning back, your eyes scan the crowd and settle on Soonyoung again. This time, he’s leading his partner through the crowd and toward the stairs. The stairs that lead to you. 

Seungcheol and Wonwoo crashing onto the seat next to you breaks your concentration. Seungcheol’s pupils are wide as saucers, eyes trailing upward to dance at the visual of a woman with pink skin sliding out of her top. 

Next to him, Wonwoo pulls a small bag with glittering dust from his pocket, shaking it to settle all of the contents at the bottom before unsealing the top. The way the powder glows against the lights tells you its high quality frostbyte, a powerful stimulant named for the biting feeling when inhaled. 

Instead of yelling over the music, you gesture toward the bag, catching Wonwoo’s attention. He gives you a surprised look followed by a wolfish grin. Wonwoo loves when you partake in partying harder, a side everyone so rarely sees from you. 

Sliding a knife from his pocket, you watch with rapt attention as Wonwoo dips it into the baggie, scooping delicately. You’d rather he cut lines on the table, but you’ll take what you can get, watching as he expertly fishes out a decent sized amount for you to take. 

You’re mutely aware that a group of bodies enters your section. Vernon throws himself down next to Angel, jostling you both as you lean over Seungcheol’s half-asleep form toward where Wonwoo extends the knife toward you carefully. You ignore the weight of Soonyoung’s eyes on you as he, Mingyu and a group of girls sit down and reach to fill their glasses with liquor. 

Wonwoo’s hands are steady as he holds the tip of his blade out to you, a hand held underneath to catch any powder that slips off the blade. Careful not to lose your balance and stab yourself, you level your face with the knife, inhaling sharply. 

Immediately the drug bites the back of your throat, eyes watering as you tilt your head upwards and blink for a second, letting it settle. Sniffing harshly a few times, you clear your nasal passage and blow out a breath, feeling the softest beginning of a tingle as you look at Wonwoo, who is still holding his hands out to you. 

“Thanks,” you nod. He grins and pulls back, rubbing the excess powder along his gums as you fall heavily against the back of the booth. 

Turning to look at your brother, you elbow him. “Are you alive?”

“Mhmm,” he grunts, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. Lights dance across his face, all pinks and blues and purples as he breathes in heavily. “I am fucked right now. Can you get me a stim pop from Hoshi? If I do anymore frostbyte I’m gonna get a nosebleed. Again.” 

Actually, asking Soonyoung for anything is the last thing you want to do. However, your brother does look like he needs to wake up, the mess of drugs and alcohol in his system working overtime to put him on his ass. Stim pops are a quick fix, a careful mix of sweet candy and methylphenidate to wake up the nervous system. Soongyoung always has them on his person, especially for when he works late night shifts. 

Turning in the booth, you’re smacked with a wave of color. For a moment, you drink it in, tilting your head upward as the figures dancing above explode into a world of lavender butterflies. They’re utterly captivating, your eyes watching them twist and dance in the air as they flutter. 

A laugh bubbles from your lips, entirely childlike. Grinning, you watch them for a few moments more before they disintegrate into stars, entire solar systems hovering and floating through the space above your head.

Seungcheol elbowing you breaks you from your concentration. Right. Stim pop. From Soonyoung. Glancing at the man in question makes your stomach plummet. Soonyoung’s head is resting against the back of the booth, the girl next to him draped over him with her mouth pressed hot to his throat, her teeth overly white in the blacklight of the club. 

A surge of rage shivers through you, your nails scratching across the green velvet, leaving marks in their wake. Leaning forward, you reach out a hand and smack Vernon’s knee to get his attention. He turns his lazy gaze on you, brows raised. When you point at Soonyoung, he nods and yells over his shoulder to get your target’s attention.

Soonyoung’s eyes flutter open and flick to where you’re sitting. He drinks in your expression before muttering something to the woman mouthing at his neck and peels her off, standing up and shuffling over to you. Angel makes room for him, all but sliding into Vernon’s lap as Soonyoung crashes down on the couch next to you. 

“Hi, Baby. What’s up?” 

“Cheol needs a stim pop,” you answer curtly, leaning away from him. He smells like vanilla and sandalwood laced with alcohol. Soonyoung is so close you can feel his body heat, his breath fanning across your bare shoulder as he moves to look at Seungcheol half asleep on your other side. “Then you can go back to your little public sex session.” 

Soonyoung makes an angry cat noise, narrowing his eyes at you as he smirks. He leans toward you further to reach into his pocket, shoulder pressed against you. His scent fills your nose, heady and familiar. You’re dizzy with it, the touch of his warmth against your skin making you flush.

Suddenly, his nearness is overwhelming. Every hair on the back of your neck stands on end, your skin hypersensitive to the way he leans against you. The glow of the lights is sharper than you remember, and you swear you feel the blood rushing through your body.

A response that could be either because of the drugs you inhaled a moment ago or because Soonyoung is pressed against you and you have the sudden urge to lean into him, to feel his warmth, to press your lips against his and feel their softness. 

In an attempt to save yourself from the trap, you shove back at him. He huffs, glaring at you as he fishes a stim pop out of his pocket and hands it over to you. You’re careful to avoid his touch when you snatch it from his nimble fingers, turning your back on him in the booth to look at Seungcheol.

“Why are you being a brat?” His voice is loud over the music, shouted into your ear as he tilts back into your space again. You can feel the warmth of him on your back. 

“Go away.”

“Baby, please don’t start with me.”

“I’m not starting fuck with you.” 

Seungcheol cracks an eye open to observe your argument with a look of interest. Seungcheol’s pupils are dilated like moons, totally empty of any coherent thought. You peel the wrapper off the stim pop, careful to hold it by the cardboard stick as you pop it into your brother’s mouth. 

For a few moments, your brother lolls the candy around his mouth, sucking greedily. Then, he blinks his eyes open, pupils narrowing as he drinks in the lights and the clubs. He sighs in relief, patting your thigh gratefully as the stimulant chases away whatever else is washing him out.

When you turn around, Soonyoung is still lingering, his dark eyes fierce and focused only on you. He looks good tonight. He looks good every night. He has become your picture perfect torture since that night you asked him to be your first kiss, kickstarting something you were incapable of foreseeing. 

The bleached hair is new and you hate how much you like it. The silvery strands look just as soft as his natural black, and it’s a nice contrast to his dark eyes and sharp cheekbones. Those stormy eyes are staring at you now, something playful that you don’t like glittering under the surface. 

He pouts at you. “Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you. Go away!”

“You definitely are. What did I do, hmm? Tell me.” 

“Please fuck off.” 

He rolls his eyes, peeling himself off the couch and muttering something under his breath. You’re sure he has nothing nice to say, so you sink further into the couch, crossing your hands over your chest as you sulk. 

Sticky air clings to your skin. You can feel your heart racing in your chest, the music vibrating your ribcage. Your anger is like a monster given life, fueled by the frostbyte and the feverish anger taking root in your stomach as Soonyoung settles back in his spot, pressing his mouth sloppily to the woman next to him. 

And that’s the problem, really. It’s not you that is pressing your mouth to his jaw while he leans against the back of the seat. It isn’t you running manicured nails down the front of his shirts, pulling at buttons despite the audience. 

It isn’t you and it should be. You want it to be.

It’s been two years since Soonyoung kissed you for the first time in his room. You’ve had more experience with other people since then, but it dulls in comparison to his simple kiss. You hate it. What you hate even more is how childish it makes you feel, embarrassment heating your cheeks and throat when he catches your gaze across the booth and you divert your attention. 

For the second time, Soonyoung peels the girl off of him, making like he’s going to get up and come sit next to you again. This time, his companion keeps him rooted to the spot, her nails digging into his forearm as she hisses something at him. He groans, head tilted back like he’s once again the most inconvenienced man in the room. 

Wanting nothing more than to blot him out, you call Wonwoo’s name again, leaning forward heavily for more frostbyte. Soonyoung whistles and snaps his finger in your direction as though to tell you no. You bristle, your anger turning to an inferno, burning up inside of you. 

Vernon and Angel both cringe, leaning out of your line of fire as you swivel to angle yourself toward Soonyoung, hands shaking. “Don’t fucking whistle and snap at me! I’m not a dog.”

“Baby, you don’t need more. Your pupils are the size of Mingyu’s big ass head.”

Mingyu, though right next to Soonyoung, doesn’t hear the insult, his tongue being sucked down the throat of the girl sitting in his lap, hips grinding on him. Another girl is pressed to his side, teeth nipping at his jaw. At least someone is having fun, you think, the three of them totally aware of the crackling tension in their booth. 

The girl attached to Soonyoung’s neck a moment ago bristles when she hears your nickname. “Baby?” she asks, face scrunching. “Are you serious?”

“Chill out, Victra. It’s her nickname.”

“Yeah,” you agree, shooting her a venomous look, despite her doing nothing to earn your ire. “Chill, Victra.”

Once again, you turn your back on Soonyoung, standing and scooting Seungcheol over to swap places with him. He does so with a keen eye, watching the scene unfold as he sucks his lollipop happily, content to watch the drama. 

Wonwoo dips his knife into the bag as you settle in next to him, bouncing with excitement. “I love when you do drugs, you’re so much fun.” 

“I don’t feel very fun right now.”

“Drugs will fix it!” 

“Wonwoo, don’t you dare give her that,” Soonyoung warns. He pries Victra’s hands off of him, leaning forward as though to reach across the table. 

“Ignore him,” you insist. 

Wonwoo hesitates, stuck between a rock and a hard place. The last thing he wants to do is tell you no. No one but your father and older brother get to tell you no. Wonwoo knows this better than most people. But he also doesn’t want to cross Soonyoung, a venture nearly as dangerous as pissing off Seungcheol. 

Soonyoung hisses at the girl next to him,  “Stop clawing at me! Baby, please stop being stubborn for one moment. Just one. ”

“Why the fuck did you even bring me up here?” Victra interrupts, ignoring Soonyoung’s plea. “You’ve done nothing but fawn over her since we got here. This isn’t fun.” 

Soonyoung ignores her. “If you’re mad at me, be mad at me. Stop blowing shit up your nose to prove a point and be a bitch, though.”

“I’m not proving fuck, Soonyoung. And Victra’s right, go fuck her in the bathroom or something and stop telling me what to do.”

“So it is about her?” 

“I have a name!” The her in question snaps. You turn around, temper flaring as you level your glare at her. She turns her nose up at you as she says, “It’s obvious you’re bothered he brought me here. Your jealousy is insufferable.” 

“Ding, ding ding,” Seungcheol imitates a bell. You turn around to look at Victra. “Round one! Fight!”

It takes a second for Victra’s words to land. It’s like each one hits you a second apart, packing their own punch as you register them. The pulsing music around you fades to a dull roar as you stare at her, seeing the way her lips twitch upward as she realizes she’s right. You are jealous that Soonyoung brought her up here. 

Victra’s grin is all it takes for you to spill over. Before you can register what you’re doing, you’re out of your seat and leaping over the table at her, knocking over glasses and bottles. Wonwoo cheers in delight behind you as your brother catches you by the waist, trying to keep you on your side of the booth as you tear at his hands to get across the booth. 

Seeing the attack of opportunity while you’re subdued, Victra shoots to her feet. Angel is fast as an adder, one moment sitting in Vernon’s lap and the next striking Victra down into the booth, knee planted in her stomach. Vernon does nothing to stop his girlfriend, opting instead to reach for a water bottle, unscrewing it to take a sip as his girlfriend pins Victra down to the seat with little effort. 

Noticing for the first time that their friend is in distress, the two women with Mingyu lift their heads. As soon as one starts to slide from his lap to reach for Angel, you kick a foot out, striking the bucket of alcohol and ice. The bucket goes flying at her, hitting her hard in the face. She screams, crumbling in Mingyu’s lap, cradling her face. 

Mingyu and Soonyoung are on their feet in seconds, soaked from the waist down and trying to gain control of the situation as it spirals. Mingyu becomes a blockade between Victra’s two friends, trying to keep them on their side of the booth. Soonyoung is prying a bottle from a hand before it can make its way toward you, yelling something indecipherable. 

Angel is still pressing her knee deep into Victra’s gut. Victra’s attention has diverted from you entirely as she screams like a wounded animal, pushing and scratching at Angel’s knee to try and get her off. You’re sure it hurts, but Angel doesn’t budge, sinking her weight into it. 

Leaning down, you grab something to lob at them - someone’s shoe - but Seungcheol manages to haul you off your feet and spin you, planting you into the booth behind him. You growl, shoving at his legs to move him out of the way, trying to re-engage. 

“Fucking hell,” he grunts. “Are you fucking juicing? Why are you so strong?”

“It’s the drugs,” Wonwoo offers unhelpfully. “Really top of the line drugs.”

“Shut up, Wonwoo!” Both you and Seungcheol bark at the same time. 

Wonwoo holds up his hands, leaning back into the seat as he watches the mess unfold with a delighted grin. You strike out with your foot, slamming against the booth’s table, shoving it in Soonyoung’s direction. You hear glass shatter as more things fall off the table, clattering to the ground. There are shrieks and curses that you can’t see with Seungcheol blocking the way. 

“He’s a fucking asshole!” You seethe to your brother, panting with rage. 

“He is, and you did exactly what he wanted you to do.” You try to kick the table again but he stops you, grabbing your knee. You feel like you can’t get enough air, sweat slicking your skin and the velvet of the couch too sharp against your flesh. “Soonyoung loves a fight when he’s fucked up. You know that.” 

“Well fuck him!”

He pulls the stick from his mouth, candied stim gone. He tosses it onto the floor and looks over his shoulder where Mingyu and Soonyoung are corralling the three women out of the booth. “God, Angel  broke that girl's rib I think. Hahahha!” 

“I want to break her fucking face!” 

“I think you broke her friend's face. She is fucked up. That bucket hit her right in the eye. What a shot.” 

“If you’re so entertained, why’d you get in my way?”

“There’s a lot of eyes here.” You glance around, noticing other booths looking at you, people ducking toward one another to whisper. “You have an image to maintain.” 

Adjusting your shirt, you settle back into the booth. “Alright. Alright I’m good.”

When Seungcheol moves out of the way to take a seat, Soonyoung replaces him. You glare up at him, feeling your anger curl up in you again. His lips twitch, a hint of a smirk as he sits down next to you, sighing heavily and tilting his head to look up at the flashing lights.

The girls are nowhere to be found. Angel is sitting back down next to Vernon who hasn’t moved, and there are servers picking up the mess you made. Mingyu is notably absent, though you can guess where he’s gone for the night. He’s good at making scorned lovers feel better about their bad luck. 

“Jealousy is crazy on you,” Soonyoung notes, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he glances at you sidelong. “I kind of like it.” 

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” you warn. He laughs, the fight totally leaving him. “I’m serious. Don’t ever do that to me again, Soonyoung. Not to me.” 

“Alright, alright. When you say jump, right?” 

Soonyoung’s fingers brush against yours. Just the rough feeling of his calluses against the tips of your fingers has you shivering, anger replaced with want. He doesn’t take your hand, doesn’t move to do anything else but lean back in silence with your fingers touching. 

Resigned, you say nothing else to him. You’d got what you wanted - sort of - even if you know you made an ass out of yourself doing it. It isn’t the first time he’s made you jealous, but it is the first time it’s boiled over so violently. 

You remind yourself not to do frostbyte when you’re mad anymore.

You turn your attention to where Angel is snorting frostbyte up her nose off of her boyfriend’s phone, accidentally turning on the hologram as she does, her face suddenly caged by green screen data. You call her name gently. She looks up at you, pupils blown, reflecting the lights dancing above like dark glass. “Thanks,” you offer. 

Her grin is too wide, teeth too white. She reminds you of a demon more than she does an angel. “Anytime.” 

When you settle back in, you glance at Soonyoung once. He looks down at you, smirking a single time before he leans into you and rests his head on your shoulder. You feel him melt into you, sighing as his eyes close and he nuzzles a little closer. You put your hand on his thigh, squeezing once before you leave it there, feeling the heat of his skin through his pants.

It isn’t until he’s almost asleep, pressed as close as possible to you that you realize maybe he got what he wanted too. 

Rain washes over the black city, the mist turning the thousands of digital and holographic advertisements into a watercolor smear of neon. It smells wet and like rot, the drains overworked and belching water and trash back out into the street as you walk, feet splashing. 

You quickly duck out of the way of a group of rowdy men spilling from a bar. You can smell the drink on them, their feet sloshing in the rising water of the street as they dredge toward the next bar. They whistle at the pretty girls dressed in light up raincoats and flickering green contacts, stumbling toward a brothel instead of the bar. 

Gripping your umbrella tighter, you quicken your steps. Grease smoke drifts toward you from various hawker carts, the sizzle of meat making your stomach growl. You ignore them, knowing you have dinner with your family later as you take a corner and plunge into the darkness of an underground stairwell. 

The LEDs on your umbrella cast a pink light as you descend the stairs, careful not to slip on the caked grime. Two guards stand outside metal double doors, music pulsing faintly behind it. They look you up and down, ready to deny entry until you state your name at the bottom of the steps. 

“ID?” the one on the right asks, giving you a critical eye. 

Of course he doesn't believe you. The daughter of the Tower would never walk anywhere without a body guard, especially in this part of the city. You spin the umbrella, the pink coalescing as he takes the phone from your hand and taps it, blue lighting up his face when your ID and profile appear in holographic data above the screen. 

He clears his throat and bows at the waist. When his counterpart doesn’t, he smacks him hard on the back, making the man lean over. “Apologies, Miss Choi. Right this way.” 

Music hits you full on when the doors open, the base creating static in the air. You cringe as it vibrates through your ribcage and teeth, wondering how anyone could stand to be in a club this loud. Popping the umbrella shut, you let your eyes adjust while one security guard remains at the door, shutting it behind you, and the other hands you your ID.

“Should I escort you to the office, Miss?” 

Writhing bodies dance together, scintillating like snakes in a pit. Above them, lasers and holograms light up the world with flashes of colors you didn’t even know existed. A wide bar stretches to the left of the floor, lit up by soft cyan lights. Behind it, the bartenders move in a blur, the glow on their clothes turning them ethereal. 

You glance at the security guard, who waits patiently before shaking your head. You point to the space above the bar where there are two large, mirrored windows looking out into the club. “Up there?”

“Yes,” he answers, hesitating. “Let me escort you.” 

With a roll of your eyes you nod, gesturing to him to lead the way. He clears a path, clubbers and workers alike moving out of his way when he shoves them. You walk behind him, swinging your head from side-to-side as you look at the people, fascinated. 

People with spikes pierced in their skin and whorling tattoos with glow ink stare back at you, glowing contact lenses and gemmed teeth all taking you in. You rarely get to mix in with the crowd that partakes in more unique cosmetic alterations and fashion, fascinated by someone who walks by with red glowing face tattoos like a demon mask. 

At the foot of the stairs, the guard lets you walk up first. It’s clear of people, so he remains standing at the bottom, taking up an imposing position with his hands linked in front of him, blocking the stairway entirely. 

The thud of music vibrates through your boots as you climb the stairs, greeting another security guard. You can tell he’s already been warned you’re here - he bows immediately and keys in the pad at the door, opening the office for you. 

You pass by him airily, stepping into the dry and much cooler office. The door closes behind you, immediately cutting off the sound with high–tech sound proofing. Soonyoung is leaning against the bar, his back to the door as he watches out the windows, a glass in his hand. 

“What in the fuck are you doing?” he asks, tossing you a look over his shoulder. You grin, skipping over to him. He doesn’t grin back, looking you up and down as you join him. You reach for the decanter he’s drinking from but he smacks your hand, viper fast. “Not a chance.”

“What? Why not?”

“You shouldn’t be here, much less without a security team. The Tower will be livid.” 

“The Tower doesn’t have to know.”

Soonyoung’s jaw flexes. “The security team will tell him you were here.”

“Not if you tell them not to.”

“Baby,” he sighs, tilting his head up and closing his eyes. You lean against the bar, watching him. The lights from the club are dimmer in here, but they flash against his face, painting him in golden light. He’s beautiful. “What are you doing here?”

“Angel said you had a bad day.”

“I always have a bad day. And tell Angel to shut her mouth.”

You snort. “You tell her that.”

That gets a grin out of him. He lowers his head, dark gaze finding yours. “You can’t just walk around the Lower City without a personal guard, Baby.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know you’re not. I’m not either but people try to rob me all the time. You, on the other hand, are a lot prettier of a prize than I am.” 

“So you think I’m pretty?”

This time when Soonyoung sighs, it’s affectionate. He sips his glass of amber liquid, turning to watch the crowd outside the office. He holds out his glass to you, a concession. You grin further, accepting it from him and bring it up to your nose to smell. You don’t know anything about liquor, but from the spiced scent you can tell it’s good quality.

You take a tiny sip. It goes down smooth - strong, but good and warm. Instead of giving him the glass back, you cradle it to your chest, leaning against the bar next to him close enough that your arms are almost touching. He continues looking out at the crowd, keen eyes serious and back to work while you look at him. 

Soonyoung is beautiful. His side profile is lethal, the slope of his neck elegant, the curve of his jaw sharp but delicate, his high cheekbones catching the light. His eyes are dark pools, reflecting the snatches of light that come through the dark windows. 

“Did you come here to stare at me?” he asks, never taking his eyes off the crowd. 

“What if I said I did?” 

His mouth twitches at the corner. “Unfortunately I would believe you.”

Watching over clubs isn’t usually Soonyoung’s job. But this club is in a terrible part of the city and isn’t worth much to the Choi Syndicate, so sometimes he’s awarded the opportunity to prove himself to your father and to the elders of the Syndicate that he’s competent and capable of leadership, despite the fact you’ve always known him to be. 

Soonyoung isn’t meant for leading like Seungcheol. But there is a certain level of loyalty and understanding he has to cultivate with the heavies of the family, the Swords who carry out the bloody tasks of removing people from the way and keeping assets safe. His father had been the Sentinel of your family for years until his death, and Soonyoung is expected to pick up that mantle.

This is all a part of that. Soonyoung already has the loyalty of the security team running this hole in the wall, alerting him the second you arrived and refusing to let you go up the stairs alone. Had they failed to do that, you might think a little less of them. 

Soonyoung also probably would have had them beaten. 

Finally, Soonyoung turns to look at you. He sighs and raises his brows expectantly. 

“What?” you ask. 

“What did you come here for? Real answer, this time.” 

“I told you. Angel said you had a bad day. That is my real answer.”

“And?”

You shrug, sipping from the glass and turning toward the windows. “I wanted to make it a better one.” 

That makes him go silent. You can see him turn to look at you, his stormy gaze pinning you to the spot. You don’t look at him, letting him stare as you nurse the drink and watch the dancing crowd down below. They’re beautiful, in a way, an ocean of bodies saying as colors turn them blue and then green and then bright red and then lavender. 

Soonyoung leans toward you, bumping his head on yours lightly. That gets a laugh out of you, stomach fluttering and wishing he would stay leaned against you. He pulls away though, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his eyes back to his job. 

“Thank you,” he finally says, voice quiet. “It is already a better day.” 

The silence is comfortable. You eventually give him the drink back and he takes it, tongue darting out to lick the lip gloss you left. He hums. “Cherries.” 

“You’re gross.” 

He smiles into the glass, taking a sip. “I actually have something for you.” 

“A present?”

He snorts. “Not exactly. Go to the desk - top drawer on the right.” 

Eagerly, you do as he says. The heavy wooden desk sits in the back of the room, imposing even without the metal lockers behind it with weapons. You ignore the heavy guns under padlocks and go for the drawer in question. 

A rectangular box is in the drawer Soonyoung specified, unmarked. You turn it over in your hands, curious. It’s not very heavy and fits mostly in your palm. 

“Bring it over here.” 

You do, trailing back to Soonyoung. He extends his hand and you pass it over to him, watching with interest as he cracks the box open with the sheer strength of his fingers. He pulls out a small device, a wire and what looks to be a plug, tossing the box to the bar. 

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, holding up the device. 

It’s a small rectangle with a keypad and a screen. You raise your brows in surprise. “It is a very old phone.” 

“It is.” He smiles, pleased with your answer. He passes the materials over to you and you hold them against your chest. “That’s the charger and the charging cord. It’s one of the old kinds of phones that requires a phone tower. There are barely any in the city.” 

“And what is this gift for?” 

“I own the phone towers that support it.” You raise your brows. Soonyoung rarely spends the inheritance his parents left behind, so you’re surprised. “It only has a single phone number programmed into it that will call the one I have.”

At this, he reaches into his pocket and produces the phone’s twin. He shakes it for emphasis, pressing a button and lighting up the screen. “You have to make sure to keep it charged. I want you to have it for emergencies only. And I mean emergencies, Baby. This is a last resort kind of device, alright?” 

You chew your bottom lip, dragging your eyes to look up at him. “Why?” 

“Because I need to know that you always have a last resort.” His gaze darkens. “Clearly your assigned security team lets you give them the slip. I need to know that you can hit the dial on this faster than you can on our phones. They’re overly complicated and not quick. With this?” 

He reaches over and turns on the phone in your hand. Once booted, he presses the one button. The device in his hand starts ringing. “Direct and fast access to me at all times. Do it even if you can’t tell me where you are. I’ll find you.” 

Emotion twists your throat. You grip the phone with a vice grip, looking up at him with wide eyes. His face is serious. He slips his phone in his pocket, turning back to do his job. “I will answer,” he promises. “It doesn’t matter when and where. I will answer that phone even if I’m dying. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.”

He nods. “Good.”

A knock on your door wakes you up from a dreamless sleep. Darkness spills across your room like ink as you slip from your bed, cursing when you kick the corner of your nightstand. With a raspy voice, you ask the automated room assistant to turn on the nightlights, a hazy purple immediately lighting the circumference of your room.

Squinting against the lavender glow, you pad over your room to open the door. Soonyoung is leaning heavily against the wall just beyond the threshold, his chin tucked to his chest and his hair sweaty and clinging to his temples. 

He doesn’t move when you open the door, the lilac light casting an eerie radiance on the side of his face. It’s hard to make out his expression in the lurking shadow of the hallway, and he offers no explanation for why he’s knocking on your door at three in the morning. 

“Soonyoung?” you whisper, eyes darting down the hall. No one else is around. “Where are Cheol and Vernon?”

“S’cheol is still working. Vernon went to stay at Angel’s.”

“Are you - Soonyoung are you drunk? Or high?”

“Yeah.” 

Both you realize. You can deal with both. 

Grabbing him by the hand, you tug him gently. He pushes off the wall with heavy steps, stumbling through your open door and into the room. You grip him tighter, shutting your door with a gentle click before turning around to face him. 

Soonyoung won’t look at you, turning his face away as he sways a little where he stands. Now that you can see him fully, you realize that there is blood on the collar of his shirt. Heart thudding, your hands reach for it, peeling it back to look at his neck. Specs of dry crimson flake from sweaty skin, making your terror reach new heights. 

He shrugs you off. “Not mine.” 

“I - what’s going on?” 

Instead of answering you, he walks a few crooked steps toward your bed and sits down on the edge. Licking your lips, you approach him slowly. He’s slouched over, elbows pressed to his knees as his head hangs heavily. He still hasn’t looked at you properly and you’re aching to see his eyes. You can always understand him better when you see his eyes, able to read the depth of emotions hiding beneath his mask.

When you reach him, you crouch down. Instead of grabbing for him again and risking him pulling away, you rest your hands on top of your knees. When afraid or upset, Soonyoung is like a cornered animal. You don’t know whether he’s in fight or flight, both just as dangerous as the next. 

“Soonyoung,” you say again gently. You watch his every move. “You’re scaring me. Do you need me to call Cheol or Vernon?”

If Seungcheol is working the circuit, he isn’t the best to call. Late night circuits include going from club to club under the Choi banner to monitor the drug trafficking and attend small business meetings as appropriate. Seungcheol will drop whatever he’s doing for you in a heartbeat, but it’s more complicated than that. 

In theory, Vernon is easier to get a hold of. He’s already off work and though he might not answer his phone if you call, you know his girlfriend will. Plus, the blood on Soonyoung’s shirt and skin can give you a guess at what’s happened, and Vernon is more equipped for that type of thing than you are. 

“Let me call Vernon-”

“No,” he finally says. “No. Sorry. I just.” 

Your chest squeezes in pain. It’s like you can feel the torture radiating through him, feel the weight of whatever it is that’s dragging him down yourself. Desperation drives you to reach out toward him slowly, watching for any sign of startling him. When he doesn’t move to pull away, you touch him gently, squeezing his knee gently. “What do you need?” 

“My dad always said I should feel something.” His words are halting, coming out slurred. You wait, holding your breath as he works through them. “Always said that you should feel something when you kill someone. If you don’t, it means you’re nothing more than a beast with base instincts. Not intelligent or refined.”

It takes everything in you not to let your grip turn to steel at his words. Instead, you rub your hand up and down his thigh soothingly, saying nothing. Soonyoung has never killed someone before. You would know if he had. He’s the last in your immediate circle of friends beside yourself to take on the weight of stealing life, and you’ve dreaded this day for a long time. 

Murder is an inevitability in your family. Keeping the Choi Syndicate on top requires sacrifice, cruelty and cunning. Soonyoung had started serving as an officially ranked member of the Syndicate over a year ago, and though he had fucked up a lot of people and brought them to the brink of death, he hadn’t actually done it yet. 

“I felt nothing,” he whispers, voice thick. “Fucking nothing.” 

“What do you mean?”

“There was no guilt. I didn’t even flinch. It was so easy, like fucking breathing. That’s not what my dad wanted me to be. He always said that those who felt nothing were just… baser creatures. That we were better because we were… made better.” 

“I think your dad wanted a lot of things. You being alive was the most important of those things, Soonyoung.” 

“I’m just tired of feeling fucking empty. I don’t give a shit that I killed someone, Baby. Honestly? I was fucking looking forward to it. I thought maybe - just maybe - I would feel something, even if it was guilt or horror or satisfaction. There was nothing.” 

You have no idea what to say. Instead of words, you surge forward, letting go of Soonyoung’s knee to push yourself between his thighs, wrapping your arms around his middle. He flinches for a moment, arms hanging dead at his side as you press your cheek to his chest, squeezing. 

Inside, you feel your heart crack open. You shove down the overwhelming sense of despair on his behalf, instead focused on him. There’s nothing to say with words, and you hope he can feel what you’re trying to tell him through touch, that he can feel everything you don’t know how to say as you hold him tight, clinging to him. 

Slowly, his arms encircle you. It takes him a moment, but he applies a little pressure back. It makes you scoot in more, pressed as close as you can get to him. He buries his face in your neck, his breaths warm and smelling like tequila. He smells like him too, vanilla and sandalwood. 

“I don’t feel like a person sometimes,” he whispers. “It’s like the ability for me to feel anything died forever ago. Like I killed it so that I didn’t ever have to hurt again. Now I only ever feel when-”

He cuts himself off and sinks into you a little more. You bear his weight, willing to carry any burden for him. You don’t think he realizes that he could ask you to jump and you’d say how high. You’ve always been willing to jump for him, always willing to do whatever he wants, whatever he needs. 

Gently, you ask, “You only ever feel when what? You can tell me if you want. Whatever you need.” 

“I feel when I’m with you.” Soonyoung whispers it like it’s a secret he doesn’t want you to hear. You feel the words hit your skin where he speaks them, a shiver slithering through you. His grip on you tightens a little with the admission, like now that he’s said it, he can’t let go. Won’t. “I feel most like a person when I’m with you.”

Pressing the flat of your hand to his back, you begin to stroke up and down slowly, touch following the careful ridges of his spine. He sighs, shivering in your hold. You want nothing more than to take the pain or whatever he’s feeling away, to rip it from him and to destroy it. 

The fierceness of your love for him is hard to tamp down. A fiery admission of your feelings for him isn’t what he needs right now. You know Soonyoung like the inside of your own soul, everything that makes him tick, every habit he’s picked up over the years. You can sense him standing lost at sea, needing an anchor. Needing you. 

“Okay,” you say softly. “So stay with me. Be a person with me.”

“I’m not made for you.”

“Yes you are.” Your nails dig into his back through his shirt, pressing sharply. The desire to covet him is so intense it overtakes you. “If I make you a person, then how could we be made for anyone but one another?” 

Silence greets your logic. You stay holding him like that, desperate to keep him there, terrified he’ll shrug you off and get up. He’s done it before, shucking off your affection like something to be disposed of. And still you give it to him freely, begging him to take it. 

He doesn’t shy away from you. Instead you feel him nod, mouth brushing tenderly across your throat in the ghost of a kiss. “If I stay right now, you will never get me to leave. Do you understand? I won’t… I will be incapable of ever letting you go. Ever. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You hug him tighter. “Try to leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung.” 

“Where’s your other half?” the voice causes you to turn from where you lean against the bar. Angel slides up next to you, cocking her head as she does. She looks like a wraith, dressed in a rain slicker over black long-sleeved shirt that’s tucked into black pants. Her jacket and combat boots are wet, suggesting it’s still raining outside. “You’re usually attached at the hip. My therapist calls that codependency. Says Hansol and I have it too.” 

“Does your therapist also know you’re a murderer?” you mutter. The bartender slides drinks over to you and you nod in thanks. “Or that you’re only seeing her because Jeonghan made a bet with you? Or that your job often involves extortion? What does she think about that?” 

As a Rook of the Choi Syndicate, Angel’s job is a far cry from the holy nickname she’s sported since she was a child. Like Vernon, her role within your father’s empire is to collect debts owed to the Choi family and to remind them never to fall behind on payments. Other times, she’s simply used as a good tool to put the fear of god into enemies of the Choi family, and she’s good at it.

Raised under the careful tutelage of the Yoon family, there’s no weakness Angel can’t find and use. The only one better at it than her is her step brother, who is probably sitting next to your brother behind closed doors somewhere in the Choi Estate holding a meeting.

As Seungcheol’s future second in command, it’s Jeonghan’s responsibility to learn the ropes just like your brother. One day, it’ll be the two of them leading your family, a thought that makes you cringe with worry. 

Angel answers your question with a shrug. “I’m sure she knows I’m into some shit. I’m learning all kinds of new things about myself.” 

“Oh yeah? Like what?” 

“I don’t like therapy. And I kind of want to ask my therapist why she thinks she’s qualified for therapy when she’s fucking three of her clients.”

A snort escapes you as you shake your head. Of course Angel knows that about her own therapist. Lifting the two drinks on the bar, you drift away from her, eyes flicking over the Rook. “Stay out of trouble, Angel. And give Vernon my love.” 

She grins, wicked sharp and deadly. “No bar fights, hmm? Enjoy the party.” 

The party in question is exhausting. You’ve been playing pretty princess all night, saying hello to all of the right people, shaking all of the jeweled hands, kissing all of the right asses. You’re exhausted and the tension in your shoulder has been knotting further and further. 

Once upon a time you would have been thankful to at least not be Seungcheol. He shouldered a lot more responsibility. Now you’ve realized that you don’t shoulder less than him - it’s just different. If Seungcheol is the sword and shield of the Syndicate, you’re the face and smile. Galas, charities, celebrity events - it’s a never ending stream of smile, pose, shake hands. 

It doesn’t hide the fact that you sit on a throne that belongs to a criminal empire, of course. But it’s also no secret that the Three Syndicates run the city. Your family has long been one of the stalwart backbones of the government and city infrastructure. Only the Kim family and the Yong family come close. 

Still, appearances are everything. Especially when the Yong family owns most of the media outlets, weaponizing it against the Choi Syndicate every chance they get. You make it harder for them, using your appearances and platforms like a carefully wielded sword. 

Spotting Soonyoung among those dressed in dark security uniforms is easy. He nearly blends in with the dark pipe and drape that has been set up all over the ballroom of your home, but you could find him anywhere, your internal compass pointing to him even in the dark.

Soonyoung’s eyes alight on you, sharp and intense. His face is a cool mask of indifference, but you can see the way interest sparks in his eyes as he drinks you in. He’s already seen you in your dress tonight, but it doesn’t stop him from refamiliarizing himself, eyes tracing every dip and curve.

God you wish you were somewhere else with him. Specifically wrapped in the gray sheets of his bed, sweat-slicked and out of breath. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” you say shyly, handing him a drink.

He takes it and looks up at you, arching a brow. “I can’t drink this, I’m working.” 

“It’s just soda with lime, the way you like it.” 

His lips twitch in a smile as he takes a sip, nodding in confirmation. He doesn’t reach out to you and hold you close like you know he wants to, respecting the propriety of his position and the fact that he is on the clock right now. 

“You look tired,” he murmurs, eyes studying your face. 

So does he. As an official Sword of the Choi family, his job keeps him out late, bloodied, and tired. He’s completely changed from the man who sank into your arms that first night he killed someone, hardened into someone that your father sends to do just that often. 

A weapon. A Sword. A trusted knife in the dark for the Choi family.

You think Soonyoung is more capable than being a heavy for your dad and his associates. Soonyoung is intelligent and sharp, having gained perspective and a wealth of knowledge from living with your family. Still, his dad had been the leader of the hired guns for the Choi Syndicate. Soonyoung is an efficient killer, his fate bound by his father long ago.

“When are you off tonight?” you ask instead of telling him how tired he looks.

“I’m not.” You frown. He sips his drink again and gives you a soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been busy. The Yong family are getting in our way at the docks. I gotta head down there with Vernon and Jeonghan after the party.” 

“The Yongs are doing it outright?” 

“No. We’re pretty confident it’s them though. Jeonghan is working on it. If we can bring the Xu family under our wing, it would be a lot easier to push them out.” 

“They have a son,” you note, thinking about the last event you attended where the Xu heir was in attendance. “Maybe marriage to one of our big hitters? Nexus Capital has an heiress.”

“I’ll mention it to Jeonghan. Who the fuck would want an arranged marriage, though?”

“Not me,” you laugh, wiping the eyelash you spot on his cheek gently. He gives you a tired, albeit affectionate smile. “You’ve been working nonstop. Tell Seungcheol you need a night off.”

“We both know it’s not Seungcheol working me to the bone, Baby.” 

Swallowing thickly, you turn away from him under the guise of scanning the crowd. You know you don’t fool him. Both you and Soongyoung know your father does not approve of your relationship, taking it out on Soonyoung to keep him busy and away from you. 

Your father would never hurt Soonyoung directly. You know that. He loves him like a son - sees his late best friend in the features of the man that Soonyoung has been shaped into under his care and tutelage. When you started dating Soonyoung seriously, you thought your parents might be happy. They adore him and they loved his parents just as much. 

Soonyoung is below your station, though. 

Your father will never say it outright. He wouldn’t insult his late friend’s son that way. But the way your father works Soonyoung harder than anyone else, holding him to a standard he doesn’t even keep for his highest level of men, you realize how deep the dissatisfaction goes. Even your mother’s adoration of Soonyoung does little to shield him from the petty assignments, try as she might. 

Still, you don’t care. And at the end of the day, neither does Soonyoung. As long as he gets to have you, he’s willing to put up with the petty assignments and the working late. 

“Hey,” Soonyoung says gently, bringing your attention back to him. He finishes his drink and sets it on a banquet table nearby. His eyes are averted, looking somewhere across the room as his hand slips around your waist to squeeze you quickly and press a kiss to your temple. “I’ve got to go - I’ve got a meeting with Vernon before we head out tonight. I’ll see you when I’m done. Probably won’t be until late morning.” 

“Alright,” You sigh. His hand slips from your waist and you wish you could pull him back to you. “Love you.” 

He grins brightly, giving you a wink before he melts into the crowd, weaving around party goers. Your heart squeezes when you lose sight of him. 

Someone clearing their throat catches your attention. You spin around to see Lan, one of your father’s personal Swords nodding politely at you. “Your father wishes to see you in the West Parlor. I’m to escort you.”

“Oh. Sure.” You set your drink down on the banquet table, wiping your damp hands on your dress. “Lead the way.” 

People bow their heads in respect as you go. You keep an even pace with Lan, which is hard to do with his long strides and your strappy heels digging into your ankles. He slows for your benefit and you give him a grateful smile, the swelling noise from the party leaving you behind as you step out of the ballroom and walk toward the west wing of the house. 

Some people mill about the halls of the estate. You can spot the members of the Syndicate who are on duty, mostly Swords that belong to the security force employed under the Choi family. You spot Chan leaning against a wall while gesturing broadly with his hands as he speaks to the owner of a new club on the edge of the Pearl District. When he catches your stare, Chan winks before focusing his attention back on the owner. Probably trying to work out some sort of deal or partnership, as is his job. 

The west wing of the house is quiet and off limits to the rest of the party. Your bedroom is just up two flights of stairs, your bed calling your name as you pass under the stairwell into the hallway that belongs to the West Parlor, the library, the study and your father’s billiards room. 

Old Man Vero is standing outside your fathers study, his hands linked in front of him and his head straight forward. He glances your way as Lan leans you toward the door, cracking a bit of a smile on his leathery face and giving you a wink. You grin, lightly reaching out and touching his elbow as Lan opens the door for you. Your father’s Swords have been in your life since you were a child, permanent figures of fixed loyalty and familiarity. 

They love you like they love your father, like they love your brother. It isn’t pure fear and power that keeps the Choi Syndicate together. Your father has plenty of that among the ranks, but the loyalty and love between him and his higher ranking members is real. Critical. It was a skill he taught you and Seungcheol, both of you arming yourself with your own shield of friends and confidants. 

Your father sits in a leather armchair, leaned back with his eyes closed. Next to him, a cigar smokes in the ashtray, threatening to go out as the thin wisps of smoke vanish into the air. An old fashioned record player echoes in the far corner of the room, smoothe notes vibrating through the air. 

“Tower,” you greet him formally, bowing at the waist. “How can I be of service to the family?” 

His eyes flutter open and he looks at you tiredly. He looks so much like your brother that it’s uncanny, sometimes. But his youth has worn off, his age more and more evident these days as he spreads himself thin expanding the Choi empire. Your mother has asked him - begged him - to give more responsibility to Seungcheol, but he refuses.

At least you know where your stubborn streak comes from. 

“So formal,” he notes, his lips twitching upward. He gestured for you to sit in one of the arm chairs. You do, smoothing your dress carefully as you sit. Behind you, Lan exits the room, the soft click of the door behind you. “You were always a better student than your brother.”

“That’s because he’s a man.”

A hearty laugh makes you grin, feeling a flutter of fondness. He was never an overly affectionate father, but he’s always been kind, though firm. You respect him, which is saying something in your world.

“Spoken like an intelligent woman,” he sighs. You wait patiently, watching as he seems to gather his words. Your stomach knots, sensing a trepidation about him that you’re not used to. “Your intelligence has always been your best asset, though you’re a little hot-headed like your brother.” 

“Steadfast is the mountain,” you say, quoting the Choi family motto.

He grins and adds your mother’s family moniker, “But the fire does burn. I knew marrying your mother was a good choice. Marrying the right person is paramount in this life. Family unions can make or break an empire, and they forge old alliances anew or secure new alliances.” 

A prickle down your spine makes you sit straighter. You had implied as much earlier to Soonyoung about the Xu family, knowing marriage was a viable option to bring the shipping mogul into the Choi empire. Now, though, the notion has you on edge, watching him like a frightened cat.

“I didn’t pick your mother, you know,” he muses, his eyes unfocusing somewhere far away. “But when my father recommended her, I knew he was right. I was familiar with her, of course. We went to school together. Fought like cats, but she was so intelligent and fierce.” 

You’ve heard this story before. Your father hadn’t loved her to start, but your mother had loved him right away. Had always known that she loved him. She’d shown up at one of his billiard nights and told him exactly how she felt, asserting that they would be married and that he would be loyal to her. 

He’d fallen in love with her that night. 

He sighs heavily. “I see a lot of your mother in you.”

“Don’t let her hear you sound so disappointed. She might be offended.”

“She’s better than me,” he says. His eyes focus on you, flicking back to appraise you. Sweat slicks on your back and only years of training keep you from not fidgeting under his weighty gaze. “But it would be easier sometimes if you were more like me. Less fire, more mountain. Still, you are rational, so let us speak plainly: you are going to marry the Kim family heir.” 

Silence hangs in the air. You stare at him, your brain taking a moment to catch up with his words. It’s like you’re moving in slow motion, processing the firmness in his voice, the way he looks at you with heavy countenance. 

You are going to marry the Kim family heir.

A high-pitched ringing starts in your ears and you feel the buzz of panic start to tingle at the base of your spine. Your fingers dig into the arms of your chair a little, trying to fight the staccato rhythm of your heart from getting out of control. 

“What?” you ask. It feels dumb, compared to the eloquence you’re capable of. 

“Kim Yijun is a perfect match,” he says simply. “He’s in line to inherit the Kim Syndicate. There is tension with the Yong family, and I will not lie to you: they have a far larger reach than we would like. They don’t do things the old way like the Choi and Kim families. They have started to ally themselves with the Arash family in Veridian, giving them cuts and room in our city to spread their reach outside the bounds of their own city.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“The Kim and Choi families have been united before. They’ve always been our first ally in times of city upheaval and Syndicate war, and they, like us, don’t believe in letting outsiders have a seat at the table. The Yong family don’t understand that, and are willing to let vermin have scraps if it means scooting us out.”

“I’m-” you shake your head. “You can’t ask that of me.”

“I’m not asking.” He reaches for a lighter and picks up the cigar. He takes a moment to relight it, taking his focus off of you. You feel your pulse spiking, your grip on the chair like iron. “I am telling you that this is what your future will be. I understand you like the Kwon boy, but-”

You sneer, baring your teeth. “The Kwon boy? Don’t reduce him to some stranger. Soonyoung grew up in this house, he is family. And I don’t just like him, I love him. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you bullying him because you’re frustrated that I love him. You love him too.” 

“I do. I love him like my own. But he is not for you.”

“He is. I will not marry Yijun. I am asking you not as a member of this Syndicate, but as your daughter to drop this machination from your plans. I am your blood, you cannot ask this of me.”

“I told you, I am not asking. I am telling you.” 

A tremor starts in your hands. Your heart races so fast that you feel sick, sweat slicking your skin as you begin to pant sharply. The ringing in your ears grows until you feel disconnected to it, like suddenly you’re living in third person. You’re aware that you’re hyperventilating and yet, suddenly it’s separate from you.

Standing abruptly, you feel the world tilt. You take a second to steady yourself, feeling the numb tingle spread throughout you like a flood. 

“Sit down,” your father demands. You hear the warning. Recognize the firmness in it. This is the Tower of the Choi Syndicate speaking, not your father. 

“Take this as my resignation from the family,” you tell him. Your voice doesn’t feel like your own, steady and without inflection. “I’ll renounce my inheritance and will not use the Choi family for any connection or advantages-”

“You will not!” 

His voice startles you. Lures you away from the safety of your detachment. You look at him, eyes wide and shaking. His hand is fisted on the armchair, his rage crackling around him like a thunderstorm. “I will not have my only daughter sabotage everything this family has built for the affection of someone unfit for her station. Kwon Soonyoung is a weapon meant to serve you. You will marry Kim Yijun or I will remove the obstacle altogether.” 

Your entire life there have been two versions of your father. The stoic leader of one of the oldest criminal empires in Hyperion, the vicious man who could be cold and calculating, and who was reverently feared by his enemies. The kind father who watched you and Seungcheol study math together, carefully explaining to you how to carry numbers over in the equation. 

It is the former who sits before you now. Someone entirely unfamiliar to you, though you’ve always known he existed. And why would you? Your father has never had to be ruthless with you before, hiding the way he could cut from you until it was necessary. 

Soonyoung knew. You know it with absolute clarity. You remember the fear in his eyes when you had slipped into his room that night asking for a kiss, the way that he is always so careful about when and where he touches you, the way he takes the assignments and the mistreatment without so much as a protest because it means he gets to have you.

“You would kill him?” you whisper, looking your father in the eye. “You promised to take him in when his family was murdered. He had no one, and you promised his father you’d raise him as your own. You would go back on that?” 

He scowls. “If his father knew what he was, he’d kill Soonyoung himself. That boy is a dog to be set upon whoever his owner wishes, who kills with impunity.” You say nothing. I don’t feel like a person. Soonyoung’s words echo in your mind, haunting. “I hold the collar and I will put him down, if need be.” 

“So you raised a pet to be disposed of at your convenience?”

“I raised a boy who should be grateful I haven’t put him in the fucking ground for sullying my only daughter. I let you two have time, and you should be grateful. It is my love for him that has stayed my hand this long. No more. You will marry Kim Yijun, or you will bury that boy. This is the command of your Tower.”

“Mother will not let you-”

“Your mother doesn’t let me do anything. I am the Tower of this family, and it does what I command. You will fall in line.” 

Tears spill from your eyes. You suddenly feel like you’re standing on a cliff, the vertigo of nothingness at the bottom making you sick with fear. Desperation grips at you as you stare at your father, willing him to change his mind. Begging him. 

His pity doesn’t come. There is only resolute silence, watching as you crumple in front of him, knees going weak as you abruptly sit - fall - on the floor. You bury your face in your hands, grief for something lost stealing your ability to maintain control before you’ve even given an answer. 

I’m not made for you. 

Soonyoung had tried to tell you a long time ago and you’d brushed him off. Of course he was made for you. He was all you’ve ever wanted, and you’ve always been given what you wanted. You made him whole, and he you. How could you not be made for one another. 

“Please don’t do this to me. Daddy,” you whisper, trying to appeal to him with the little girl he loves. “Please, I love him.” 

“Lan will escort you to your room.” You ignore his words, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, willing the tears to stop. You know later you’ll feel pathetic for the display of emotion, for the meltdown in the face of adversity. “You will announce your engagement at the end of the week.”

“Yes, Tower.”

“If you so much as remotely try to sneak around with him, I will put him in the ground and bear the weight of that grief for eternity.” 

“Yes, Tower.”

“Know that I love you. We must make sacrifices for this family we wish not to. But you will make the sacrifice like I have so many times before. So will Soonyoung.” 

You stand, limbs shaky as you look at your father, the heat of your mother’s rage fueling your gaze. “Yes, Tower.”

Sleep claws at you with greedy fingers, unwilling to give you up to the waking light of day. You groan, suspended in that moment of almost awake but achingly unaware. A brush of warm skin on your arm pulls you the rest of the way from heavy sleep, your thoughts sticky as they formulate and you open your eyes, squinting in the gray light of your room. 

Squinting at the clock displayed on your nightstand, you realize it’s late morning. The tinted windows of your room keep out the sunlight, but a single panel has been adjusted to let some of the cloudy day in, a single shaft of gray spilling into your room like muddy water. 

Warmth presses behind your back, the steady touch on your arm trailing up and down. For a second, you lean back into it, feeling your head thud against Soonyoung’s chest, his mouth pressing against the crown of your head. He drags his fingers up and down your arm absently, light as a feather. He smells like soap, a hint of his familiar vanilla and sandalwood. 

“Have trouble sleeping?” the words are mumbled against you. 

“Hmm?”

“There’s lines of crushed knockout on your nightstand, Baby.” 

You look at the nightstand. Sure enough, the white pills you crushed are dusted across the surface. The reality of why you used them slams into you so suddenly that you stiffen, muscles locking.

Soonyoung notices immediately, his touch stilling. “What?”

Finding the words is impossible. You don’t know where to start, your father’s words make you dizzy. The sheets stick to your skin, Soonyoung’s warmth too hot to stand. You scramble from bed, kicking at the sheets and putting distance between you as you bolt toward the bathroom. 

“Hey,” he calls after you. You don’t turn to look at him, the cool tile giving you goosebump as the lights flicker on. You close the door behind you firmly, pressing your back against it. Soonyoung’s knocks are immediate, his voice calling your name on the other side. “What’s wrong?” 

The use of your name sours your stomach. You lurch forward, diving for the toilet as the contents of your stomach empty. The bile burns, your eyes watering as you press against the cold porcelain, clinging to it for life. 

Soonyoung opens the door, letting himself in as you heave again. He’s quick to react, opening the medicine cabinet to remove an anti-nausea inhalent. He wordlessly pads over to you, crouching down to extend it toward you. 

You avoid looking at him directly in the eye as you snatch it from him. His brows are pinched in concern, face swollen with what little sleep he got and mouth turned downward. Your stomach roils again but holds as you crack the inhalent and wave it under your nose, breathing in gently. 

The stimulant makes your eyes water, but immediately the churning in your stomach subsides. You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in and out slowly, trying to regulate yourself. Soonyoung watches in silence, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he wants to reach out and touch you but doesn’t. 

When you open your eyes, there is so much love and concern on his face that you almost break right then and there. Instead, you clear your throat and straighten, tossing the medication in the trash.

“Thanks, just hungover. I need to shower.”

He looks doubtful. “Alright.”

Soonyoung stands, heading to the shower. You clear your throat and he pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Alone, please.” 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just want to shower.” 

He says your name again. Not Baby. Not any other derivative. Your name. “You can talk to me.”

Your heart cracks. You panic. Your brain races for the only viable option. “I just want to take a fucking shower, Soonyoung.” You push yourself off the ground, scowling at him. He moves out of your way as you pass him, stunned to silence. “I don’t need you crowding my space every five seconds.” 

Refusing to look at him as you hit the panel in the wall, you instead focus on the water that falls from the ceiling, a storm of heat and the smell of peppermint. You keep your back turned toward him, staring at the water as it heats, steam curling in tendrils where it hits the stone tiles. 

“You can go,” you say sharply. 

“Alright.” 

The gentle click of the door when he leaves is barely audible over the hum of the shower. You let the rushing water lull you into a state of numbness, peeling your clothes off with unsteady, mechanical movements. 

Hot water slicks off your shoulders. You close your eyes and hang your head, letting the feel of the peppering water sluice over your ears, eyes, nose, mouth. You let it blind your senses to nothing but the roar of water, blotting out everything else. 

If I stay right now, you will never get me to leave. 

You remember when Soonyoung whispered it against your skin just a few years ago, spoken carefully and clearly, a promise and a warning. He would never let you go. You had to let him go. Telling him what your father has asked of you - has threatened to take away from you - will only make Soonyoung’s feet dig in further.

For as long as you’ve known him, Soonyoung has been a covetous creature. You remember the night at the club he antagonized you just to see that spark of want, just to prove to himself it was him you wanted. You remember the way he clung to you in the dark of your bedroom, the only person who could ever make him whole. Who could make him feel. 

Your father sees Soonyoung as a loyal attack dog - but it isn’t the Tower of the Choi Syndicate who holds Soonyoung’s collar. It never has been. Soonyoung has never asked your father how high. 

Pressing your palms to your eyes, you start deep breathing exercises. In through your nose, out through your mouth. The shaking in your fingers begins to subside, the logic part of your brain turning on. 

The threat on Soonyoung’s life is real. You saw the resolve in your father’s eye, the painful glint. He would hate to do it, but he would do it. You’re entwined too deep into your family’s affairs and business to vanish. There is nothing in the world you have that’s your own, no assets that are not connected to them in some way.

And if you tell Soonyoung, he’ll face the problem like he does everything that stands in his way: try to kill it. 

For a split moment, your brain chases the thought like a mouse after cheese. Like a long math problem, you work out if it’s possible to commit patricide and get away with it. Your mother will never forgive you, but Seungcheol might. Your friends would - they’re loyal to you, especially Jeonghan and Angel. 

The older generation, though- 

You toss aside the thought almost as quickly as you thought of it - not because you don’t want to kill your father, but because it isn’t possible. Not just like that. There are too many pieces on the chessboard, too many domino effects spreading out in every direction if you take that route.

No. There is only a single path for you, set in motion by a hand with more power than you. 

And there’s only one way you can move forward with Soonyoung. 

There’s so much of your mother’s side of the family you’ve inherited. Her side has always been associated with the phoenix, the burning immortality of their name and their strength, a blazing glory. Your maternal relatives have always been the rage and the fire that was needed for a Syndicate to advance, a good partnership for the Choi’s who were cold and steadfast. 

What you need now is the winter of the mountain, not the rage of the phoenix. You need to be a Choi. 

Steadfast is the mountain. 

You love Soonyoung. You love him you love him you love him youlovehimyoulovehimyoulovehimYOULOVEHIMYOULOVEHIM- 

Pressing your fist to your mouth, you bite down for one, blinding moment of untapped rage. You feel your skin break, taste iron and salt, feel pain bloom. 

Steadfast is the mountain. 

Then it’s gone. You drop your hand from your mouth. Open your eyes. Turn off the shower. The rage is gone, buried beneath a layer of newly formed ice. If there is anyone you can do this for, it’s Soonyoung. You love him. You will destroy him. But he’ll be alive. 

Soonyoung is sitting on your bed when you open the door. He’s got a tablet in his hand, the holographic images displaying above the screen, haloing his face in blue light. There are circles under his eyes and his teeth worry at his bottom lip, which is chapped. He’s shirtless, the compact planes of his body half shadowed by the single shaft of light filtering through a window. 

He looks up at you but you ignore him, heading to your closet. The silence is brutal. You push through it, opening the closet doors to reveal a massive space nearly the same size of your bathroom. Track lights kick on, rows and rows of clothes by color greeting you. In the middle, there is an island counter, filled with drawers and biolocked jewelry safes. 

Soft steps tell you Soonyoung is standing at the entrance of the closet. You still don’t face him, walking over to your section of black clothes. You flick through them, eyes scanning. Black seems appropriate. It feels like death, afterall. 

Soonyoung’s voice is soft as his late night kisses. “What’s going on?” 

“I’m marrying Kim Yijun.” 

A beat passes. Then another. 

“Is that supposed to be a joke? I’m not interested in pranks this morning.”

“It’s not a prank.” You pull out a black, silk dress. “The Tower has asked this of me, and I’ll be doing it.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

You continue, undeterred as you put the dress back and keep looking. “The Kim family has agreed to the match ahead of the rising tensions with the Yong Syndicate and their new take on foreign allies. A united front of the old families will benefit our family-”

“You’re not fucking marrying Kim Yijun.” 

“All of the metrics we’ve run for public opinion and potential city-wide reaction are favorable. The Tower needs his children to fall in line, and I intend to do so.”

Soonyoung storms toward you. You turn on your heel, holding a finger out to him, voice severe, “Don’t come near me.” 

“Why? Because you know you’ll lose your resolve? Because the second I touch you, you’ll drop whatever bravado this is and let me help you?”

Exactly that. He knows you inside and out. Sees through the front. It doesn’t matter. You don’t need him to believe you, you need him to obey. 

He takes another step and you back up. “I will scream,” you threaten, venom in your voice. “I will scream and Seungcheol and Vernon are right down the hall. Whose side do you think they’ll take, with your reputation for violence?” 

“Fuck you, they know I’d never hurt you.”

You hear the waver in his voice. That tiny sliver of doubt, so small and tiny but there. They do know he would never hurt you, but Soonyoung isn’t convinced they’d believe him. It makes you sick, but you latch onto it, unspooling that tiny bit of hurt. “Do they, Soonyoung? I hear some of them call you a mad dog because you attack with no regard for anything. Do you really think they trust you entirely with me?”

Soonyoung is raging. His chest rising and falling, shaking his head back and forth as he tries to understand. You’re rooted to the spot, muscles coiled, pulse thudding in your throat. “You are not,” he growls. “Marrying Kim Yijun. You don’t even want to, don’t try to lie to me about your feelings or insult me thinking you can bait me. You love me. You are mine.” 

“I belong to the Choi family and it’s what my family needs from me. I will do my duty.”

“Fuck your family!” His roar makes you flinch, briefly closing your eyes. His palm slams on the top of the countertop in front of him, sharp in the silence. “You have a duty to me. I told you I would not fucking let you go. You’re not doing it. I’ll fucking kill him, you think I won’t? I’ll murder every last one of them-” 

“You don’t tell me what to do, Kwon Soonyoung. I will do this, and you will obey.” He bristles, going rigid as your words land like a slap. “When I say jump, you say how high. You’ve always known that.” 

For a second, he cracks. The Soonyoung you first saw on your doorstep, crying and round-cheeked and ruddy returns. His lip trembles and the way he looks at you nearly melts your iron will. You’re so close to collapsing, to laying it out before him, to risking it all. 

“Don’t do this to me.” His whisper is made of glass. Delicate. He presses his palm to his chest, right over his heart. Earnest. “I can’t - you know I can’t. I- please. I can’t do this.” 

Licking your lips, you look him in the eyes. His eyes are your favorite. Dark. Stormy. Endless. They are lined with silver, panic rippling across the surface. 

You lift your chin and push back your shoulders. “You can and you will, because I told you to jump, Soonyoung. Now ask how high.” 

Sunlight warms the back of your neck, humidity clinging to your skin like a second layer. You take a deep breath, though the steamy air offers no relief. You snap open a silk fan, waving it in front of your face in hopes of chasing away some of the sweat, feeling the separation between skin and makeup the longer you sit in the wretched heat of the garden. 

It’s not even real sunlight or heat. You can’t tell beyond the projection in the room, but you know that there are vents heating up the room and controls that make the air humid and sticky, making it feel like you’re sitting in a real garden outside somewhere lush. 

Lin drones on and on about something. You tuned her out long ago, eyes flickering back and forth to your watch and the women’s faces around you. None of them here are really your friend - not in the way Angel is, the way Wonwoo or Jeonghan are. 

Yet you’re expected to be here, entertaining the upper echelon wives of the Choi and Kim Syndicates, boiling away in an imaginary garden while you sweat to death, dress clinging to your skin and thighs slippery in the seat as you adjust yourself, uncomfortable. 

“It’s hot as a motherfucker,” a whispered voice comes from next to you. You look up to see the newly engaged heiress of Nexus Capital next to you, glaring behind the dark shade of her sunglasses as Lin continues rambling about something. “Couldn’t she have made it less real?”

A smirk twitches on your lips. You haven’t spoken to her much, but her recent engagement to Xu Minghao had secured the position the Choi Syndicate had been fighting for in the shipping yards and docks with the Yong family, elevating her family into the favored circle of your father.

Suddenly, you remember who had recommended that marriage in the first place. You remember the party, the pretty dress you wore, Soonyoung’s hand briefly on your waist as he kissed you goodbye for a meeting. You had no idea then that your throwaway comment about an arranged marriage to benefit your family would become your own nightmare under an hour later.

Grief is a funny thing. You never knew that you could feel grief for someone who isn’t dead, yet sometimes you feel such an overwhelming amount of grief at the hole that Soonyoung has left behind that you can’t breathe. 

Throat dry, you reach for water, drinking eagerly. You feel a bead of water run down your face, but you ignore it in favor of trying to focus on not panicking. 

Anxiety attacks are new for you. Though your entire life has been colored with stressful situations unique to growing up in a criminal Syndicate, you could never say that you were anxious before. At least not in the way that made the back of your neck too hot and the tips of your fingers buzz with the threat of a looming meltdown. 

You ignore it. It’s all you know how to do. The anxiety medication your therapist gave you doesn't work, and you can’t crush a bunch of pills and inhale them anytime you feel like you’re about to get tunnel vision and spiral. 

Well, you suppose you can, but you’re trying not to get into the habit. 

Instead of acknowledging the way the panic lurks around your edges like a predator waiting to pounce, you listen to the dull conversation around you. Focus on the gossip that you don’t care about, exactly, but know it’s good to have. 

Since marrying into the Kim family, you’re not sure what your job is. With your family, your role as the face, the legacy and the representation of the Choi Syndicate had always been clear and obvious. Now, your husband sends you to stupid things like this with preening people that you don’t like and makes you leave events early when he’s irritable. 

Gossip is a weapon, though. So you gather it when you can, taking in bits of information and storing it for yourself. Rarely do you offer it to Yijun - not that he would take it - but Jeonghan finds the information you share useful. So does Angel, but there’s rarely anything you know that she doesn’t. 

Just as your anxiety begins to fade, the source of it materializes. 

At first, you think you’re seeing things when a door appears in the wall depicting an apple orchard and Soonyoung strolls out into the fake-sun. You blink dumbly, spine tingling as you realize that your mind is not playing tricks on you and it is him. 

He sees you immediately. His dark eyes burn like embers, pinning you to the spot. His face remains motionless but you see his jaw tick, the only sign that he is immediately on edge when he sees you. He’s dressed for work in an all black suit, required for the Swords of the Choi family. 

Giggles breakout around the table as he approaches, the ladies around you all flushed cheeks and demure smiles. You feel the buzzing start in your hands again, this time worse. It goes up your arms, working its way to your chest as the anxiety increases tenfold, heart pounding.

Soonyoung bows. “I beg your pardon, ladies.” 

“My goodness, Soonyoung,” Lin preens. “You must be horribly hot in that suit, but you do look handsome.”

You fight the urge to snarl at her that the imitation of the garden isn’t real and no amount of pretending will make it real. You even imagine reaching across the table and plunging her fish knife into her hand. Instead, you watch Soonyoung, your hummingbird heart fluttering. 

He gives her a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be alright. I apologize for interrupting, but the Tower of the Choi family has sent me to escort his daughter home.” 

“Home?” 

“The Choi Estate.” 

He doesn’t say what he means: the Kim Estate is not your home. 

“Alright,” you say, voice reedy. Your hands are trembling as you slide your chair from the table, the metal legs grinding loudly against concrete. You flinch at the sound, hyper aware of every bead of sweat crawling down your spine, every beat of your heart that is too fast, too hard.

Static fills you as you mumble parting words to the women who watch you in confusion. At least, you think you mumble your goodbyes. Blood rushes in your ears as you take uneven steps toward Soonyoung, who turns on his heel and starts marching toward the apple orchard. 

It feels like you’re in an echo chamber. Everything suddenly feels hollow and everything sounds as though you’re hearing it through a thin wall. Muted. Dull. He opens the door that you can’t quite spot even this close, ushering you inside as your vision starts tunneling to a narrow point, everything else blurry and distorted. 

No. No no no no no. 

Lifting your hands, you glance down at them to see them trembling, opening and closing your fists in an attempt to stop the buzzing feeling, as though you could will it away. You think Soonyoung says something but you can’t hear him over the roar of panic that grips you and tears you sideways.

Instead of following him down the hall, you lurch toward a different hall, rushing toward the powder room. It feels like the walls are narrowing as you throw open the door, breath coming out in pants. Everything feels tight and compact, crushing smaller still. 

Stumbling to the sink you try to turn the faucet on. Once. Twice. Cold water spits from the faucet and you gasp, leaning down over the sink to splash freezing water into your face. It doesn’t have the desired effect, the water is not cool enough to shock you out of your panic. 

Soonyoung speaks behind you. You can’t hear him, the grip of your anxiety so strong that you grab the edges of the sink to keep you up right. You’re heaving now, heart rattling so hard you think that maybe you’re having a heart attack instead. 

A firm grip wretches your attention from the porcelain sink to the mirror, where you see your dripping reflection, eyes blown like saucers. Soonyoung is standing behind you, a hand on your bicep, squeezing. His face is no longer a mask of indifference, but one of confusion. 

His mouth moves and you shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “I can’t,” you gasp, ragged. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” 

Then, he does something that catches you entirely off guard. You watch in slow motion as he steps back and removes the gun from the holster underneath his suit jacket. You hear the safety on the gun click and the hum as the weapon charges, ready to fire rounds of plasma if he squeezes the trigger. 

And then he points the gun at your head, the lights on it flipping from blue to red, signaling it’s ready to kill. 

The world stops. The panic vanishes for a split second, replaced with utter shock as you stare at him in the mirror. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you demand, voice stronger than you expect. 

Soonyoung is ten levels of crazy, but he’s never pointed a gun at you before. You stare at him, open-mouthed and wondering if he’ll do it. If he could pull the trigger. He’d told you a hundred times when you were together that he would never let you go and it was always with clarity that you understood what he meant: it’s me or no one. 

With stark clarity, you realize there’s no reason for Soonyoung not to pull the trigger. He doesn’t care much about the value of his own life from what you can glean over the last two years, and he doesn’t really seem to care about yours. 

Not that he should. You promised to make him feel human and you did. Then you took it away from him, leaving him adrift in a vast ocean of nothing alone and untethered. 

No, you don’t think you inspire Soonyoung to feel human anymore. If anything, you probably make him want to be the worst version of himself. 

Soonyoung’s voice holds no emotion when he asks, “Are you with me?”

“Why are you pointing a gun at me?” 

“Breathe,” he says instead. He doesn’t lower the weapon, stormy eyes focused on yours. “Breathe,” he repeats. “Slowly, maybe.” 

“Soonyoung, you are holding a gun at me, what do you mean breathe?” 

“What do you mean what do I mean? I mean what I fucking said. Breathe normally.”

“Lower the gun!” He does. “What the fuck?”

He breaks eye contact, sliding the weapon back into his suit jacket. He turns away from you as though he didn’t have you at gunpoint a second ago. “You were having a panic attack. Sometimes a shock to the system stalls it. Your breathing has slowed down now. And you’re not panicking.” 

A beat of silence passes. Then, “So you leveled a gun at my head?” 

“It worked. Let’s go.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“Yes. Now let’s go. You’re needed at the Choi Estate.”

“Why?” 

“Do I look like I have all the answers? I just do what I’m told. When a Choi says jump, remember?”

You visibly flinch as his words land. Soonyoung doesn’t wait for you to gather yourself, spinning on his heel and exiting the powder room to stride through the halls. Tightness gathers in your chest, left over from your anxiety attack. 

Pressing your hands against your dress to wipe the sweat from them, you chase after Soonyoung. He’s already by the apartment’s elevator, jamming his finger into the button. He doesn’t look at you as he waits, content to stare at the metal door. 

You don’t know where else to look - you want to look anywhere but him. Turning around, you fixate on the floor to ceiling windows. It’s still morning outside, but it’s hard to tell with the way the clouds block out the view, turning everything to mist. 

This high up in the city is reserved for the elite. You can’t imagine why - there’s nothing to look at but clouds, clouds, and more clouds. It’s what makes them have virtual reality rooms in the first place, trying to recreate the experience that they might have if they were wealthy enough to own land. 

The sound of the elevator arriving makes you flinch. Soonyoung ignores you, getting in and leaning against the wall as he hits a button to go to the parking garage. You scramble in after him, a little breathless as the doors close just behind you. 

Immediately you start shooting down several floors. He glares at the wall, unseeing and unfeeling. You swallow thickly, watching the numbers decrease until you’re at Lin’s private parking garage. Soonyoung is out of the elevator before it finishes opening all the way, storming toward the car he’s left running idle. 

Normally someone would open a car door for you. Instead, Soonyoung gets in the driver’s seat and slams the door shut. You reach for the handle of the passenger seat and pause. Normally you sit in the back when being driven somewhere, it’s always been like that. But this is Soonyoung and you’ve always been beside him in the car, his equal. 

A muffled get in the fucking car reaches you. Deciding that sitting next to him is too personal, you open the back seat and slide in. You’ve barely shut the door when he punches the gas, slamming you into the back of the seat as he goes. 

“Would you stop being an asshole?” you seethe, ripping the seatbelt from next to you to buckle in. Your hands are still shaking and it takes a moment for the clasp to click.

Instead of answering, you hear the way the car accelerates under his foot. Scowling, you look out the window. He speeds into the lift that brings the car down to the ground floor. Lights blur by as the lift drops at lurching speed, your stomach in your throat. You hate coming to apartments for this reason, the feeling of having to freefall to leave never growing on you. 

It’s raining when the lift opens to the wet street. Soonyoung peels out on the pavement, tires spinning until they gain traction and the car slides onto the road, narrowly missing someone. You slam against the seatbelt, cursing and clinging onto the door as he pushes the gas down, engine roaring.

“Are you trying to kill us?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer you. You think it might be because he’s not explicitly trying to kill the two of you, but he doesn’t care if he does. You try not to think about it so much as he powers through the streets of the Upper City, driving past towering businesses, luxury districts with entertainment and bars and apartment buildings. 

The road starts to incline and you hit a line of trees. The city vanishes behind you as Soonyoung drives the car up the winding road, leaving a world of metal and lights for greenery and earth. The contrast between the cities below and the Estates above is stark, especially as he drive’s higher up the mountain, snatches of the city below visible. 

“Why did you come to get me?” you ask, flicking your gaze to the rearview mirror to watch him. Soonyoung keeps his eyes on the road, but you see his mouth tighten. “Last I checked you’re not an errand boy.”

“So what, you check on me?”

“It’s a figure of speech, you know what I mean.”

“The Tower personally requested I come get you.” 

That gives you pause. Soonyoung’s face reveals nothing as he turns on the street that will inevitably lead to the massive metal wall that blocks off the world from the Choi Estate. There can only be a single reason why Soonyoung was sent to fetch you when usually your husband’s staff would do so.

“What’s happened?” 

Soonyoung doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he rolls the window down at the guard house to show his face. The security team recognizes him immediately, waving him through as the gate begins to slide open to reveal lush, green jungle. 

Gravel crunches underneath the car tires as he drives through the winding foliage on Choi grounds. Your great-great-grandfather had built the Choi compound, the first of the few elite houses on the mountain. He thought it was important to keep the plant life and sprawling greenery to conserve, but you knew it was really about power. Symbolism. Greenery didn’t really exist in the city, and this much space and plantlife meant wealth. 

The sprawling estate you grew up in reveals itself. Multiple buildings dot the property, making it more a family compound than an estate. Now that Seungcheol is old enough, he’s moved out of the main house and into one of the smaller homes, occupying the space with his own men and staff. Still, he’s just a brief stroll away from your childhood home.

Home. Even two years under a Kim family banner hasn’t erased the feeling of home for you. There is nothing in the house you share with Yijun that makes it feel like you. It is as devoid of love as your marriage, merely a placeholder for you to sleep, eat, and occasionally, try to produce an heir. 

Soonyoung pulls up to the long building that serves as a garage, hitting a button on the car’s screen to open one of the bays. He pulls in slowly, the outside world fading as the garage door shuts behind the car, dousing it in darkness until the neon lights above flicker on. 

Without a word, he powers off the vehicle and gets out. Taking a deep breath, you square your shoulders and get out of the car. He doesn’t wait for you - even shuts the door as he enters the main house so you’re forced to lug it open. 

He’s already opening the door to the main house a few yards away, forcing you again to haphazardly navigate gravel in your heels as you give chase. You’re sweating and irritated by the time you’re up the steps and pushing through the front door, a nasty quip on your lips ready until you see your aunt coming down the stairs. 

“Oh thank goodness,” she says, seeing you. She looks older than you remember, the lines of her face deep and the hair at her temples gray. “Come along.”

“What’s going on?” you ask, uncertain as you step into the foyer and let her take your arm. 

She scowls. “Did that useless boy not tell you? Your mother suffered a heart attack this morning. She’s with Dr. Ymir in the medical wing.”

Your heart thuds to a stop as you wheel around to look over your shoulder at Soonyoung. His gaze is stormy but his face gives away nothing as he turns to leave the way he came, slamming the front door and vanishing down the steps to leave you alone. 

“No,” you mumble as your aunt pulls you down the hall. “He didn’t tell me.” 

Because that’s how much Soonyoung hates you. Hate isn’t even the right word, you think. It is something far deeper and far more sinister, fueled only by taking away something that he valued more than anything else in the world and forcing him to live with it. 

I deserve this, you think as the door to one of the private medical rooms opens, a clinical smell hitting you in the face. I deserve everything that happens to me. 

I deserve this. It’s all you can think of as you watch the black casket lower into the ground. Seungcheol stands beside you, his hands linked in front of him. You want to reach out and take his hand in yours, but you don’t want him to look weak. Don’t want others to see him crack like you know he will if you comfort him. 

Instead, you comfort yourself as best you can, which isn’t saying much. You’ve never been good at dealing with your feelings, too much of your mother’s blood running through you. It was your father’s least favorite trait of yours and perhaps Soonyoung’s favorite.

Soonyoung, who has always been your emotional tether and outlet. You’re not accustomed to dealing with grief alone, and the pull of it feels like an undertow threatening to drag you under and drown you. 

Someone shifts behind you, close enough that you feel Yijun next to you stiffen. You turn to look over your shoulder, blinking in surprise as you tilt your head up to see Soonyoung. He doesn’t look at you, dark eyes fixed forward and jaw flexing tightly. He’s standing closer than is necessary, as shown by your husband’s scoff. 

Soonyoung doesn’t move, though. He remains nearly pressed against your back, so close that you can smell vanilla and sandalwood. Turning away from him, you feel your shoulders relax. He ignores you, but he’s there, a stoic guardian that’s just out of reach.

The Tower of the Choi Syndicate is too lost in his grief to notice or care about Soonyoung’s proximity to you. Your brother couldn’t care less, barely realizing that his brother by choice is an inch away from him. But you know Soonyoung is there and that’s all that matters. 

The grief lessens, turning back from churning waters to gentle, lapping waves.

“Your brother doesn’t respect me,” Yijun asserts. You look at him in the bathroom mirror. He’s standing behind you in the closet, taking out glinting cufflinks to replace them in the countertop in the middle of the aisles of clothes. “You should work on that.”

“Seungcheol hardly takes what I say to heart.”

Yijun snorts, detecting the lie before you can even get it out. Seungcheol very much values your insight and opinion far more than he’s interested in Yijun’s. He’s made it clear at multiple parties and events now, often asking you how business is and how the shared Kim-Choi accounts are doing, despite not having anything to do with them. 

Seungcheol hates your role within the Kim family. On more than one occasion he’s recommended Yijun make use of you somewhere in the family business, to make you the head of operation somewhere so that your schooling and experience weren’t going to waste. Yijun asserted that your social skills were being put to perfect use, entertaining the wives of his associates and serving as the perfect host when his business colleagues and friends were over. 

“He’s going to be leading the family soon,” Yijun sighs. “It would be better for us if he saw me as a real ally.”

“He does see you as an ally. You’re married to his sister.”

“Exactly, so you should remind him that I’m family.” It doesn’t sound like a threat, but it also doesn’t sound like a request. Sighing, you shut the drawer in the counter forcefully. It draws his attention, gaze darkening. “Don’t you want your brother to respect your husband?”

No, you think. You don’t respect your husband, so why should Seungcheol?

Instead, you sigh. “Of course, Yi.” He doesn’t soften at the nickname. “I’ll talk to him, alright? He’s got a lot going on. And don’t talk about my father’s health that way.”

“I didn’t say anything about his health.”

“Please,” you snort. “I know what you meant about Cheol taking over soon.” 

Yijun had been talking about Seungcheol more and more. You’ve watched with a sour taste in your mouth as your husband tries to earn your brother’s attention and trust, flashing what he thinks Seungcheol cares about in his face, telling him about the new car he acquired, or the historical art piece you purchased at an auction, and the new apartment building he’s constructing. 

Seungcheol doesn’t give a fuck about any of that. The Choi family never has. Your ancestors didn’t make a name for themselves and carve it on the mountain they built their home on by showing off their wealth and what it could do for them. They did it by earning it, and by remaining steadfast and intelligent. Political. 

Yijun understands none of that. As the eldest son of his family, it’s a shame. The real world of the Syndicates is lost on him. He has enough business acumen to run companies under his father’s careful tutelage and instruction, but he doesn’t have the social savvy for it, the right drive. 

His brother does. You think of Kim Minchan and nearly shiver. The middle child of the Kim family has more than enough understanding of the way that things work, but the ocean of blood behind him is enough for you to prefer Yijun leading the Kim Syndicate any day. 

“I’m just saying,” Yijun grunts, flicking off the lights in the closet. “Your brother has all the reason in the world to respect me and he doesn’t.” He looks at you, face hardening. “Do you tell him not to? Is that what it is? His baby sister tells him how useless her husband is?” 

Danger is in the air. Yijun won’t lay a hand on you, but it doesn’t make this dance any less stressful. You turn away from the mirror, looking at him fully. He’s not terrible to look at - he has a sharp jaw and a broad nose and a pleasant shaped mouth. He’s handsome, even. 

He’s not Kwon Soonyoung. 

Swallowing away the thought, you reach up to put your hands on his chest, placating. “I wouldn’t do that,” you assure him, softening your voice. You hate the sound of your voice, hate the way you pitch it low and gentle. “You’re a reflection of me too. I would never let my brother think any of those things about my husband.” 

Yijun swats your hands away, making you grit your teeth. “Don’t act like a whore. Just - tell your brother. I should be in his inner circle by now. Make it happen.” 

As Yijun leaves the bathroom, the urge to grab him by his collar and yank him back in to smash his head on the counter almost wins. You stare at him until he vanishes in the bedroom, your rage a live, sentient thing. You feel it crawl beneath your skin, slithering and clawing and biting and begging to be let out. 

Steady is the mountain. You take that fire and shove it down. Years of instinct of reacting with your mother’s temper peter out slowly. It’s a shame - you’re the last woman left from her side of the family, the only one who can carry the fire of the phoenix. 

You glare at the bedroom. Somewhere, Yijun lurks, getting into bed. Oh how the shadows of the weak choke out the fire of the strong. 

If killing Yijun wouldn’t risk everything, you’d have done it already. That first month spent with him where you realized this would not only be a loveless marriage, but a hateful one had almost driven you to it. The Choi Syndicate could surely survive a war with the Kim Syndicate - you had better assets, stronger loyalties, and more money. 

But if the Kim family turned to the Yong family… 

Avoiding unification of the Kim and Yong families is why you were married to Kim Yijun in the first place. To murder him now would mean Syndicate war, and despite the fact that every moment with him is hateful and poisonous, you’re too nervous to put your family at risk. 

Especially with your father’s failing health, as Yijun had pointed out. 

Syndicate war isn’t the only thing keeping you from stabbing Kim Yijun until you can’t feel anything anymore. Minchan’s shadow of a presence lingers over your thoughts, one of the few threats you truly fear. Any harm to his brother would elevate Minchan to a position where he could only wield his power more. 

And he’d hunt you like a bloodhound. You’re unsure if there is any corner of the world he would leave unturned if you killed his brother, no matter how much it would benefit him if Yijun keeled over tomorrow. 

Inside your bedroom is dark. It doesn’t feel like your bedroom at all. There’s nothing homey about it, no possession or unique decor, no pictures. You wouldn’t sleep in here at all if Yijun didn’t make you, insisting that he couldn’t trust any of the house staff not to tell your father you weren’t sleeping in the same room. 

Your father doesn’t care. He stopped caring about anything the day you put your mother into the dirt. Even if he hadn’t, as long as your relationship looked functional to whom it mattered, it mattered little to him if you slept in the same room or if you even liked Kim Yijun.

He’d made that very clear the day he tore away your future with Soonyoung. 

Yijun is already snoring when you climb into bed. You grind your teeth, reaching to pull open the nightstand for noise cancelling earbuds and sleep medication. The medication isn’t as strong as the crushed up knockout you might have used previously, but it helps take the edge off without making you vulnerable to attack. 

Which is something you still worry about. 

Setting your phone on silent, you settle in for sleep. It takes a long time, but you finally drift away to thinking about smothering the man next to you in his sleep. 

Something wakes you. Blinking sleep from your eyes, you sit up in bed and look around the room. It’s dark, but you can see the barely-there outlines of the furniture in your bedroom. Next to you, Yijun is gone. You can feel the lack of presence there more than you can see it, reaching your hand over to confirm the bed is cold and that he’s not been there for a while. 

You reach for the phone on your nightstand but can’t find it. Frowning, you press your hand on the cool marble, sweeping back and forth to no avail. You lean further, finger finding the button to the light function on the stand and press down. 

Dim, lavender light halos the top of the nightstand. Your phone is nowhere in sight. It’s just your jewelry dish, a decanter for water, and your sleep medication. You’re pretty sure that you put your phone face down before you went to bed, but you can’t be sure. 

Pulling open the nightstand drawer only makes the back of your neck sweat. Your phone isn’t there, but neither is the gun you keep in the top drawer. Both you and Yijun sleep armed, despite having armed guards on the premises at all times. 

Snapping the drawer shut, you roll to the other side of the bed and pull his open. A book, a watch, some pill bottles and a pack of cigarettes fill the drawer. No gun. 

The back of your neck tingles. You rip the sheets off of you, heading to the bedroom door. The house is mostly dark when you open it, the entire second floor dim. Leaning over the banister, you can see a shaft of light falling across the room, perhaps coming from the kitchen. 

Quietly, you stalk toward the top of the stairwell, trying to reduce noise as you creep down. A high pitched whine rings in your ears, heart thundering. You have no idea why you’re so afraid all of the sudden, especially in your own house, but your instincts tell you to be alert and quiet. 

At the foot of the stairs, you confirm the light is coming from the kitchen. It’s not uncommon for people to be in the house in the middle of the night. Official Syndicate business happens at any time, and often goes into the early hours of morning. 

Tonight, it’s not busy. Before you’d gone upstairs to bed, you’d noted that it was a skeleton crew security team for the night, just a few of them at the gate house and walking the premises while you and Yijun returned upstairs for the evening alone. 

Creeping toward the hallway, you pause when you hear voices. You identify Yijun’s voice right away, holding your breath and straining your hearing as he says, “What do you want me to do here?” 

“Keep her contained. Make sure no one from her family can reach her.”

“I already took her phone and her gun.”

Your stomach drops. “Good.” That’s Minchan’s voice, you realize, dread growing tenfold. “The second she finds out the Tower has fallen, she’ll try to run or her brother will try to get her.”

“Or that psycho fuck,” Yijun mutters. 

“You’d be lucky if it was Seungcheol who came to get her. If Kwon Soonyoung comes looking, call me immediately. We’ll make our move in two hours. We’ve got the biggest team outside the Choi estate ready to go in and we’ve got men and women stationed at all the key points.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here and babysit my wife?”

“Yes.” Minchan’s tone is nonnegotiable. “We’ll leave the guards at the gatehouse but we can’t spare anyone else. This kind of assault requires everyone. The Yong family will take care of the Pearl District and the Salt.” 

Yijun hesitates. “What about the Yoon family? Are they all accounted for?” 

“Yes. I have a team on the crazy one - what do they call her?”

“Angel, I think.”

Minchan laughs. “Demon is more fitting. Stay here. Stay by your phone. We’ll call thirty minutes before we give the signal to link everyone on comms. We do this right, and the Choi Syndicate is gone.” 

Panic presses in for a moment. Your heart hammers. Your hands shake. Bile churns your stomach. It feels like you can’t get enough air, the pieces of what they're talking about falling into place.

The Tower has fallen.

Your father is dead, and in the wake of the crushing blow, the Kim family intends to strike at yours alongside the Yong family. The realization lands like a blow, immediately slapping you out of your panic. 

Fear turns to rage. Rage turns to ice. You are fire, you are the mountain. 

Steadfast is the mountain, but the fire does burn. 

As quietly as you can, you creep up the stairs. You keep turning over your shoulder to ensure Minchan doesn’t leave the kitchen and catch you creeping back toward your bedroom. When you hit the second floor landing, you all but sprint to your room, gears turning. 

Yijun took your phone and intends to keep you locked in the house until they finish their plan. From their discussion, you know they intend to mobilize within two hours, targeting important members of the Choi Syndicate across the city with the help of the Yong family. 

It means you have only a few minutes to warn your family to respond, to prepare and to fight back or strike first. Which is hard to do without a phone, but your husband doesn’t know you nearly as well as he thinks.

Door closed behind you, you flip the lock on the bedroom door and dash for the closet. The lights above come to life, bathing you in ghoulish, grey light. You dive to the floor toward your shelf holding all of your shoes, the carpet burns nothing compared to the pain starting to bloom behind your sternum where your grief builds slowly under your anger. 

Your father is dead. The Kims are going to turn on you anyway. Your marriage to Kim Yijun to secure alliances against the Yong family was for nothing.

You’ve endured for nothing. 

Snatching a pair of boots, you swallow down the bile again. You will not break now, not when there are more important things than the time you’ve wasted withering away in this cold home. Shoving your hand inside the boot, you come into contact with what you were looking for. Your hand closes around the device, yanking it out and powering it on. 

The screen flashes to life. You press one and hold, hearing the buzz on the phone as it begins to ring. You cradle the phone against your shoulder and ear, nearly sick with the adrenaline that is pounding through you, your vision blurring, hands shaking. 

You grab another shoe, this time reaching inside carefully instead of shoving your hand in. The smooth, bone handle of a knife meets your hand and you wrap your fingers around it firmly, pulling it out. 

Soonyoung answers on the fourth ring. “Where are you?” 

“The Kim family has turned on the Chois. They’re mobilizing for a full scale attack in roughly two hours. The Yong family is helping them. They’re at the estate and all over the city - anyone who is important to us regardless of position will need to be warned. The Yong family is handling the Pearl District and the Salt.” 

“How many men are at Yijun’s estate?” You can hear him moving on the other side of the line, something rustling. Perhaps clothes as he gets dressed. “Are you armed?” 

“There are men at the guard house and one walking the perimeter. It’s just me and Yijun inside, I think Minchan is leaving. I’ve got a knife.” 

“Where are you in the house?” 

“Bedroom, second landing to the right and all the way at the end of the hall. There are windows but they don’t open.” 

“Listen to me,” Soonyoung says, voice like ice. “The second we start moving into position to accept the assault, they’ll know something is off. When that happens, Yijun is going to try to kill you, do you understand?” When you say nothing, he asks again, voice louder. “Do you understand?” 

“Yes.”

“I need you to fight back. Either kill him or hold him off until I’m there.” 

“You need to warn-”

“Don’t worry about the fucking Syndicate! We’ll be fine. You’ve given us more than enough time. I need you to be entirely focused on yourself.”

You take a deep breath, letting it out shakily. “Okay.”

“Do you have frostbyte?”

“Maybe? Yijun might have it in the nightstand.”

“Take some. Not enough to fuck you up, but enough to pump that adrenaline and make your head clear. I will be there in thirty minutes.” 

“Okay.” 

You squeeze the phone, unwilling to hang up. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t heard his voice in months. It doesn’t matter that he hates you, it doesn’t matter that you know whatever used to be between you is broken and it’s entirely your fault. You just… don’t want to hang up. 

“Hey.” Soonyoung’s voice is soft, drawing you from your trembling spiral. “Do what I said. Do the frostbyte and kill him if you have to. I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you in thirty minutes.” Soonyoung pauses, the silence heavy on the line. “I love you.” 

Nothing breaks you like those words, whispered but firm, whispered in case you die before he gets there. He doesn’t have to say that’s why he’s saying it - you know. You know the chance of him not getting there fast enough is likely and real. He does too, but instead of telling you, he gives you this. 

You whisper back, “I love you.” 

Soonyoung hangs up the phone and you fight a sob. You bring the knife up to your hand, pressing your pointer finger down on the tip. The sting is immediate, making you his in pain as blood beads on the tip of your finger, red and garish in the closet lighting. 

The sting grounds you enough to push yourself from the floor, following Soonyoung’s directions to Yijun’s nightstand. You yank it open, rattling around the contents until you find the bag of frostbyte you were hoping was there. Yijun uses it the nights he attempts to put an heir in you, numbing himself the way you never did, taking your punishment for what you’d done to Soonyoung raw.

Not enough to fuck me up, you think, untwisting the bag and shaking. Just enough to make it easier. 

Dipping the tip of your knife into the bag, you pull out a small lump of the glittering drug. You try not to think about that night at the club all those years ago, when you and Soonyoung were still dancing around one another’s feelings, doing anything you could to get a reaction out of one another. 

You take a sharp breath in. The drug hits your nasal passage and it burns, your eyes smarting as you tilt your head up, cursing and blinking away the tears. It hits the back of your throat, bitter and awful as you cough a little, trying to wait for it to clear your nasal passage.

When the burning subsides a little, you do it again. It’s less harsh than the first bump but still just as awful, making you wonder how the fuck you did this on the weekend with your friends as a teenager. Tossing the back on the nightstand, you stand waiting, closing your eyes and trying to do deep breathing exercises your therapist taught you to calm down. 

Frostbyte works fast. It hits your bloodstream and an electric calm comes over you. Everything comes into sharper focus, the adrenaline pumping as your simmering rage turns to a boil, ready to kick the fucking door down and hunt down Yijun yourself.

Nerves fade away to the background of your mind. You walk toward the door, waiting to the side so when Yijun ultimately kicks it down, you’re ready. 

Ten minutes pass. The entire time your ears are ringing, heart thundering in your chest. You think the frostbyte was a good idea - if you had to wait in silence like this without it, you would have gone crazy by now. Even with the drug, fear nips at your ankles, a hound ever on your tail. 

Yijun’s footsteps thunder up the stairs. Your heart lurches and you inch away from the door, readying yourself. He storms down the hall, fury in each step until he gets to the door and turns the handle. It doesn’t move. He tries a few more times, shaking the door. 

His roar on the other side of the door is loud and feral, making you grin as he thrashes against the door, cursing and screaming at you. The door holds, rattling in place as he slams what you think is his shoulder into it multiple times. 

The bombardment pauses for a second and then restarts ten times stronger. This time, you recognize that it’s his foot slamming into the side of the door. You realize he’s kicking where the door is latched, trying to break it open instead of kicking through it. 

A small crack sounds. You take a breath, readying yourself as you hear another snap go through the door, now rattling loose in its frame. He kicks hard again and the door blows open, nearly smacking you as it does. You roll away from it on the wall, keeping close as Yijun barrels past you, swinging his head from left to right as he looks for you.

It’s your only chance to get the jump on him. You slide from the dark, heart hammering. You’ve never stabbed anyone before, but you’ve practiced. You drive the knife upward, intending to puncture his kidneys. Yijun twists a little to the side, sensing your presence as the knife plunges into his side. 

Yijun screams. Your satisfaction only lasts a second before he throws his elbow backward, catching you in the nose. Pain explodes in your face, blinding you as your eyes water and you stumble backward hands shooting to your face. 

Removing the knife from his side, Yijun screams at you, spit flying as he comes at you. Through tears and warm blood rushing from your nose, you reach for anything to use as a weapon. Your hand closes on the ceramic artwork on the dresser and you launch it at him, hitting him hard in the face. 

The ceramic shatters and he drops the knife. You dive for it but he grabs you by the hair, ripping you upward and backward like a ragdoll. You lose your footing, screaming as he tightens his fist in your hair and drags you toward the bed, tossing you there. 

With a feral shout, you kick your foot forward, catching him in the lower gut. He grunts but wraps his hand around your ankle, yanking you back off the bed onto the floor, where the knife lays. You reach for it, seething, your hands managing to close around it just as he pivots, foot landing against your ribcage. 

Again, pain explodes inside of you. With the frostbyte, you barely recognize it, grabbing the knife and stabbing him in the calf. He shrieks and collapses to a knee, reaching for the knife. This time you rip it back out, nearly losing your grip on the bone handle, fingers slippery with blood. 

You stab him again, this time in the thigh. His knee presses into your stomach, crushing you and forcing air from your lungs. You ignore the pain, stabbing him again and again in the thigh until he falls backward off of you, muscles malfunctioning, tendons give away. 

Yijun kicks out at you with his good leg but you’re already moving, ignoring the way your body is screaming in utter agony, every part of you throbbing and begging you to give up. 

You don’t. You scramble on top of him. His hands shoot up to your throat but you spit at him, a spray of blood blinding him and making his grip loosen momentarily. It’s enough to bring the knife down home again, this time directly in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. 

For a second, he fights back. You hear the wet gasp and he thrashes, but you stab him again. And again and again and again and again -

You think about all of the times that you were forced to submit to him. 

And again and again and again - 

The way he heaved himself on top of you, trying to force a child into you so he could be done with you, the way you’d wish it had been Soonyoung instead. 

And again and again and again - 

The way Soonyoung’s face broke that morning, begging you not to do this to him. 

And again and again and again -

All for the Kim family to turn on the Choi’s anyway, wasting the entire time you’ve spent under lock and key, doing Yijun’s bidding while Soonyoung hated you. Loathed you. Wish you never happened to him. 

Again and AGAINANDAGAINANDAGAINAND- 

Yijun isn’t moving under you. Your hand is warm and wet, the knife becoming slippery as you let it go. It clatters to the floor and you sit backward on his knees. He’s unmoving as you heave, sucking down air that tastes like iron and salt. 

Sweat slicks the back of your neck and down your spine. Somewhere in the house, there’s a crashing noise. You leap for the knife, rolling off of Yijun’s mutilated body toward the door, positioning yourself in a defensive position as feet thunder up the stairs. 

You bare your teeth, knowing this is it. Knowing Soonyoung hasn’t come quickly enough but it doesn’t matter, because you warned them and they are safe. Your penance for destroying him has been paid in half, though never full, and -

Soonyoung appears in the doorway. He looks like an angel from hell, wreathed in shallow light that comes from the first floor, his silver hair stained with blood. He’s in black trousers and a short-sleeve shirt with his favorite band on it - one of his sleep shirts. 

For less than a second, he stares at you. Then, Soonyoung dives at you, dropping the gun in his head and grabbing you. You hadn’t realized that you’d sunk to your knees, looking up at him as he grabs your face, turning you this way and that. He’s asking you a question but you can’t understand him, dizzy and confused and in so much pain that the edge of your vision wavers. 

“Baby,” Soonyoung begs, his voice warped and echoey. “Hey, I need you to answer me. Where are you bleeding?” 

“S’mostly his,” you answer, feeling how heavy your tongue is. Your thoughts are sticky and slow. Concussed, you think. “Maybe broke my nose.” 

Soonyoung’s thumb brushes gently across your cheek, smearing blood. “Can you walk if I help you?”  You think about it. Shake your head. “Okay. I’m going to lift you up, alright? Tell me where it hurts so I don’t hurt you, Baby.” 

“Ribs.” 

“Left or right?” 

You pause, breathing in and feeling the pain bloom. “Right.” 

“Okay, tell me if I hurt you, okay? We’re going to take you home.”

“Thank you.” Soonyoung hesitates at your tone, looking at you. His eyes are vulnerable and open, more raw than you have seen them since you were kids. “You didn’t have to come get me.” 

He stares and stares at you. The world fades a little and Soonyoung lifts you toward him. “Of course I did,” he murmurs, so soft you barely hear what he’s saying. “When you say jump, remember?”

“Where's this?” You mumble, looking out the window at a small home behind high gates.

Soonyoung has been driving for an hour and a half, his silence nearly unbearable as you both left the city. You don’t ask about where you’re going or if everyone is okay - you don’t think you can stomach the answers right now. Not while in the car. 

Rain mists through the window as Soonyoung rolls it down to punch in a code in front of the gate. It flashes green and the metal starts to roll open, revealing a large but modest house - at least by Syndicate standards. He drives through, gravel crunching beneath the tires. 

“Safe House. Very few people know it exists.” 

“Are we in Levin?” He nods his head. You’ve never been to the small town, but you know it’s mostly a vacation village on the coast. “Who does this place belong to?” 

“Me.” You look at him, surprised. “I bought it when you… got engaged.” 

It’s like a stone sinking to the bottom of your stomach. You don’t have to ask why. It was his failsafe for you, a way to get you away from Yijun if you had just asked. 

You should have asked. Should have just thrown it away and called him, should have begged him from your knees- 

Soonyoung turns the car off and opens the door. You open yours, rain pattering against your red skin. He rushes to help you out of the car, hands hovering around you, unsure where to touch. It makes you want to sob. You want him to touch you anywhere - everywhere. 

Instead, he leads you to the house, a hand wrapped firmly around your forearm to keep you upright and steady as you walk up the steps. 

A porch light flickers on. You cringe away from the brightness, squinting through your fingers as the door opens to reveal Vernon standing on the other side. His eyes flicker between the two of you and he nods, stepping to the side to let you in. 

Warmth blankets you as Soonyoung shuts the door. You’re standing in a small entryway with a staircase to the right leading to the second floor. Straight on, the lights are on, revealing a sliver of the living room. You can hear voices pause as they hear the door shut. 

Angel materializes in the doorway, her hair damp. She’s dressed down like she recently showered, her eyes on you as she heaves a sigh of relief. “It’s Hoshi and Baby,” she calls over her shoulder, coming forward. 

Soonyoung nudges you toward Angel gently. “Take her to shower.” 

“Yeah of course.” 

“Where’s Seungcheol?” You ask, turning to look at Soonyoung, who is already looking at his phone, holoscreen lighting up his face. 

“On his way. The main crew is safe.” He hesitates. “We lost Lan, Old Man Vero and Yoon Minji.” 

Your heart seizes, eyes darting to Angel. “Angel, I’m-”

“Jeonghan is taking care of it.” For the first time in years, you hear a note of pain in her voice, raw and real. Angel has - had - a complicated relationship with her step-mother, the matriarch of the Yoong family. “I’ve already satiated my vengeance. This is his. Come on.” 

You hesitate. Soonyoung nudges you toward the stairs gently by the hip, suddenly looking tired. “Go. I’m going to find a doctor for that nose.” 

“Is it terrible?” 

He huffs, trying not to laugh. “No, but it needs to be fixed. Go. Shower.” 

I love you. It’s on the tip of your tongue, right there. I love you. It’s all you can think about, thundering in your ribcage. I love you. It consumes you, makes you freeze up, staring at him. I love you. 

Angel tugs your wrist delicately and breaks the spell. You follow her up the stairs. She’s careful with you, making you take one step at a time. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her so gentle, her eyes softened with worry and her touch on you delicate as butterfly wings. 

Upstairs, she leads you into a room that smells like vanilla and sandalwood. Soonyoung. This room belongs to Soonyoung. You spot his subtle touches, a gaming computer shoved in the corner and powered off. A closet with a metal door that is under lock and key. A single gun sitting on top of the nightstand. 

But what makes the room spin is the touches of you. A teakwood candle sitting on the dresser. Weighted blankets folded at the end of the bed. A bookshelf with all your favorite titles. A jar of saltwater taffy in multiple flavors. 

Angel hesitates by the bathroom door, watching you drink in the room. You turn to her, shaking your head, confused and mouth open. She nods. “I know. I didn’t know either.” 

“I could live and die a thousand times and never deserve him.” 

“I’m not the best judge of character, but I don’t think I believe that to be true.” 

Angel isn’t the best judge of character. But she also doesn’t say things she does not mean. She’s the last person in the world to offer words of comfort, and yet she’s standing in the bathroom staring at you like she can see through you, right down to the very core. 

Maybe she can. Seeing what is rotting people on the inside and sniffing out their weaknesses is what she does best. 

Instead of pointing out where you hurt, she manages to get you into the bathroom. It’s spacious but not grand like what you’re used to - it’s small. Safe. She starts the shower and backs away, helping you get out of your bloody clothing. 

Everything hurts so bad. Your ribs ache, the bruising on them blotchy and horrendous as Angel peels back your shirt. She thankfully doesn’t react - she’s seen worse and done worse. Suddenly, you realize why Soonyoung picked her to help you. She’s steady, her fingers sure as she holds your arm while you pull your pants down.

You don’t dare look in the mirror. From what you can see without it, it’s already bad enough. Yijun hadn’t dealt fatal damage, but you know you’re bruised and covered in dry, flaking blood. 

Angel leaves you in the shower, shutting the door to go sit on the sink, a guardian willing to give you space but ready to help when you need it. Shaking, you shuffle into the stream of hot water, hissing when it hits your skin. 

It’s both heaven and hell. The hot water feels so good on your aching muscles and throbbing pain, but it also hurts when the water taps against your nose, reminding you that it is indeed broken. You suck in sharp air as you slowly begin to work your fingers into your skin, turning the water pink as you wash off the blood. 

Blood that belongs to you. Blood that belongs to Yijun.

Yijun. 

You’re not sorry you killed him. It was satisfying and necessary. But… the weight of your grief comes crashing into you. You could have killed him years ago and ran. Could have gone crawling back to Soonyoung and asked for his help. Could have told him that the only reason you ever agreed to marry him in the first place was to protect him. 

None of it mattered. You bought him a paltry couple years worth of protection and for what? To shackle yourself to a man who thought little of you, who wanted to fuck you until you gave him another version of himself, who wanted to kill you at every moment because he knew you didn’t respect him and because he was afraid of you and the way you command respect from your family, but he never did.

All that time you’d made yourself smaller for him. Held back your bite. Hid your teeth. Mourned Soonyoung everyday, knowing that you’d never touch him again, that he would never kiss you again, that you’d never wake up in the morning when he got home from work and crawled into bed with you.

A potential lifetime of happiness, one of your own making, wasted on a promise that they broke anyway. 

For nothing. It had been for nothing, you’d hurt Soonyoung for nothing, shut him out, promised you would never leave him and threw him away, forced him to jump for you, forced him to leave you when he said he wouldn’t all for nothing nothing nothing nothing notHING NOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHING-

Angel’s arms are around you. You startle, looking up to see that she is in the shower fully clothed, holding you to her. You hadn’t realized you’d been crying - screaming - in the shower. She presses you closer to her, the only way she knows how to tell you that she’s got you. She’s there. She understands. 

You crumble, leaning heavily on her as you let it out, sobbing. Your throat is raw, your face throbbing each time you squeeze your eyes shut. Angel says nothing, content to hold you while her clothes soak up the water, weighing her down as you let out your grief in full, ugly waves. 

Eventually, the water starts to get cold and your tears start to dry up. You sniff and groan, the pain in your face so poignant that it can’t be ignored. Lifting your head from her shoulder, you glance at her boots, soaked and murky red around the edges.

“Can I tell you something?” Angel asks, voice low. You nod. She hesitates, putting the words together before she says, “He’s going to accept you back. He’s going to do it with no conditions, and ask nothing of you. You’re going to want to torture yourself and beg for his forgiveness and deny yourself of him because you think you should be punished, that there is not a god powerful enough to hurt you the way you deserve.”

You blink in surprise. Angel isn’t religious, despite the nickname. She also isn’t overly emotional or wordy. But you see the severity in which she tells you this, see the pain in her eyes. You remember that she has demons far older than yours, ones that have followed her since childhood. 

And she’s right. She reads you like a book, seeing the fucking pain radiating inside of you, the desire to be punished and hated and whipped- 

“Let him take you back.” Her words are firm. “Don’t make him punish you. Don’t believe for a second that Soonyoung wants to make you pay. He doesn’t. He doesn’t care what you did or why. Just… let him have you. You’ve endured enough.” 

You nod. “Alright. I’ll try.”

“Good. Um - can we get out of the shower though? It’s very cold in here.” 

You laugh, immediately followed by a groan. “Please don’t make me laugh. I am in so much pain.” 

“Yeah, let’s go get you some drugs, dude.” 

The three Syndicates of the city are officially at war. Of all the news that has poured in over the last few days, this is the least surprising. When you’d seen Seungcheol that first night after everything went to hell, he’d held you close and promised that he would kill every last Kim in the city.

He had also told you he was proud of you. Not just for surviving Yijun long enough for Soonyoung to come get you, but for being able to warn the family what was coming. Your single warning alone had saved them a great deal and wounded the Kim Syndicate more than you could understand. 

The days following your father’s death are strange. It doesn’t feel like he’s dead - at least, you haven’t truly processed it yet. There are things that demand your attention like being seen by Dr. Ymir for your fractured nose and bruised ribs, and the accounts and logistics of what being at war with the Kim and Yong family truly means. 

On the fifth day at the safe house, you go back home. Seungcheol makes you ride with him, unwilling to let you out of his sight these days. You’re the only two members of the Choi family left, and it’s up to the two of you to rally the troops and remind everyone what the mountain can do. 

Seungcheol replaces your father as the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. Typically there’s a small ceremony to pass the torch so to speak, but there’s no time for that. Seungcheol is buried in problems and trying to maneuver the family into a favorable position, but it’s hard - the Yongs and Kims have been preparing this for a while. 

You’re suddenly given a job again. Fresh in his position leading the family, Seungcheol needs those he trusts by his side, immediately appointing you as the Architect of the Syndicate. There’s no one he trusts more with the finances and the logistics of the businesses under the Choi banner and who have pledged to his family. 

With Yoon Minji’s death, Jeonghan’s takes his rightful side as the Wisdom and second in command to Seungcheol. It’s like you’d always known it would be as a kid, but it brings you no joy to see the two of them together in an office until the early hours of the morning, worn at the edges and sick with the grief they’re ignoring to push forward. 

With no surprise, Seungcheol immediately promotes Soonyoung to the lead military position, rising from Sword to Sentinel in a single night. It’s the same position his father held under your father, and Soonyoung takes it with steely resolve. 

It also means you don’t see him. You move back into your old room at home. At first, it doesn’t feel like your room at all because Soonyoung isn't in it. He had moved into your room when you first started dating, spending two years in that bed with you. Now, he’s taken up residence in his room down the hall, so close and yet the distance feels larger than ever. 

Of all the problems mounting for you to solve, Soonyoung is the most important. You know he shouldn’t be. There are a thousand other things that you need to figure out, like how to assure that the businesses you own in and near the Kim and Yong family territories won’t go under or be attacked, or how to assure that payment to the family won’t increase now that there’s a fight. 

Your days are filled with countless meetings, assuring loyal patrons that the Choi Syndicate will not fall and will not fail them, and that the Choi’s protect their own. You can see the fear in people’s eyes - the city hasn’t had the big three at war in a long time. Already the city officials are cracking down on Syndicate activity to try and establish order. 

It’s farcical at best. 

Squeezing your temples between your fingers, you lean back from the desk in your newly appointed office - which is really just your father’s. It feels weird to be in here. It still smells like leather and sweet tobacco, a little bit of smoke hanging in the air. 

The last time you’d been in this office, you’d fallen to your knees and begged him not to make you marry Kim Yijun. Now you sit at the desk, hanging up the phone as another call ends - not as bad as the first, but not as good as you’d hoped. 

Quickly, you scribble down a summary of the call to give to Seungcheol. You know he’ll read every word you write, determined to hear each concern of those under Choi patronage, whether they’re valid or not. 

At the sound of the door opening, you glance up. Soonyoung sticks his head in, surprising you. You straighten in your seat, heart racing when you take him in. His silver hair has grown longer, tapered a bit at the neck. He’s dressed in all black but he’s clean, indicating that he showered not that long ago. You thought he would be out all day like usual, looking at your watch to see he’s back far earlier than normal.

“Is everything alright?” You start to get up and he rushes to you, hands lifting to help you. “I’m alright. I am well on the mend.”

He chews his lip, nodding before dropping his hands hesitantly. “Everything’s fine I just.” He hesitates. “Do you want to eat lunch?” 

“Oh. Sure.”

Soonyoung’s smile is tentative. Shy. You give him one back, following him out of the office while sending a quick note to Jihoon that you’ll meet with him later. He sends a thumbs down back, less than pleased that you’ve not made time to talk to him about your potential murder charges for Yijun. 

“Are you busy? We don’t have to-”

“It’s just Jihoon.” 

“Ah. He’s persistent, are you sure-”

“I want to have lunch with you, Soonyoung.” 

He blushes and you grin. “Alright,” he murmurs. “When you say jump and all that.” 

That makes you pause. “You don’t have to do anything I tell you.” 

“What?” He stops walking, confused. 

“You don’t have to ask how high if I tell you to jump... I’m wrong a lot of the time. I don’t… want to be that.” 

I don’t want to repeat my mistakes. You don’t say it, but you think Soonyoung senses it when he says, “I’ve always wanted to jump for you. That hasn’t changed.” 

Let him take you back. Don’t make him punish you. 

Angel’s words come back to you so you swallow down your guilt and you nod, giving him a tentative smile that he returns. This time, he holds out his hand to take you in the kitchen. You take it, the feeling of his fingers wrapping around yours both foreign and familiar. 

The way he holds your hand in his makes you tremble. It’s something so simple and benign and yet you’re screaming on the inside, looking at where your fingers twine together like it’s everything, like it’s the only thing. 

Lunch consists of very badly burned grilled cheese. You don’t care because Soonyoung makes it, insistent that he wants to and that he can. He’s good at a lot of things, particularly on the spectrum of murder and weapons, but he is terrible at putting bread, cheese and butter in a pan. 

You eat it anyway, burnt bread and all. He sits next to you, his stool pulled so close that your thighs touch. You want to reach out and brush your fingers across his face, down his neck, through his hair. You want to touch until you’re grabbing, grab until you’re pulling. 

Instead, you let him lead this dance, too afraid to initiate. 

Let him take you back. Don’t make him punish you. 

You don’t, but you can’t let go of the fear of rejection. Can’t bring yourself to toe the line beyond what he’s giving you, which is more than you ever dreamed of. So you accept when he offers to take your plate, fingers brushing over the top of your hand either by design or by accident you don’t know. His touch makes you shiver and he notices, pausing. 

Slowly, you look up at Soonyoung. His eyes are dark and misty as ever, churning with emotion that you’re a little too afraid to read. Instead of taking the plates to the sink, he sets them down and reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. 

A sob works its way up your throat but you force it down. You will not cry over this. You will not make him comfort you. 

“Are you afraid to touch me?” His question is gentle. You nod, eyes fluttering shut as his thumb brushes back and forth across your cheekbone. “Why?” 

“I… want to so badly. I just want it to be your choice.” 

“I want you to.” You open your eyes. His earnestness is right on the surface of him, rippling for you to see. “I’m dying for it. Please.” 

Soonyoung’s please sounds like that morning he’d begged you all that time ago. It freezes you in place, heart beating like a prey animal in fight or flight. He steps closer, his breath on your forehead when he whispers, “Please.” 

Slowly, you bring your hands up to his wrists. Licking your lips, you place your hands on him. His eyes close. His skin is warm to the touch and you feel him tremble as you brush your hands upward, tracing his forearms, his corded biceps. You brush your fingertips over the sleeves of his shirt and toward his neck until you’re cupping his throat, your thumbs resting against his hammering pulse. 

You close your eyes, remaining still. Both of you remain that way, his hands on your face, yours on his neck. You’re shaking under his touch, feel his breath against your forehead. His fingers add a little pressure to your face, careful not to hurt you where your bruise is finally fading on your nose as he turns you to look up at him. 

Soonyoung licks his lips, eyes open. “There is not a second I didn’t love you.”

And there it is. The admission that he never hated you. You bet he tried - you know he tried. You know the inside of Soonyoung’s soul better than you know your own, no part of him hidden to you even with time. 

“I don’t care why you did it,” he continues. “Not anymore. Not after everything. I don’t care about any of it. I just… want you.”

“Soonyoung-”

“I know you’re sorry. I know you hate yourself. I know there is guilt eating away at you. Get over it, because none of it changes how I feel. I love you. You’re mine. I don’t want to leave you again. You cannot make me.” 

“I know. I won’t make you.” 

“Good.” Soonyoung presses his forehead to yours gently. He’s careful not to knock noses with you too hard, aware of the pain it’ll cause. “I cannot do any of this without you.” 

“I know.”

Soonyoung’s mouth is tentative when it presses against yours. Your grip on him tightens, leaning forward into the kiss. It is everything - the only thing. You feel something wet on your face, thinking that you’ve got another nosebleed, but when you pull away, you realize it’s because Soonyoung is crying.

Crying for the first time since his parents died. 

You stand up from the stool, gripping the back of his neck to pull him toward you. He melts under your touch, letting you meld your mouths together. He tastes like his burnt sandwich and like him, his mouth warm and wet against yours. Vanilla and sandalwood invade your senses, overwhelming as you grip him for dear life, never wanting to let him go.

He doesn’t want to let you go either. His grip on your hips is crushing, fingers digging into flesh and bone as though he can force you to become one. The thought makes you dizzy. You slide your fingers in his silk-soft hair, wrapping the strands around them to pull lightly, pull him closer, pull him to you, pull him back. 

Soonyoung whines against your mouth and you break the kiss, panting. “Take me upstairs,” you whisper between peppering kissing against his mouth, his bottom lip, the corner of his lips. “Please take me upstairs.” 

He does. Soonyoung grabs you by the hands, tugging you toward the stairs that lead to your room - the room you used to share. The room that still smells like him, even if faintly. He takes you to your bed, where you’ve spent hundreds of nights with him, and lays you down gently like he has a million times before. 

Soonyoung touches you like you’re holy. His hands skim over you in worship, they scratch you in penance, they hold you in reverence. He slots himself between your knees, stealing a kiss from you like it’ll breathe new life into him, bare him anew, purge him of sin. 

You love him. You love him you love him you love him you love him you love him -

A moan leaves his mouth when your nails drag down his back. He is quaking under your touch, his mouth hungry but careful against yours, wanting to swallow you whole but knowing you’re hurt. You know he won’t break you but you wish he would.

There’s time for that later. Now isn’t the time for rough and biting. Now, Soonyoung peels the shirt from your skin, immediately covering your arms, chest, collarbones, shoulders in kisses. You vibrate under his touch, lashes fluttering as he sucks at the sensitive skin of your neck, tongue pressed flat to your pulse as he tastes you. 

You tug at his shirt and he complies, leaning upward to toss it. He’s back on you in a second, pressing you close, hip to hip as he tangles his tongue with yours, drinking you in. His touch ignites a fire and you’re burning, a complete inferno as you drag your fingers up the hard contour of his stomach to the firmness of his chest and around to his shoulders. 

“I love you,” he mutters against your mouth, rolling his hips into you. You let out a breathy sound and he groans. “Fuck I love you. I missed you. I love you.” 

“Please,” you beg. He understands, burying his face in your neck and biting down lightly. You feel like you’re going to burn up under him, an out of control blaze while his fingers work the buttons on your pants. “Never let me go.”

“Never.” 

Jeans scrape down your legs, his hands following. He drags his blunt nails down your thighs. Your hips twitch upward, loving the scratch, loving the way he touches you, loving him. He returns his mouth to yours, unable to get enough of your kissing. 

Soonyoung’s hand slips between your thighs, the pads of his fingers pressing against your clit through your underwear. You keen for him, pulling at the long strands of hair at the back of his neck. He moans in tandem, his pleasure driven by yours, loving the way you sound as you start to come apart under the gentle circle of his fingers. 

He only teases you a little, knowing the friction with the fabric between his fingers and your aching cunt isn’t enough. He finally decides that you’ve had enough, hooking a finger to pull them aside, the cool air hitting your sticky folds. 

Before you can complain, Soonyoung’s touch is there. He drags his fingers slow-soft from top to bottom, circling your clit slowly. He’s not in a hurry, dragging it out as he sucks your tongue into his mouth, sliding his fingers back down to press against your entrance but not breach it. 

You whine and he grins, pulling your bottom lip with his teeth until he lets go with a pop. “I love those sounds you make.” 

“Feels good,” you admit, head falling to the side as you close your eyes, enjoying the pressure he puts on your clit, wiggling his fingers back and forth. Your thighs close around his hand but he’s unbothered, drawing more arousal from you as he plays. “Fuck, your fingers.” 

His laugh is throaty and he shakes his head, attaching his mouth to your jaw where he sucks at the skin. He makes himself comfortable with nibbling toward your neck, both of his hands reaching for the sides of your underwear to pull them down. You let him, folding your knees toward your for a moment to help. 

Soonyoung’s hand returns to the wetness between your legs except this time, he’s not teasing. He presses a finger in deep and you whine, hips wiggling. You squeeze down on his finger, pussy spasming as he begins to pump leisurely, like he has all the time in the world.

And he does, doesn’t he? The work is far from done and the world is falling apart, but it doesn’t matter because he’s here with you. Because Soonyoung is yours again - always has been - and because he’s drawing your mouth toward his to kiss you messily, swallowing down your moans as he presses in another finger. 

Now you crumble beneath him. You can’t stop your hips from coming off the bed. You loop your arms around his neck, keeping him close, breathing the same air. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes impossible dark and half-lidded as he hooks his fingers, dragging them against that sensitive spot. 

You cry out his name and he grins. Now he knows where it is, pressing repeatedly as he fucks you on his fingers, driving you directly toward an orgasm. Your breathing becomes labored, your legs squeezing his hips, your fingers digging into his shoulders. It is so good that you think you might die, letting him yank you toward release. 

Soonyoung kisses you again and you come crashing down, cumming around his fingers, body squeezing, ignoring the ache in your ribs and the millions of other places that you’re sore. He doesn’t slow down, scissoring his fingers to pry you open, to stretch you more.

“Soonyoung,” you gasp, voice wrecked. “Soonyoung Soonyoung Soonyoung.” 

“Just like that,” he agrees. You can tell he loves the way you say his name, knows that on your tongue it means something different. “Come on, one more.” 

You’ll give him anything he wants. Never again will you deny him. You let him work you up again, feeling the way your breath gets stuck in your lungs and you shiver, another wave washing through you as you shudder around his fingers. 

When you start to pant, he pulls his fingers out. You feel the wet schlick as he does, immediately hating the way you feel empty, hating the way he leans away from you. Whining, you reach out toward him, needy. He hushes you with a brief kiss, only standing to rid himself of his jeans and briefs. 

Using the fingers covered in your arousal, Soonyoung pumps his cock, smearing a mixture of your slick and his precum down his shaft as he kneels on the bed again, taking his place between your thighs again. You watch with hooded eyes as he rubs the head of his cock through your messy folds, a moan dripping from your lips. 

Soonyoung is beautiful, skin flushed and a sheen of sweat on his arms. His stomach flexes and clenches as he presses the tip of his cock into your entrance, both of you taking a shaky breath together. He slowly slides home, the stretch of him driving you wild, pussy fluttering around him until he’s slotted to the hilt. 

He hangs his head, panting as he plants his hands on either side of your head. He takes a moment to collect himself, shaking. You turn your head to the side, kissing his wrist, peppering any skin you can reach with your love while your hands drift up his back, feeling the muscles flex. 

When he begins to move, you nearly die. It feels so good, your breath lodged in your throat. He lowers his face to yours, kissing you as gently as he fucks you. His thrusts are deep and timed, not hard or fast but slow and measured, pressing all the way in as he uses his weight to his advantage. 

Your fingers turn to talons on his back, nails biting his shoulder blades. He’s precise, the tip of his cock finding the right angle to make you nearly sob in a matter of a few thrusts. It’s familiar. Home. 

Soonyoung lowers himself to his forearms, pressing your chests together. The friction of his skin against your pert nipples makes you squeeze around him, his name a whisper on swollen, kiss-bitten lips. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing shakily as he continues to fuck you.

You feel him everywhere, feel everything that he wants to say. Soonyoung has never needed words to communicate to you and he doesn’t now, the way he shakes as he lets out a wispy moan enough, the way he slides one of his arms under your back to cradle you to his chest, closer closer closer.

He wants to be closer and so do you, arms around his neck, drawing him to you. You never want to let him go, never will let him go. You’ve learned your lesson and this, right here with him is the only thing that matters. 

“Shh,” he hushes. You realize you’re crying, tasting salt on your lips when he brushes his mouth against yours. “I know.” 

“I love you.”

“I know.” 

Soonyoung’s pace picks up only a little bit. It’s enough, sending you careening toward your third orgasm. He can feel it - needs it. He chases after your high, catching your mouth to brush his tongue against yours, rolling his hips until you’re clenching around him, whining into his mouth, lips buzzing against his.

He hums against you, waiting until your pussy lets go of its vice grip to speed up a little bit, the wet smack of his hips against yours loud and lewd, driving him forward until he comes, your name on his lips, his face buried in your neck. His thrusts slow, both of you trembling like leaves until he finally stops, remaining seated inside of you. 

“I will love you for a thousand lifetimes,” he mutters against your mouth, with no intention of moving. “You know that, right Baby?” 

You nod, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. “Leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung,” you rasp, quoting yourself that first night he finally caved, where he finally told you that he couldn’t exist without you. “I will never go anywhere ever again.” 

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SYNDICATE ROLES

Tower - title for a Syndicate boss Wisdom - title for the second-in-command to a Sydicate boss Sentinel - title for the main military leader of a Syndicate Riots - title for a member of the Syndicate responsible for sowing discord Swords - title for a member of the Syndicate who is a fighter/military role Chariots - members of the Syndicate who make deals/act as business brokers Rooks - members of the Syndicate who collect debts/lead the extortion practices Justices - members of the Syndicate on the legal counsel Hanged Men - members of the Syndicate who betrayed their Syndicate Watchers - members of a Syndicate who are spies/informants Patrons - citizens who pay homage/have an alliance/are under the protection of a Syndicate Vanguard - official members of the Syndicate who don't have specific roles but do work for the Syndicate

[angelfic]

OMG STOP THAT LAST TIM DRABBLE FOR THE VALENTINES THING REKINDLED THIS IDEA THATS BEEN LINGERING IN THE BACK OF MY MIND

Also I’ve been seeing this idea everywhere so I think it’s a sign

So could I get a Tim fic where the reader (gn if that’s okay!) gets this new lipstick and tests how pigmented it is on Tim, like how many kiss marks they can leave before the colors gone and they have to reapply it

Sry if that didn’t make any sense and ty in advance if u choose to write this 🙏🙏

tim drake x reader

warnings — kissing :) suggestive themes ig, established relationship

a/n; writing for tim lately has been so fun it gives me a better high than any class a drugs could. so serious abt that btw. I loved writing this so much anon like I wanna kiss you on the mouth just for requesting it

Tim is very much used to you trying things out on him by now. Your new perfumes, to make him walk past you so you can imagine what people smell when you’re around. Face masks so you’re not doing it alone. Different shades of your nail polishes painted on his fingernails because, well, that one’s mostly just for fun.

Even that one time when you wanted to try out a new heatless overnight curl method and had him sat on the couch for hours with his head full of tightly wound velcro rollers before you realised you’d done it wrong.

So when you plop down beside him on the couch with a freshly delivered package, he doesn’t even bat an eye.

“What’s that?” he asks politely, only sparing you a quick glance up from his laptop.

“New lipsticks,” you say, spilling them out onto your lap and picking one from the bunch to twist it up and reveal the velvety pigment. “I wanna test out the longevity.”

He hums, long fingers typing away. “Sounds fun.”

You grin. “Glad to hear you say that, because you’re helping.”

He pauses, slowly turning his head towards you and considering the lipstick in your hand. Then, he sighs. “Fine,” he relents, going back to his laptop, but not before pouting his lips out for you.

“Not like that,” you snort, gently shoving his face away. He glances up again, a confused crease etched between his brows.

“Then….?” he trails off, quirking a brow. “How am I helping?”

In response, you uncap the top of the lipstick and carefully apply it, using your phone reflection to stay within the lines. You press your lips together, before flashing him a smile. He parts his lips, no doubt to compliment you like he always does when you ask him about any new product. Before he can say anything, you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek, leaving behind a mark in the shape of your lips.

Tim blinks, touching his cheek where the red imprint of your lips remains and rubs the pigment thoughtfully between his fingers. “Ahhh. I see.”

“You’re my test subject,” you confirm, shifting closer. “My own little lab rat. Let’s see how many kisses it takes before the colour is gone.”

His ears flush, a muted version of your lipstick, but he doesn’t pull away, instead angling himself towards you and shifting his laptop out of the way. “Well,” he murmurs, a small smirk playing on his lips. “For science.”

You laugh, leaning in once again. This time, your lips land on his jaw. Then his temple. The high of his cheekbone. His neck.

By the tenth kiss, Tim is practically radiating heat, fingers curled slightly into the couch cushions, staying obediently still. By the fifteenth, he’s closed his laptop entirely, shoving it to the other end of the couch.

At twenty, he becomes visibly antsy. “Still pigmented?” he asks, voice slightly hoarse.

You lean back to inspect your handiwork, taking in the array of kiss marks scattered across his face and neck. “A little faded,” you say thoughtfully, tilting your head. “Might need to reapply this one.”

Tim huffs a laugh, shaking his head at you. “Of course you do.”

When you reach for the lipstick, which had ended up in his lap somewhere around the twelfth kiss, he catches your wrist and tugs you close enough to brush his lips against your own in a barely-there kiss. “Think I prefer it like that,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips at the sight of your lipstick faintly colouring his lips. Then you grin, eyes sparkling.

“Well, that’s too bad. We have a test to finish and about… four more lipstick shades to go.”

Tim sighs dramatically, but the corners of his lips twitch upwards. “Fine. But only because I’m committed to the cause,” he says, face as serious as he can muster with it covered in kiss marks.

And with that, you reapply the lipstick in pink this time, ready to start the experiment all over again.

[arbitrarykiwi]

I crave more thangyu x reader before/ no game! au your fic is 😫😩😫😖😖😫😩😩😣 *SCREAMS*

What's Better Than One Boyfriend?! TWO Boyfriends!!!: II

OH WHAT A DELICIOUS MEAL YOU BOTH REQUESTED!! Omg I got so much love on the original two boyfriends post!! And I’m so happy I did because these are so fun to write. I was sitting here kicking my feet writing this fr. I combined two requests for this one, I hope yall don’t mind🙏 as always thank you for requesting, I hope you enjoy!! ORDER UPPP🗣️🗣️

Warnings: 18+ , drug usage , closed polyamory , swearing , some smutty parts / mentions of sex near the end , cum play , spit , probably ooc Thanos and Nam-Gyu, read at your own risk

You can find my other thangyu Two Boyfriends request here

You knew that agreeing to this relationship you’d have to please two people, give attention to two people, and you were well away of their chaotic personalities. But you did not expect that really at no point in your life are you alone now. Sure, if you’d ask nicely to have some time alone- they’d pout and give it to you- otherwise, if it wasn’t both of them with you; one of them was.

Thanos was like a ticking time bomb that could go off at any minute, he was always hyper and ready to run off with you and take you on various adventures. He was for sure an ass man, his hand always on your ass when you’re walking or bending over. He’s slapping your ass playfully as you three all head somewhere to eat lunch. When he’s walking with you his hand is 100% in one of your back pockets. He’s shitty with gifts, never really knowing what to get. He normally leaves the gift buying to Nam-Gyu. But, with his rap career picking up, he is always giving his dark haired counterpart money and telling him to buy something he thinks you’d like. And to also make up for his poor gift giving skills he often takes you shopping! Taking you wherever you like and telling you to buy whatever you pick up. He likes to say he’s not as touchy as Nam-Gyu, not as needy, but he always has to be touching you if he’s near you. Hand on your waist, thighs touching when your two sit together- just some sort of contact.

Nam-Gyu is the tamer of the two of them, balancing out the erratic nature that Thanos seems to bring to the table. Don’t get it twisted though, Nam-gyu can be just as chaotic. He’s walking into your apartment randomly and sneaking into your bed while you’re asleep because. Vary rarely do you three sleep apart, so the one night you all had work late- Nam-Gyu is texting Thanos to meet him at your apartment so they can use the key they have to enter and get to exactly where they belong- curled up next to you or on you. Nam-gyu is the one that is down for a nap whenever. You just want to stay the whole day in bed? Bet he’s getting up to close the curtains and return back in bed with you, almost immediately going back to sleep next to you. He remembers little things you said you wanted to buy but didn’t, leaving small gifts on your bed, hiding a package he got for weeks before he shows you it’s a hard to get item that you wanted and talked yourself out of because it was so expensive. And like the most perfect opposites they are Nam-Gyu is a huge tits guy. He’s laying on them, holding them, his mouth is sometimes just on your pert nipple for over an hour just because it relaxes him. When you’re walking somewhere with him- probably on the way to meet Thanos at some restaurant he found recently that he wanted to try- his hand is holding yours, fingers interlocked and pulled into his jacket pocket.

They just genuinely enjoy being around you. They swear you’re a drug yourself- claiming they get withdrawals without you nearby. Even if you wanted to go to the bathroom, just wanting to take a warm shower by yourself to relax- Thanos is on the counter of the bathroom sink, legs kicking back and forth aimlessly while Nam-gyu is sitting on the toilet lid. They’re passing a blunt back and forth, hot boxing the bathroom and making it more foggy than it already was by the hot water of your shower.

They always complain it’s too hot but never leave the bathroom. And as you turn the water off and rip open the shower curtain they’re both standing up quickly, Nam-gyu is wrapping you up in a towel and Thanos is holding a blunt to your lips. You glare at them, trying your best to seem annoyed but you can’t when they’re hazily smiling down at you with hooded eyes that are tinged red- and so your mouth begins to curl up in a smile to match theirs as you inhale the smoke.

They frequently fight for your attention. Nam-gyu more so compared to Thanos; but they both still need their precious baby’s attention! Thanos isn’t a stranger to pouting to try and get his way.

There was one time that you begged Thanos to let you finally dye his hair. The purple spray he used for the look damn near every day had stained nearly every pair of sheets you had with how easy it would come off with the slightest bit of friction. When all three of you were fucking?! Forget it- you would all come out stained purple. When he finally agrees you got him sat in front of you while you sit on the living room couch. You had to put on a show of his choice to keep him still enough to let you work your magic. Your hands work diligently against the bleached strands of hair, applying the vibrant purple dye over the entirety of his head.

The whole process was taking forever. It was a lot of steps!! And Nam-Gyu was getting fed up that Thanos seemed to have all your attention. Thanos himself didn’t have your attention captured- it was the bright purple dye that you had to apply with precision, less you stain him, you, or the furniture purple more permanently than his spray color he used to use- but Nam-gyu doesn’t notice the difference. All he sees is you’re not paying attention to him. He’s leaning down on the couch, slipping under your arms that work against Thanos’ hair to lay his head on your lap, looking up at you with a scowl. He’s trying hard to seem angry but all you can think about when you look down is a sad cat who just wants to be pet.

“What?” You ask between giggles as you look down at Nam-gyu. “It’s been hours…” he whines, “haven’t touched me at all.” He finishes, a glare still on his face. “‘M sorry baby..” you laugh again, only making him pout more but you couldn’t help it! He was just so cute. “I’m almost done! You were also the one complaining the most about being purple after we all fuck soooo- ‘m really doing this for you“ you draw out teasingly, “‘m almost done.” You say, leaning down and lifting your leg to raise his head- allowing you to place a quick kiss on your lips. You pull away and the kiss seems to make him relax a bit but there’s a look of deep thought on his face.

You quirk your eyebrow up at Nam-Gyu questioningly, your hands paused above Thanos’ head. “What if I want purple hair.” He mumbles, it’s quiet but it has both you and Thanos shocked. Thanos is spinning around to look at Nam-gyu, an accusatory eyebrow raised. “You’re jus’ being needy. You don’t want purple hair, just want ‘er to touch you.” He teases, poking Nam-gyu’s cheek with a laugh. Nam-gyu is swatting Thanos’ hand away and huffing. “No…” he grumbles, very obviously lying. He’s sitting up from your lap, “Was just thinking we could all match….i dunno, put a couple purple streaks in my hair and yours.” Nam-gyu says pointing to you.

And that’s how you ended up with purple streaks in your hair and Nam-gyu ended up with the underside of his hair purple. It was honestly adorable, all three of you matching. You took many photos of the three of you showing off your new style, you have a whole album dedicated to the three of you and your matching colored hair As time goes on you all keep it, eventually swapping colors- of course with Thanos choosing the color since he had the majority of his hair colored- it’s all about compromises!

They also take turns paying for your nails. They both seem to have their own kink for seeing your nails wrapped around their cocks or raking down their chests; and when they realized you went every two weeks like clockwork to get a cute new design, they begin taking turn handing you wads of cash to get your nails done. Who ever was paying would be the one to pick out the design. Thanos more often than not picked vibrant colors. Purples, greens, yellows- he even had you get them painted to match the pattern of his nails once. He loves French tip designs- something about them drives him crazy. He’s asks you to get crystals added or even a ‘T’ charm. Nam-Gyu usually picks dark colors. He loves seeing your nails all black with a deep blood red ombré or maybe deep blue set chrome details- of course like Thanos, he’s asking you to get his initial hidden somewhere on the design.

On weeks they’re feeling generous, they’re putting their heads together to find an extravagant design they both want to see wrapped around them. It’s one that has many add-ons, each nail a different design, different colored crystals littler the inspiration picture like a regal vault full of gems. And of course it costs more but they don’t care! When you finally leave the nail place and send them a picture of the nails they chose, not so innocently posed as if you had something cylindrical in your hand- they’re spamming your phone begging you to come back to your apartment so they could see your nails in person (and see them wrapped around their cocks).

In the relationship, surprisingly Nam-Gyu is the cook. He even ties back his hair and wears an apron. Oddly enough he seems to be able to make whatever you and Thanos want. You could simply be lounging on the couch with them, limbs entangled as you mumble about a specific craving you had- next thing you know Nam-gyu is crawling on the couch and heading to the kitchen. You can hear him rummaging, opening and closing the cupboards, beginning to call out various ingredients. Thanos-who knows his roll in the situation begins to type out a list on his phone, adjusting you off his arm and positioning you on his chest. His arms are wrapped around your back allowing you to feel the minuscule movements of his arms as he types.

When Nam-Gyu is done, he’s returning to the couch. Thanos is begrudgingly pulling himself off the couch, lifting you up a bit as he gets up, setting you in Nam-gyu’s lap. He grabs the back of your head pulling you to him and placing a quick kiss on your forehead before pulling back. “I’ll be back soon, the list isn’t too bad this time.” He chuckles as he grabs his keys off the hook by the door.

Nam-Gyu smiles when the door closes, pulling your back into him and beginning to place kisses all around your face in neck. It tickles, the rapid light touches has you giggling and squirming in his lap. As much as he loves the relationship you three have- he cherishes the moments he gets alone with you and has your attention all on him.

Thanos is off to the grocery store to pick up the ingredients that Nam-gyu requested. However, despite how many times he’s done this, and even him saying the list was easy before he left- he’s still texting Nam-gyu pictures of the items in rapid succession to make sure he’s getting the right item. It’s adorable really.

And as always, the meal is fucking phenomenal. You’d say it’s 5 star Michelin worthy but you’re sure that even the most expensive meal at the most luxurious restaurant could never compare to the full, warm flavor of the home cooked meals that Nam-Gyu makes. Anything he makes is wayyy better than any top chef- you know it and you always tell him. The sleeves off his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, showing off his tattooed arms as he cooks. You’re happily hugging him from behind, standing on your tippy toes to hook your chin over his shoulder and watch him cook. You place a kiss on his neck right below his ear. “It’s not gonna be good if you keep distracting me pretty.” Nam-Gyu would hum out, pausing to turn more towards you and pull you into his side, turning his head and leaning down to place a kiss on your lips. He pats your ass a couple times and gently pushes you over to Thanos. “Help him break down the weed, I gotta focus on dinner.” The dark haired male says with a chuckle.

You’re pouting and walking over to Thanos who sits on the counter opposite the stove. He’s wearing a pair of shorts and has no shirt on, allowing you to see all his tattoos. You look up at him with a frown, “He doesn’t like me…” you playfully whine, it causes the both of them to laugh. “Mhm sure…he’s in an apron cooking for you because he hates you so bad.” Thanos teases, reaching up to cup your face in his hands, squishing your cheeks together. “You’re jus’ oh so needy, Señorita. There’s no satiating you- ever.” He laughs, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. You hum against his lips, standing up taller to press your lips against his harder. As he pulls away he tilts his head towards the rolling tray and the bag of weed that sits on the counter to his left, “Break it down f’me, sweetheart? I gotta break down the cigar.” He says in a sickly sweet tone, one that you simply cannot say no to. So you nod and he smiles, packing one more quick kiss on your lips before releasing your face.

Another bonus to add to the list of bonuses you get when dating the two of them- is they’re literally the best people to rant to. They’re both effortlessly sassy. They both think you could do no wrong- allowing you to bitch and complain about the littlest things involving work issues, friend drama, or even something as niche as a weird fixation you found on an internet deep dive.

You were lying on your back on the bed, your head at the foot end, one hand folded lackadaisically behind your head and the other holding the blunt to your mouth. When you exhale your hit you’re ranting on about a co-worker who pissed you off at work, how you have to do extra work because the others don’t do your fair share, even telling them about the workplace romances that bloom in the office. They’re sat on the edge of the bed, nodding along to your words, looking down at you- one of them on either side of you- and passing the blunt between each other and then back down to you with ‘mhm’’s and ‘ohhh’s coming out of their mouths.

“So yeah, she comes into my cubicle and looks at the picture I have of you two on my desk- you know the one from new years last year where you guys are on my sides kissing my cheek.” You ramble, interjecting to describe the picture to make sure they know exactly what one you’re talking about. “Oh yeah I remember that, you looked so good in that dress.” Thanos says, free hand running gently over stomach under your shirt. “It’s a good fuckin’ picture. How cute that you have it in your cubicle.” Nam-gyu adds.

“Mhm.” You nod, “so anyway she asks about it and I say ‘oh it’s me and my boyfriends’” You say repeating what you told your co-worker. They both smile when they hear you say it, waiting for you to continue. “And this bitch gives me the nastiest look and says ‘as in both of them? that’s disgusting’” you say angrily mocking her nasally voice and rolling your eyes.

“What a fuckin’ bitch!” Thanos says with conviction, “She’s prolly’ mad she can’t even get one man to stay with her let alone two.” Thanos scoffs, passing the blunt down to you. “Yeah…ain’t she the cunt that you said fucked the entirety of the IT department? Don’t mind that bitch. The fuck does she know. ” Nam-gyu muses, recalling other stories about this co-worker you told him in the past. He’s rolling his eyes at the thought of that cunt saying anything like that to you.

To add to the ways they contrast each other, while Thanos is all for PDA, Nam-Gyu isn’t. Thanos has no problem with slapping your ass in public or gripping your face to pull you into a messy kiss on the subway- he’s addicted to you, when he needs a fix he’s going to get it. Nam-gyu, although not big on PDA, he makes it known he’s with you- hand in yours, small kisses to your temple or quick kisses to your lips. The difference between the two of them gives you the best of both worlds truly.

And while Nam-Gyu posts you all over his social media- tweeting about you, he adds photos of you with songs attached to his instagram or his Snapchat, posting various photos of the three of you or just you to his instagram to boast about you to his followers, Thanos doesn’t. It’s not that Thanos doesn’t post you- he does! Just not to the extent Nam-Gyu does. Maybe it’s a photo of you and Nam-Gyu across the table from him at a fancy restaurant in the middle of a photo slideshow or a few Snapchat videos of him waking you up, finding your sleepy mumbles adorable. When the rap career kicked off he gained a lot of followers and he’s painfully aware of the crowd he attracts- he doesn’t like the prying eyes of sleazy men in the comment section of the photos he does post of you.

Sometimes sleeping in the same bed with them is miserable. You love them, you really do, and most nights you three are tangled in a cozy pile of limbs that lulls you into the deepest, most blissful sleep ever. But let’s be honest, you’re dating two men who love various substances- and with that comes the occasional night of restless sleep. They both will twitch, jerking against you and pulling you out of your sleep. Thanos snores and Nam-gyu drools- sometimes you find it cute, endearing even, but other nights it only makes you toss and turn more. Thanos has a tendency to run hot, becoming a human furnace that causes you to wake up and throw the covers off you. Nam-gyu runs cold, some nights you have to put a blanket over your body between the two of you to stop your shivering, wanting to hold him but genuinely not being able to sleep when his body that feels as if it’s made out of ice is engulfing you.

As much as they know you, you know them better. One of your favorite things is stopping by the gas station before you return home after a long day of work to get them a little gift. You lazily, but politely- it is 2am after all, anyone working that hour deserves some grace- ask the man at the counter for a pack of camels and a sour watermelon vape. You giggle at the strange look he gives you but you thank him, pay him and head home.

When you come home and enter your room you wish you had your phone out to take a picture. Nam-gyu is lying on top of Thanos, head on his chest. Thanos has his arms around Nam-Gyu slowly scrolling on his phone. They’re both just in a pair of boxers- making the view all the more enticing. You smile widely, “hey my loves!” You laugh, kicking off your shoes excitedly. Nam-Gyu is rising off of Thanos with a yawn and looking back at you.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

“Oh hell yeah! You’re back!”

You nod and begin to take off your coat. “You’re home later than normal. Where’d you go after work?” Nam-Gyu asks as he’s pulling off of Thanos to sit next to him, rubbing his tired eyes and resting his back against the headboard. You raise a suspicious eyebrow- Nam-Gyu was always so on top of your schedule, your itinerary of day to day life burned into his internal clock; he knew if you strayed from the normal.

“You caught me!” You say teasingly, “I made a lil detour on my way home” you finish, reaching into your purse and grabbing what you got for them. You toss the vape and the cigarettes on the bed, following in the footsteps of the packaged nicotine you jump onto the bed. “Ohhhhhhh!!! You’re the best!!” Thanos yells, immediately beginning to open the box. “God you’re a fuckin’ angel” Nam-gyu says, his words muffled as he uses his teeth to tear the plastic off the carton of cigarettes. They’re both squeezing you between them, covering your face in excited kisses.

They have albums upon albums of photos and videos of you on their phones. It’s images on you sleeping on their chests, candid pictures of you waking up tiredly-your hair a disaster and the camera clicks right as you rub the sleep out of your eyes. They have those silly .5x zoom pictures of you from above- Nam-gyu honestly loves taking them when you and Thanos are holding plates of whatever he cooked, looking up at the camera as he points his phone downwards. He always post the images on his instagram, it becoming a little ‘thing’ for him to show off his new dishes that he cooks.

They also have an insane amount of filthy photos of you. They botch can’t help the thrill they get when they record you in the most desperate and debauched situations- only for their eyes to see. Both of them have albums dedicated to your nudes and the photos / videos they take of you. Admittedly, they have the most photos of your cunt raw and messy from the both of them cumming in you.

If you asked both of them, they’d tell you it’s their favorite place to cum, without question. Nothing can ever compare to the feeling of your tight walls sucking them in as they cum balls deep inside you. Even better if you’re taking both of them at the same time!! Good GOD the amount of storage the videos they take of you taking the both of them deep into your tight pussy is actually insane. It’s not every time they do it, it would destroy you if it happened every single time the three of you fucked, but every so often when they both fuck you, their cocks rubbing against each other while they fuck into your sloppy cunt, they’re most likely recording it to look back at later.

If not cumming in your cunt- their favorite place to cum will differ. Thanos loves to cum on your ass or on your face- something about painting your skin with his white cum drives him insane. He loves blowing his load on your ass then rocking his cock in the valley of your ass as the rest of his spend costs your back. His hands are on the globes of your ass, squeezing and smearing his cum all over you.

Just like Thanos, Nam-Gyu is fucking messy. His next favorite place to cum is in your mouth. But he doesn’t want you to swallow it. Sure, he loves watching you stick your pretty pink tongue out to show him the pool of white before you swallow it like it’s honey, but what drives him crazy- straight up feral- is when you take your tits in your hands and push them together, opening your mouth to spit a filthy mix of his cum and your spit onto the swell of your breasts, your hands and those fucking perfect manicured nails squeezing your skin and spreading the mixture on your skin.

And like the perfect girlfriend you are- you match their freak perfectly. Learning and compiling every little thing that makes them tick to get the most reaction out of them in bed.

With the two of them, you’re never alone, you’re always entertained, and you’re oh so spoiled!! Two boyfriends are so much better than one!

I LOVE getting to write about my Thangyu x reader thinks!! It’s so fun >:) thank you for the request!!! As always, much love - <3 kiwi !

For the next few requests (in order of when I received them) we have: thangyu x thick!reader smut , Nam-gyu x naïve!reader smut , Nam-gyu x reader angst into fluff , and Myun-Gi x Reader x Thanos smut

If you’ve requested something and don’t see it yet on the ‘next up’, don’t worry! I’m moving through them and as I post the next requests will be added! I have the next couple days of work so I’m moving through them slowly but surely!

Requests are still open just be aware that it may take me a bit to get to them <3

[waynes-multiverse]

Am I excited for this? YES! How excited? VERY!!!

Gah, I've been really looking forward to this one! Love me some 40s and The Clock! 😍 (One of the reasons why I can't wait for Vought rising lol 👀)

Love how the first line of this story is an easter egg. You never cease to amaze me, Alex 🤓

Law Offices of Winchester, Bialystock & Bloom

*furrows brow* The Producers?? 🤔

Dean couldn’t help but curl a finger around a steel ball on the abacus sitting at the head of the mahogany desk, right next to Sam’s nameplate. He let it fly. The abacus began to clack as one ball hit the other. Sam looked up from the deposition he was writing to give his brother a wry brow raise.

Oh yes, we all remember that episode. Of course he would 😂 Poor Sam lol

If he was honest, entertaining young ladies was eating into the wallet in his trouser pocket, and the hustle and bustle was starting to be a little much for him.

Uh-huh... Dear Lord he needs help 🙈

Btw, I've been doing my own 40s research for a fic and came across the contraception question. Idk why but condoms and methods of that time freak me tf out. Wondering what your experience with that was (if you came across it) lmao 😂

Both of them had enlisted, but Sam had spent most of his time in London while he was deployed, helping British Intelligence. Dean had clawed his way out of Normandy, and later, out of the Ardennes—the last offensive before the end.

Ooof so rough 😮‍💨 PTSD and seeing all the dirty shit that goes on during a war is really brutal 😢 (My grandpa was in WWII and told a lot of stories when he was still alive)

And then they were seperated too and didn't even know what happened to the other. Heartbreaking 😭

“It’s still two minutes until closing. At least, according to my watch.”

The sass! Already love her 😂🩵

He subtly glanced down at your crème-colored blouse, neatly tucked into the long, burgundy skirt (with lipstick to match), your modest, classy heels, and the way you wore your hair.

*vibes* 😍 (even though I know MMM is set in 1958 lol)

He stood from the desk and switched his cigarette to his other hand, so he could shake yours.

You don't know how fucking weak it makes me that he smokes in this. That vice will be the death of me 🫠🔥

Dean glanced his way, his brow raising once again. Sam knew what he was thinking, just as he saw how you frowned as well. But there was a reason why he asked, and it wasn’t to be unkind.

Aww yeah, Sam's just doing his job. Not easy having a vagina in 1945 and dealing with dicks... 🙄

You had been slowly deflating the more he spoke, but now your expression became stony.

I get abusive vibes from shitty husband. There's more to it than cheating. Either he's emotionally abusive, physically or threathening to be. She seems like she wants to leave quick and quiet, fearing retaliation 👀

I loved how "damn" counted as cursing 😂 (Darn it!)

He was getting an idea of what kind of man your husband was, but Dean couldn’t be too sure of what the man was capable of. He’d hate to hear of a girl like you getting hurt over a few papers.

Yes, thank you!!! I knew Dean's spidey senses would turn on. (And I know that darn rat bastard can't hurt her now as long as soldier!Dean's around ���)

“I was a sergeant, ma’am.”

Melted 🫠 (I legit die every time I write "Sergeant Shaw" in TCF, but I married a military guy myself, so makes sense I can't resist a uniform and a rank 😂🥵)

“He claims to be working late virtually every night of the weekdays,” you said, “but he usually comes home stinking of alcohol.” Your eyes dimmed, even with the pretty lights shining in them. “He was in the Army as well. A corporal. He’s had a hard time adjusting to being back home, and I know that… He doesn’t sleep very well. And do you know, he had a hard time finding work for a while too. Luckily, he has his father’s business to fall back on.”

I love the 1940s cadence, by the way! You can tell it's a different time period the way the characters speak, the words they choose, and how they phrase things. So well done, my friend! 👏👏

“He manages a meat production plant, of all things,” you said. “Ah, located in the Meat Packing District, I presume?”

Mama's smelling mob activity... 🤌

“Hmm. Guess I didn’t see the point,” he replied with a mild shrug. It hid a deeper, darker well inside him. The part of him that hadn’t thought he’d make it back home after the war.

Such a Dean statement lol

I do hope he won't feel so hopeless for long ☺️

“I was a nurse,” you said eventually, earning his attention. “I was there when they liberated Paris.” Dean turned to you with newfound interest lighting his green eyes. “You were at Normandy.” You nodded. “For a while. Almost a year before D-Day.”

Aww, they could've almost met. I love these little coincidences when people meet each other. It's fate 😍💕

“Because the fact of the matter is, Sergeant, words don’t move me anymore.” You picked up your gaze from the ground, and you met his. “Flattery is just a pretty way of lying, and I’ve grown to really, truly hate lying.”

I feel so bad for her. I hope Sam (and Dean) can help her soon and she can find happiness again 😢❤️‍🩹

“Hmm. No real loss there then.”  Your teeth clenched. “If I thought you were actually going to be home when you said you would, maybe I would make a rump roast with all the fixings.” 

The fucking nerve of that man... 🤬

Michael huffed, shaking his head. “Sometimes you got a real mouth on you. One of these days, you just might regret it.”

I'm too busy plotting a gruesome murder in my head to properly get into how much I despise that guy 😂🙈

This was such an amazing start to this series! The storyline is so intriguing and the world-building is, well... simply otherworldly. You really took me on a journey to the 1940s here. Speechless, honestly 🩵

I so can't wait to see what else you have in store with this, but I think there will be lots of yelling from me lol 😅

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: My day tomorrow is going to be a bit packed, so I decided to release this a bit early for you guys! So here we go! The first chapter of yet another new series, my first ever 1940s AU. 🥰 I hope you have fun on this one, because I sure did. Again, very much inspired by The Clock (1945), starring Judy Garland and Robert Walker. 💜

Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: For this chapter it’s “Cry Me a River” by Ella Fitzgerald

Word Count: 3.9K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, mentions of cheating, PTSD, historical tidbits

✨ Series Masterlist

🎵 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 1: Legal Grounds

November 2, 1945

Dean idly read the pamphlet stacked with others on his brother’s desk, which advertised his new and successful enterprise.

Law Offices of Winchester, Bialystock & Bloom

What do you know? His brother had his own office, his own business, and his name on a pamphlet.

Dean couldn’t help but curl a finger around a steel ball on the abacus sitting at the head of the mahogany desk, right next to Sam’s nameplate.

He let it fly. The abacus began to clack as one ball hit the other.

Sam looked up from the deposition he was writing to give his brother a wry brow raise.

“So this is what you do, huh?” Dean remarked, crossing his arms.

Without his jacket, his suspenders were on display over his shoulders. His red pinstripe tie was still in place, but his white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows. Meanwhile, his brother preferred to keep himself more presentable with his sleeves down to his wrists. Jacket on.    

Dean glanced around the office, nodding at the line of bookshelves behind Sam, framing him as the bookish academic he’d always been. There was limited seating in here though, just a spare chair in front of the desk, and another to the right of it. Dean stood on the opposite side.

“If you’re bored, all you have to do is say so,” Sam said. “Which is strange, considering we’re smack dab in the middle of a city that never sleeps.”

He was right, Dean could concede. His little brother had given him a veritable list of things to do in New York City: visit the park, go to the zoo, see a picture show, visit a nightclub, or sample a host of restaurants that Sam knew Dean would probably enjoy.

He’d seen a lot of this place in the week that he’d been here visiting Sam, but a good deal of it he’d either spent alone, or with any willing young lady Dean came across, thanks to the demands of this office. If he was honest, entertaining young ladies was eating into the wallet in his trouser pocket, and the hustle and bustle was starting to be a little much for him.

“You don’t get tired of it?” Dean asked, gesturing to the out there beyond them. “The, uh…the lights, the noise, all the people?”

Sam picked his head up from his paperwork to consider the question. “No, I like it. Keeps my mind busy, and…I guess it makes me feel alive, you know?”

Dean supposed he could understand that, so he nodded.

Sam wasn’t fooled though. He thought he could tell what was running through his brother’s head, watching him fidget, and turn his head a bit sharply when a bus honked loudly outside the office’s glass doors as it thundered past.

It had only been two months since the end of the war. Two months since he and Dean met back in their family home in Lawrence, Kansas after three years fighting on two different fronts, in two different countries.

Both of them had enlisted, but Sam had spent most of his time in London while he was deployed, helping British Intelligence. Dean had clawed his way out of Normandy, and later, out of the Ardennes—the last offensive before the end.

Their experiences might as well have been worlds apart, but one thing remained the same: it had been three years in which neither brother knew if they’d see each other again.

Now, Sam saw the signs. Dean seemed a bit jumpy, overstimulated, but willing to be here to spend a little more time with Sam before he went back home. Guilt prickled in Sam’s gut. 

“I’ve got some work here to finish up, but afterwards let’s go to dinner,” he suggested. “Maybe see a show?”

Dean’s lips flickered at a smile. “You’re burning both ends of the candle. You know that, right?”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, when there was a knock on one of the glass doors—at the entrance to the small building. Their heads turned, and through the open door of his office, they spotted you standing there in the evening light. You wore a wide-brimmed hat on your head and a scarf underneath, wrapped over your hair and under your chin to shield your face. You knocked again with a hand covered by a leather glove, more persistently.

Cocking his head in confusion, Sam stood from his desk and left the room to let you in. Dean hung back and sat on the corner of the desk to wait. He withdrew a cigarette from the pack and a lighter from his pocket as he did so, but he heard you talking with his brother by the door.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed, miss,” Sam informed you.

“It’s still two minutes until closing. At least, according to my watch.”

“…Well, I suppose you’ve got me there.”

“So can I come in? I need to speak to a lawyer.”

“You sure it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid it can’t, sir.” Your tone was firm, and it more than implied that you wouldn’t be moved. Sam paused then, perhaps to take a steeling breath.

“All right. Come with me, please.”

You later followed behind him through the hallway and into the office. With a lit cigarette between his fingers, his arms crossed, Dean took note of you. He subtly glanced down at your crème-colored blouse, neatly tucked into the long, burgundy skirt (with lipstick to match), your modest, classy heels, and the way you wore your hair. His brows subtly raised. He’d met quite a few girls this week, but he hadn’t seen a lady like you in quite some time.

Should’ve shaved this morning. The thought was accompanied by the way he swiped a subtle hand over his prickly chin.

You gave him a cursory glance in turn, and offered a polite, “Hello.”

He stood from the desk and switched his cigarette to his other hand, so he could shake yours.

“Hey there. Dean Winchester,” he said. He offered a smile with no small amount of charm. “Pleased to meet you…”

You dutifully gave him your first name only. He found that a little strange, but you soon slipped your hand out of his and focused on the nameplate on the desk, followed by Sam himself.

“So you’re brothers,” you realized. “Do you work together?”

Dean scoffed. “Nope, I’m just here to distract him.”

Sam tossed him a sidelong glance. There was a subtle edge of bitter truth in there somewhere, and you didn’t seem to miss it. You looked between the two men, a hint wary.

“Well, as I said, I’m here to speak to the solicitor,” you said. 

“That would be me,” Sam nodded. He went to his desk and sat down behind it, gesturing for you to do the same in front of him. You obliged him, smoothing your hands down your skirt once you were seated. “How can I help you?”

You met his eyes with a directness that surprised him a little.

“I want to divorce my husband,” you said.

To say it shocked the room would be an understatement. Behind you, Dean gave his brother a pair of raised brows. Sam didn’t allow himself to react too much in order to remain professional, but he still tilted his head, blinking, before he focused on you again.

“What’s your husband’s name?” he asked.

“Michael. Michael Milligan.”

“Why do you want a divorce, Mrs. Milligan?” 

Here, your gaze fell to the folded hands in your lap. 

“I have reason to believe he’s been unfaithful,” you quietly replied.

Once again, there was a pregnant pause.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam said. His sympathy was genuine, because he could see the way you’d hesitated to say the words, like they embarrassed you, shamed you, and saddened you all at once. 

“But I have to ask,” he added, “do you have proof?”

Dean glanced his way, his brow raising once again. Sam knew what he was thinking, just as he saw how you frowned as well. But there was a reason why he asked, and it wasn’t to be unkind.

You sighed. “What kind of proof?” 

“Pictures. Letters. A witness. Something of legal standing that we can use as leverage and as grounds to grant you a divorce, whether he wants it or not,” Sam said. 

You let out another heavy breath through your nose. “No, I don’t have anything like that.”

“Then what makes you so sure he’s steppin’ out?” Dean chimed in. By now he was leaning against the wall, off to the side where he could smoke with the window cracked open. It let in the sounds of cars and distant honking, people traversing the sidewalks. 

You turned in your seat to give him a tight look. “If you must know, there’ve been…signs. I won’t trouble you with the details, but I’m sure.”

You met Dean’s gaze, and then Sam’s firmly. 

“So will you help me?” you asked him. Sam nodded.

“Yes, I’ll look into your husband and try to find some evidence of his…extracurricular affairs.”

Your lips pursed. “And how long will it take?”

Since you were being so direct, Sam levelled you with honesty.

“It may take time,” he said. “Realistically, we’re looking at months, even after I find what we need… It would be easier to legally separate.”

You had been slowly deflating the more he spoke, but now your expression became stony.

“Mr. Winchester,” you began. “I don’t want to just be separated. I don’t want to live in our apartment, let alone share his bed or wear his last name.”

Despite your best efforts, your voice began to shake. Tears welled up and stung in your eyes.

“I don’t want anything from him, other than his signature on the damn papers,” you said. “The case is that I can no longer tolerate that man in my sight, much less in my life. Will you help me? Or should I look for another lawyer who will actually do his job.”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. For his part, Dean couldn’t remember the last time he heard a woman curse. Despite your outburst, the tears clinging to your lashes stirred both men.

“I understand, Mrs. Milligan,” Sam said. “I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

He began to look for his handkerchief, but you retrieved one of your own from your purse and quickly dabbed at your eyes, sniffling. You were embarrassed.

“What about your fee?” you said, withdrawing your checkbook. “I, um…I have a little money stashed away. I’ve always worked, you see.”

Sam nodded and went over what his rate would be going forward. Once the two of you came to an agreement, you signed the first check right then and there, even though he felt bad for even taking it from you.

You were still sniffling, and twice you dabbed under your eyes to make sure your face was dry. When you handed over the check, your hands shook, just a little. Sam wouldn’t tell you that he discounted his usual rate.  

Again, he mentioned that he would need some time first to investigate your husband and begin collecting evidence for your case. He asked you for any documents you could safely bring him of your finances, for example. You agreed to do an investigation of your own.

“Just be careful,” Dean cautioned. He was getting an idea of what kind of man your husband was, but Dean couldn’t be too sure of what the man was capable of. He’d hate to hear of a girl like you getting hurt over a few papers.

Dean put out the bud of his cigarette on the ashtray lying on the windowsill. He pushed off the wall to approach where you and Sam were getting to your feet. You gave Dean a nod of acknowledgement.

“I will,” you agreed. “Thank you both. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time, but I’ll be heading home now.”

“Did you take a bus or a taxi?” Sam asked.

“Oh, I walked,” you replied, and you checked your watch as you gathered up your purse. You headed for the coatrack, but Dean got there first, helping you into your beige wool coat. It went nicely with the burgundy you had on, namely on your painted lips.

“Thank you,” you said to him, but you still didn’t smile. You were a hint demurer now. It seemed with Sam’s promised help, the fire had dimmed behind your eyes and your tongue.

“How about I give you an escort, make sure you get home okay?” Dean found himself offering. “It’s getting pretty late on a Friday.”

Sam shot him a knowing look, but Dean ignored him, instead focusing on your face.

You hesitated. “It’s a bit far though. Out of your way, I’m sure.”

“All the more reason that you shouldn’t go it alone at this time of night,” he argued.

You considered his offer, and him, with a quick perusal. You seemed to be judging for yourself if he was trustworthy. Dean kept his posture straight, yet relaxed. Maybe he’d liked what he saw the moment he took you in, but after hearing your situation, he felt for you. It really was just an honest offer to walk you home.

“Where did you serve?” you asked. “The Army, the Navy, or the Air Forces?”

The question took him off guard for a beat, but he answered you.

“The Army,” he replied.

“Your rank?”

“I was a sergeant, ma’am.”

You looked at him a little more shrewdly, then you relaxed.

“I might’ve guessed,” you said. “All right, Sergeant. Let’s go then.”

You buttoned up your coat and turned to leave the office. Dean shot his little brother a raise of his brows and a what do ya know? kind of smile. He grabbed his dark brown jacket and hat and followed you out.

Sam’s smile was more reserved, with a shake of his head. He closed the door behind you and Dean and locked it. He still had some work he wanted to finish before tomorrow, and Dean’s little show of chivalry would give him time to do it.

Dean had his hands in his coat pockets as he walked with you down the long city sidewalk. Night had drawn into the November sky, but with all these lights, he couldn’t see many stars. It was also cold as all hell. The frigid wind slapped at him every time they turned the corner of a building, snapping right into his bones.

Still, he supposed there was a kind of attractiveness to the city at night. The stores and their signs were all lit up gold and other neon colors. Couples and families walked together, all done up nice for wherever dinner reservation or movie they were trying to get to. It begged the question of what your husband was doing right now if he didn’t notice his wife out at this time of night.

“Where’s your husband tonight, if I might ask?” said Dean.

You shot him a look, reading between his lines.

“He claims to be working late virtually every night of the weekdays,” you said, “but he usually comes home stinking of alcohol.” Your eyes dimmed, even with the pretty lights shining in them. “He was in the Army as well. A corporal. He’s had a hard time adjusting to being back home, and I know that… He doesn’t sleep very well. And do you know, he had a hard time finding work for a while too. Luckily, he has his father’s business to fall back on.”

Dean tried not to show how much your words resonated with him. He didn’t think it a good thing to have common ground with your husband, if he was the kind of man you said he was.

“Yeah? What’s his business?” he asked.

“He manages a meat production plant, of all things,” you said.

“Ah, located in the Meat Packing District, I presume?”

“You’d presume right.”

Dean nodded. “I get it. I inherited the family home back in Lawrence. I just need to figure out what’s next.”

“Lawrence?”

“Kansas.”

“Oh, the Midwest,” you inclined your head. “What’s it like there?”

Dean scoffed. “Dusty.”

You almost laughed at that. At least it earned him your first smile of the night.

“Do you have an idea of what you’ll do for work?” you asked.

Dean chuckled. “Not just yet. Didn’t plan that far, you know?”

“Why not?” you asked.

“Hmm. Guess I didn’t see the point,” he replied with a mild shrug. It hid a deeper, darker well inside him. The part of him that hadn’t thought he’d make it back home after the war.  

You turned to him then, and you saw it behind his eyes. The two of you walked in silence for a little while as the neighborhood blocks began to shift and change, becoming somewhat quieter, more residential. Dean put himself between you and the sidewalk when a taxi zoomed by too close to the curb, resting a hand on the small of your back for protection.

Part of you trilled inside at the small touch, but you immediately beat that reaction down. Dean Winchester was an attractive man, to be sure. His hair was a lighter brown than his brother’s, and shorter too. He had an air of roguishness about him, even though he’d been perfectly pleasant so far.

But by the way he eyed you when you came into the law office, you had a strong feeling he was a flirt. You had no room for that in your life, and not only because you were still a married woman.

Yet, there was something about him that…well, made you curious.

“I was a nurse,” you said eventually, earning his attention. “I was there when they liberated Paris.”

Dean turned to you with newfound interest lighting his green eyes. “You were at Normandy.”

You nodded. “For a while. Almost a year before D-Day.”

Dean let out a short, if humorless chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, that’s where I was. At that time, at least,” he said. You gave him a similar look; respect, and perhaps finding a kindred spirit.

“I did what I could do before, during, and afterwards,” you said. “I think that’s all we can do now, Mr. Winchester.”

“Call me Dean,” he said. “If you like.”

A second smile almost tugged at your lips. You nodded in agreement.

“Dean,” you said.

In another ten minutes, he was walking you up to your porch at your apartment building. You travelled up the four small steps, while Dean stopped at the second one. For the first time, you had the vantage point above him as you turned on your heel to face him. You were about to thank him when he shook his head, scoffing.

“This guy must be dumb, deaf, and blind, sweetheart,” he said.

Your face warmed in a blush, and you gave a rueful smile when you realized what he meant. He was looking up at you like someone who couldn’t understand your plight. You knew the feeling.

“That’s kind of you, but you don’t have to do that,” you said.  

His brows furrowed. “Do what?” 

“Try to make me feel better,” you said, scuffing the toe of your sensible heels against the brick platform. Dean crossed his arms. 

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because the fact of the matter is, Sergeant, words don’t move me anymore.” You picked up your gaze from the ground, and you met his. “Flattery is just a pretty way of lying, and I’ve grown to really, truly hate lying.” 

It took him a moment, but Dean nodded.

“I guess that’s fair,” he said. He had to stop himself before he proved your point with a smart word on your pretty smile. Although, it wouldn’t have been a lie. He tipped his hat up. “Goodnight then, Mrs. Milligan.” 

You stopped him from leaving with just your voice. 

“Please,” you said, your eyes briefly closing. “Just…call me by my name. My first name.” 

Dean slowly smiled. “Perfect. I like your name better anyway.” 

This time, your smile in return was genuine, if tinged with amusement. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” you replied.

He gave you a charming grin and a more casual soldier’s salute. Then he stuck his hands back in his pockets, turned on his heel, and began to walk back the way he came. You couldn’t help but watch him go for a second or two. His legs were slightly bowed under his slacks, you noticed.

With a blush, you shook your head to rid yourself of those silly thoughts. You closed the door.

That night, Michael came home late, as usual—this time at two in the morning. He reeked of alcohol, also per usual, but this time when he rolled over towards you in bed to say goodnight, you stiffened. He also smelled like a woman’s perfume. Expensive stuff. 

This was one of those signs you hadn’t wanted to tell Sam Winchester. Frankly, it was crude and embarrassing.

“Sorry it’s so late, darling. Got held up,” he said, kissing your shoulder through your nightgown. His fingers played with the ends of your hair while you laid facing away from him.

You squeezed your eyes shut. You were fighting every instinct you had inside you that wanted to recoil from his touch and bolt out of the bed. When just a few months ago, his touch was all you craved, almost desperately so. 

“Where were you?” you asked. Somehow, you kept your voice steady and calm. “You weren’t at the office all this time.”

“Had a couple of drinks with the guys after,” he said with a shrug. “Sorry. The night got away from us, but, uh…I’ll be home on time for dinner tomorrow.”

With your back turned to him, you were able to roll your eyes.

“What’d you make tonight, outta curiosity?” he asked.

“Egg salad sandwiches,” you replied flatly. 

“Hmm. No real loss there then.” 

Your teeth clenched. “If I thought you were actually going to be home when you said you would, maybe I would make a rump roast with all the fixings.” 

Michael paused, but then, he grasped your shoulder, slowly turned you around in the bed until you were facing him. His face was sterner. 

“Excuse me?” 

You remained quiet. Your gaze travelled downwards, avoiding his.

Michael huffed, shaking his head. “Sometimes you got a real mouth on you. One of these days, you just might regret it.” 

He turned his back on you, laying on his side. You did the same while trying to stem your tears.

When did this become your life?

AN: Oof, sorry for all that angst at the end there, but I hope you liked the first chapter! Did you enjoy soldier!Dean and soldier/lawyer!Sam? Do you want to find a dark alley for Michael yet? 😅

And are you ready for what's coming up next? 😘

Next Time:

Dean both could and couldn’t believe it. He might not have been a saint himself when it came to the fairer sex, but if he went through the whole ordeal of marrying one, let alone a straight-shooting woman like you, beautiful, clever…

“Geez,” he muttered. “He could’ve at least waited until the ink dried on the certificate.” 

Sam nodded in agreement. He picked up the receipt to the Cotton Club, and he shot his brother a grin.

“Wanna go to the club tonight?”

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[ldydeath]

Let's Make This Count | Kang Dae-ho

Summary: You've entered into Squid Game to help pay off some debts, not expecting your best friend, Daeho to be there. You both will do anything to proect each other, no matter the cost.

Warnings: Typical squid game stuff.

Author's Note: This is my first time writing Dae-ho. If you'd like to be tagged in future fics of his, please let me know.

Life has been hard lately, which is why when you’d been presented a chance at fixing at least one of those things, you’d jumped at the chance. You however, hadn’t been expecting this to be a game of death. You’d heard player 456’s cries to listen to him at the start of the game, but like everyone else you had ignored him. That was until that girl moved during red light, the chaos that had ensued after that had you praying to gods you didn’t believe in to keep yourself safe. You’d been in Squid Game for a few hours now and already had the blood of your competition splattered over you. You were definitely in over your head and needed to get out. 

Thankfully, the pink suits had announced a vote and you prayed everyone would agree to send you home. You’d been standing for what felt like hours waiting for your number to be called, listening to play 456 plead with everyone to leave the games. He’d been here before so you were definitely going to take his advice. Once your number was called you made your way quickly to the front, voting to go home. You may have needed money, but you’d find another way. You weren’t going to die over some debt.

As you were putting your x badge on your jacket your eyes caught sight of a familiar, gorgeous face and your breath caught in your throat. No. He couldn’t be here. Why was he here? Daeho’s eyes met yours and his brows crinkled in confusion. You shook your head and made your way to your spot. There were too many people around to talk comfortably yet and you weren’t exactly sure it was safe to announce that you knew someone else in the games. That mother and son duo seemed to be the only exception to that rule, and you weren’t about to chance it. After play 001 voted, the pink soldiers announced that there would be another game in the morning, panic rising in your body.

Trying to act normal, you turned to head towards your bunk when you felt a hand on your arm “don’t touch-“ you let out a breath, thankful you didn’t have to fight for your life when you came face to face with your best friend. “What are you doing here?” He hissed, panic in his eyes. You shrugged out of his grip, crossing your arms defensively. “I needed money. What are you doing here?” 

His hand went to his hair, fixing the bun that sat on top of his head and nodded in the direction of some empty bunks.  “I also needed money, why else would I be here?” You raised a brow as you followed him towards the private spot. You wanted to know what he could possibly need money for, but Daeho was so private you knew you’d never get that answer. Even if you were his best friend. “You shouldn’t be here, Dae.” You sighed as you leaned against the wall. 

You couldn’t protect your best friend, not from this.  After Daeho enlisted in the Marines you had a never ending supply of worry in your body for him. Constantly fearing the worst, him being here was going to distract you from staying alive. Your heart raced at the thought of either of not making it out and your eyes found his. “I can’t lose you.” It came out as a whisper but you knew he’d heard you as he moved closer to you.

His hand moved to cup your cheek, “Come on, I’m a Marine, I’ve got this. And I’ve got you. We’re going to get out  of here. I promise.” You nodded, moving to lean your head on his chest. You knew it would be bad if anyone caught you panicking but as Daeho's hands wound around your body you allowed yourself to take a few minutes to collect yourself. Perhaps it wasn’t normal to feel so much comfort from a friend, but you weren’t ready to dive into those feelings, not yet. “We don’t die.” He murmured against your hair. “We don’t die.” You repeated. He grinned at you before walking you over to your bunk, making sure nobody messed with you as you got sleep. 

The next game was a team game, Daeho took the lead in finding you a group, being the friendlier person in your duo. You’d somehow managed to end up with player 456 and player 001. You said a nervous hello and stuck close to your best friend. After you completed your task perfectly, the team cheated, Daeho pulling you in for a quick side hug as you marched forward. For a second, with his arm wrapped protectively around you, you almost forgot that you were fighting for your life inside these games. 

After the game had ended you stood with your newly found team, waiting for the next vote. You had all agreed to vote to go home again so when it was your turn to vote, you proudly hit that x and put the badge on your jacket. Almost as if on instinct, Daeho moved to stand next to you as you awaited the rest of the votes. As the final four players made their way to the front, your hand reached out, grabbing his, he gave you a squeeze in response. Your heart raced at the touch and you looked down at your entwined hands before meeting your best friends’ eye.

So, maybe you had a crush on your best friend, maybe that was why you were so afraid to lose him. Either way, this wasn’t the time to start admitting your feelings, so when he smiled at you you smiled back and pushed those thoughts down, hoping that these votes would go in your favor and you’d be able to go home. A groan rang out amongst your peers and you looked up to see that there was only one vote left and you’d lost. Your mouth hanging open in shock as you turned back to Dae.

Another game? Why would anyone want to stay here? “Let’s Go!” someone shouted from across the room and you looked around spotting the purple haired man high fiving his friend. Of course he’d be excited to stay. “Hey, look at me.” Daeho’s hand was under your chin moving your gaze back to him, your heart racing as you locked eyes. Daeho had always been in tune with your mood, and would do anything in his power to keep you calm and safe. You were the most important person in his life and even in a game of literal life and death he was going to do whatever it took to make sure you weren’t living in constant fear. “We’ll get through this one together too, okay?” You swallowed the lump in your throat refusing to let the rest of your team see you so defeated and nodded. “Yeah.” You agreed. 

“Let’s go get some food and talk strategy for the next time.” He held his hand out for you, a reassuring grin on his face and you eagerly took his hand following him to your new found team. You weren’t sure you wanted to be close to anyone else in the game, but you also knew you couldn’t keep Dae alive without some help so you were going to do whatever it took to keep him alive, even if that meant making nice with people who all had one goal in mind. You scooted closer to Daeho, your hand resting on his leg and he grinned at you as he started eating his food. You didn't care if you made it out of here or not, so long as he did.

[skzdust]

Take From Me, Leave Nothing Left

SMUT. MINORS DNI.

This fic was an anonymous request (here)! Thank you to the requester and I hope you all like it! I had so much fun writing it teehee

Title is from "Hypnosis" by Sleep Token!

Summary: You've been texting Seonghwa all day, and when he gets home, he's about to show you how mean he can be.

Pairing: Park Seonghwa x afab Reader

Includes: overstimulation, nipple play, vibrators, dildos, gagging, needy texting, creampie, pleaseeeee practice safe sex irl!

Word count: 1.7k

Taglist (Comment on a post/send an ask if you'd like to be added): @weirdowithaphone, @caught-in-the-afterglow, @palindrome969, @skzstan12345, @katsukis1wife,

@hyunjinsjeans, @somethingkindazainy, @silverstarburst, @atzlordz,

Network:@mirohs-aurora-society

Reblogs, likes, comments all appreciated!!!

Masterlist

-----

11:34am, Feb 02

You: Hiii Hwa Seonghwa 💕: Hello my love =) You: When are you going to be homeeeeee Seonghwa 💕: I have a full day my love Seonghwa 💕: There is much dancing to be done You: :( Seonghwa 💕: I’ll be home soon enough, I promise, darling You: You’d better Seonghwa 💕: xx

1:43pm, Feb 02

You: Can you hurry up with the dancing Seonghwa 💕: We’re dancing so fast, my love You: Please? Seonghwa 💕: Just be patient for a few more hours for me, doll You: Idk I really want your cock You: But I’ll try Seonghwa 💕: Good girl xx

3:57pm, Feb 02

You: Hwa, please, need you Seonghwa 💕: You NEED me? You: Yes, I do Seonghwa 💕: Patience is a virtue, doll You: Okay, but getting railed within an inch of my life is also a virtue Seonghwa 💕: That doesn’t make sense You: Please? Seonghwa 💕: I’ll be home soon, promise You: Okay, hurry back Seonghwa 💕: I’ll do my best, love

5:41pm, Feb 02

You: You going to be home soon? Seonghwa 💕: Wrapping things up now, shouldn’t be more than a few minutes! You: THANK GOD You: Was considering pulling out the vibrator Seonghwa 💕: Wow Seonghwa 💕: Didn’t know you were disobedient as well as needy. You: I’m not disobedient, you didn’t say anything about the vibrator :) You: What’s a girl to do when her man’s not here to fuck her? Seonghwa 💕: Just be ready for me when I’m home.

The door creaked open, and you practically jumped up from where you were sitting on the couch, scrolling through something on your phone. “Seonghwa!”

“Hi, baby.” He didn’t look at you, locking the door behind him and setting his bag down. “Someone’s been needy today, haven’t they?”

You swallowed, already hungry for whatever he had planned. “Yeah, I have.”

He still didn’t look at you, walking into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. “Bothering me while I’m at work.”

“I’m sorry, Hwa.”

He laughed. “Don’t lie to me, you’re not sorry.”

“I just want you.” You mumbled.

“I know.” He took a sip, finally turning around to face you. “So you’re going to get me. You’re going to get a punishment.”

“A punishment?”

“Mhm.” He tilted his head a bit. “And it was a busy day for me, so I think I deserve someone— something— to take my stress out on, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, of course.” You breathed.

He smiled, that big grin like sunshine. “Perfect, then, baby.” He jerked his head towards the bedroom. “Go.”

You scrambled to stand up and get to the bedroom, getting your clothes off and thrown into a pile in the corner. You laid yourself out on the bed, your lingerie giving you the extra bit of confidence you needed to feel really sexy.

Seonghwa walked into the room like the wolf who knew he had the bunny cornered. You could feel your pulse quicken.

He smiled, all teeth. “Aw, look at you, all ready for me.”

“Yeah.” You sighed.

He leaned over you, tangling his fingers in the straps crisscrossing your chest, taking a moment to admire how they looked on your skin before he yanked towards himself, pulling you up off the bed. You struggled to get your hands under you. “Hwa!”

“Sir.” He said, looking at you darkly. “You know to address me as sir. Don’t make that mistake again.”

“Yes, sir.” You nodded quickly.

He let go, pushing you back onto the bed. “Hands and knees.”

You obeyed his command, getting yourself into position and looking over your shoulder.

“Fuck.” Seonghwa groaned. “So pretty.”

Your breath caught as he moved to the dresser, pulling out your collection of sex toys. He selected a big vibrator and walked back over. “You want this?”

“Yes, sir.”

He laughed, mumbling something to himself as he walked back over to you. He helped you take your lacy underwear off, throwing them aside with the rest of your clothes. You inhaled as you felt the vibrator touch your entrance. Seonghwa teased you with it for a little bit, then, without warning, shoved it inside.

Seonghwa was usually one for foreplay, teasing you till you were soaked, working you up slowly. Starting with just a finger before moving onto a bigger dildo, and then finally his cock. But it seemed today he was down to business as he switched the vibrator onto its highest setting and began to ruthlessly fuck you with it.

You made a sound that might’ve been a moan or a squeak or something in between, your arms shaking at the effort of keeping you up. Seonghwa kept on going, and he started talking. “You know, you talk a lot of game for someone who can barely stay in the position I’ve asked you to. You’d think that after all of your talk and neediness you’d be able to withstand a little more than one vibrator.”

“I can!” You moaned. “I can take it, sir.”

“Oh, can you?” He teased. “Can you take more?”

“Yes!”

He leaned over you and started to play with one of your nipples. “I’m gonna overstimulate you until you’re sobbing and begging me to stop, baby. And then I’m going to keep going.”

Your mouth dropped open in a long moan, and you arched back against him.

“Yeah? You like the sound of that?” His voice was almost soft.

“Yes.” You whined.

“Good girl.” He whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the buzzing of the vibrator.

His pace suddenly turned from fast to punishing, and his hand worked harder at your nipple, overwhelming you with stimulation. It wasn’t long until you were coming with a moan, your legs shaking.

He pulled the vibrator out and pushed you down onto your front before rolling you onto your back. His eyes surveyed your form. “Beautiful, but I need you looking a bit more debauched.”

You smiled, your mind in a bit of a post-orgasm haze. “How do you intend to do that?”

“I intend to fuck your face and your pussy at the same time.”

Your head tilted back with a groan. “Fuck, Seong-sir.” You caught yourself just in time.

He ignored your near slip-up but for a twitch of his lips. “Open your legs.”

You did., opening your mouth too.

“I would tell you you’re a good girl, but you’re just taking a punishment, so doing what’s expected of you doesn’t deserve all that much respect, wouldn’t you agree?”

Before you could respond, Seonghwa pushed the vibrator he’d just been fucking you with into your mouth, muffling a noise from you. The silicone had a strange, nearly bitter taste in your mouth, and you could taste yourself all over it. He repositioned himself, getting in a good place so he could start to fuck you with two fingers at the same time as he was fucking your face. Thankfully, he didn’t turn the vibrator on, but the act was dirty enough that your entire body felt like it was on fire. You shut your eyes, settling into the sensations.

He laughed, a low sound. “Fucking slut. Do you like that? Does that feel good to you?”

You nodded, moaning as he shallowly fucked your mouth.

“Of course it does.” He continued. “You would like being treated like this.”

This continued for a while, and then he went back to the drawer to retrieve more toys, this time a gag and an even bigger dildo.

He strapped the gag onto your face, pulling on it a few times to make sure it wasn’t going anywhere, and then began to fuck you with the dildo. “Look at you, taking it like a whore. That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? My little fucktoy.”

You moaned as much as the gag would allow. You were starting to get overwhelmed, all of the sensations so potent. You could feel every nerve in your body so strongly, especially the ones between your legs.

You weren’t ready to start begging, yet. It was still on the positive side of strong, not quite edging into overstimulation just yet.

But it hit that point quickly when Seonghwa slid a couple of fingers in beside the dildo, stretching you even wider. You moaned a few times, pointing at the gag to show him you needed to tell him something. He paused for a moment to undo the straps.

“Sir, it’s— it’s so much— it’s too much.”

He studied your face for a moment before his mouth spread into a smile. “No, it’s not, not yet.”

You watched as he undid his belt and took off his pants and boxers, letting his cock free.

You let out a breath looking at it. Seonghwa still had to get off, and leave it to him to get you as sensitive as possible before doing so.

He lined himself up and smirked at you before pushing inside. “Fuck, slut, you’re so tight, you feel so good.”

He let both of you adjust for just a moment before starting to fuck you, his hips snapping back and forth into you. His mouth fell open as he fucked you, mumbling things in your ear. “You feel so good around me”, “such a good fucktoy”. You shivered and moaned with every degrading name and the sensations he gave you with them. He started playing with your nipples again, and your moans turned into whines. It was so overwhelming, you were so overstimulated, but it felt so good, he felt so good.

His thrusts became more erratic, more stuttering, and his hips pushed forward one last time as you felt an unmistakable warmth filling you. You loved it when he came inside, claimed you as his.

He fell limp, and you rolled onto your side, curling into him. His arms wrapped around you, and you thought if you didn’t have to, you’d never move.

But, of course, that wasn’t the case, and after a few moments Seonghwa gently kissed your hair. “Okay, baby, let’s get in the shower.”

“But ‘m cozy.” You grumbled.

“You’ll be even cozier once you’re clean.” He pulled out slowly, his cum spilling all over the sheets. “And we need clean sheets, too.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” You sighed.

“And then we can cuddle after.” He smiled.

“Yes please.” You smiled back. “Love you, Seonghwa.”

“Love you too, baby.”

[xxchumanixx]

May I please request a fic where the reader (who's a famous singer) falls in love with Tim but is reluctant to fully trust and be vulnerable with him due to bad experiences she's had with men in the past? The reader could eventually write and sing a song about her love for Tim which blows up and even wins awards like Grammys too which makes their relationship stronger and she opens up her heart more? 🥺

Be myself

Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Warnings/Tags: fluff, a bit of angst, mentions of physical abuse / hitting (please look for help if you're in an abusive relationship! Being abused is not normal and it shouldn't be simply endured and viewed as it) Word count: 2.421 Authors note: I don't know if I used the gif before (probably did), but it just fits perfectly. I know you linked Whats love got to do with it by our legend Tina, but I kinda didn't vibe with it. I hope you'll still like it, though (if it was even meant for reference to the song the reader writes). I'm in no way a songwriter, so I'm not at all sure about that small part i wrote there. I know I posted a sneak peak for something different, but this gave me so much motivation to write so i put it first. Enjoy!

He didn't know how he ended up with you of all people.

Not that he'd complain.

Never.

But a famous singer like you and a cop like him? It had to be fate that brought you together when him and his rookie had been called to deescalate a situation at a concert of yours.

He didn't expect to fall for you - hell, you probably didn't either. It just kinda happened after you gave him your number before him and his rookie left.

It had been meant more like a joke - yet he hadn't been able to get you out of his head and neither did you. So he texted you.

Three weeks later you went on your first date.

You had been cautious, bad experiences with previous boyfriends and dates branding you more than you'd have liked to admit.

And so you didn't.

The date went great, leading to another one shortly after.

Tim swore you were playing some magic trick on him. The speed in which he fell for you was shocking. In a few weeks you had him wrapped around your finger.

It didn't take long for him to admit his feelings to you, saying he'd understand if you weren't ready for anything yet, and as he rambled on, you'd cut him off with a kiss.

Because you were indeed ready.

At least that's what you thought.

Not that you didn't have feelings for him - you had, and they were strong. You just had trouble letting yourself be too open, too vulnerable.

To trust easily.

Though, right from the start, you knew he was different. He was interested in your career, yes, but in a way that didn't profit him or made him want to brag about his girlfriend being famous.

Or try and hit you if you didn't spend all your money on him. It had happened once, leaving a mark on your soul you had trouble getting rid of. Getting rid of the douchebag wasn't exactly easy, either.

But that was another thing.

No, Tim supported you, took days off to watch your concerts and be there for you. And maybe to have the time of his life with you in your wardrobe backstage.

For a while now, you had been working on a project - a new song that one day came to your mind when you thought about the past few months and your relationship with Tim.

It had almost been a year now, and you started to question whether your cautiousness was misplaced.

Not that you didn't trust him.

You trusted him more than you did any other man you'd been with, it just was like a habit of sorts. Some sort of protection your mind had put up in the beginning.

It wasn't easy to let that guard down.

It was one of the main parts you included in that song. How he made you want to be more open, to trust and give up that control you so desperately held onto.

To love without the constant fear of it all going downhill.

Your producer, Savannah, supported you all the way. You wrote your song, recorded it over and over again until you were a hundred percent convinced that it did Tim justice in a way.

Or rather his love for you. The way he never treated you differently even though you were famous.

Sure, there were times when his face would be plastered along magazine articles alongside yours - especially the beginning hadn't been easy.

Hiding a relationship wasn't easy and it certainly didn't work in this case, either. The first time it happened it had been on Instagram.

Someone had seen you and him together, taking a video and posting it for everyone to see. Once it reached a certain amount of views, it spread like wildfire, and everyone knew.

Tim wasn't very happy about it.

He understood that it was part of your life, but he didn't like it - and that included him - plastered all over the internet.

When you were shopping and hoarded by paparazzi or too many fans and he'd notice you were overwhelmed, he'd play the 'I'm a cop, please stand back' card, effectively getting you out of the situation.

Another thing you loved him for.

He didn't thrive on the constant attention, didn't suck it up like a sponge and used it to his advantage. Not like other men had tried to do before.

So why was it so hard to let go? Why was it so hard to trust, to let yourself be too vulnerable?

When you published the song, Tim had yet to hear it.

Yes, maybe you should have let him listen to it before publishing it, but you were too nervous. Too nervous he'd laugh at you, tell you that you were crazy for writing and publishing that song.

It would have also meant he'd question the origin - why you had such trust issues, had these problems of opening up.

You didn't want to be judged. After all, you still hadn't told him about it.

Only a few days later, you and Tim were driving in his truck home, when suddenly, the radio moderator announced your new song. Tim's gaze snapped to you - normally you'd show him your upcoming projects, talk to him about them.

He didn't know you'd just published a new song.

Your cheeks heated up as he stared at you in confusion before his gaze fixed back on the street. You knew he was listening, picking up on the lyrics.

Another thing you loved about him.

He didn't just hear the songs, he listened to them. Analyzing them, understanding them.

So it was no surprise he did understand this song, too. About a minute into the song he parked in his driveway, killing the engine but leaving the radio on.

You nibbled on your lip nervously, heart beating wildly as you tried to make out his reaction. You couldn't read his thoughts, so you had to rely on his body language.

And when he understood the song was about him, his gaze snapped to yours right as the second chorus hit.

You let me be myself, and I thank you for that.

You ban all the bad thoughts from my head.

No matter how hard I try, I can't find anything bad about you.

And I hope you see me like that, too.

You support me, give me strength,

It is wrong to hold you at arms length.

I love you and I hope you see,

that your're the best thing that's ever happened to me.

You swallowed, not interrupting him as he listened to the rest of the song. This certainly hadn't been how you'd planned this.

Sure, you wanted him to know about the song and all the things it expressed sooner or later, but when you published it, the thought of him hearing it that soon hadn't exactly crossed your mind.

When the song ended and the next came up, he immediately turned the radio off.

He stared at you, shocked, surprised.

In awe.

You bit your lip as his own parted, though nothing came out. His head tilted slightly, thinking.

"Is it true?" was the first thing he asked. "Or is it just... I don't know, a random love song?"

Your eyes widened slightly, and you shook your head. "No, it's not a random love song." you said. "It... It's about you, Tim."

He nodded slightly, still shocked. "What about the- the trust issues you talk about? Or sing, for that matter." he inquired further. "Or the 'keeping at arms length'?"

You swallowed, sighing quietly as you looked away. "It's all true, yes." you admitted quietly. "And I know I should have told you, and I know you're having a lot of questions right now, but... I'm sorry."

Tim leaned forward over the middle console and placed his finger under your chin to lift your head, his blue eyes meeting your Y/E/C ones. "Hey, you have nothing to apologize for." he said, shaking his head slightly. "Yes, it would be nice to know the details behind it, but I understand that you didn't tell me. Or show me the song beforehand, for that matter. It's great, by the way - just like everything else about you."

You blushed, suddenly feeling undeserving of him. He was way too caring and understanding.

"I mean, I assumed some things..." he continued, tilting his head from side to side for a moment. "But I never pushed you to tell me. And I won't now. Neither did you on the subject of Isabel. If you want to tell me, I'm happy to listen, but you don't have to. Just know that I feel incredibly honored and love you."

Tears burned in your eyes, and suddenly, you knew you could trust him with everything. No more keeping him at arms length.

"I love you, too." you breathed out, smiling through the tears. "I just- I don't know." you shook your head in sudden embarrassment. "Ever since I got famous all the men seemed to want the same thing. Fame, my face as their way into Hollywood. To brag about their girlfriend being famous and make themselves look more important. Or try and hit me for not spoiling them like the ungrateful bitch I am." you grimaced, and his eyes widened before they narrowed. "I know you aren't like that, I do. I just couldn't shake this... habit of closing myself off and trying to avoid another one of these situations. I'm sorry, Tim. I know you are better than them. That song is about you and it is supposed to express how I feel about you."

Tim smiled, cupping your face with his hands. "You're so much more than your career, Y/N." he told you, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. "You're a caring, beautiful and brilliant woman. You're far more than I deserve yet I'm too selfish to ever let you go. I love you more than you can imagine, and I want you to know that I'd never try to get any fame or benefits or whatever from you or your career. Let alone lay a hand on you. I love you too much to risk us - not that I'd need your fame or money. I'm a cop and I love being a cop. My girlfriend just happens to be an amazing singer."

You laughed quietly, blushing more. His words spread a warmth through you like no one else ever did. "You're flattering me." you mumbled sheepishly. He cocked a brow. "I'm not." he said. "You are an amazing singer. You're amazing in general, all over."

You laughed once more, a smile on your lips. "You're way too good for me, Tim Bradford." you said. "I'm the one not deserving you."

He huffed, tilting his head from side to side again. "Debatable." he said. He leaned closer, capturing your lips in a sweet and gentle kiss. "Come on, let's head inside." he mumbled against them. "I want to celebrate this song."

It had been about two weeks until your song seemed to have gained massive popularity, and when the letter landed in the mail weeks later, you screamed.

Tim had rushed into the kitchen, gun drawn as he tried to find out what happened. When he saw you with the letter in hand, pressing a hand to your mouth, he lowered the gun, stepping beside you.

One look at the letter and his lips parted.

You looked up in your excitement, almost headbutting him where he was looking over your shoulder. "Tim-" you breathed out, cutting yourself off with another squeal. He grimaced at the high sound, though laughing as he moved to hug you from behind.

"Baby, that's amazing." he breathed out. "I'm so proud of you." You bit your cheek, heart pounding wildly. "I- I mean, I haven't won anything yet." you said, fingers trembling as they held the letter. "But..." "But you're nominated." Tim finished for you. "That's more than most can wish for. This is amazing, Y/N. God, I'm so proud of you."

You smiled widely, clutching the letter to your chest. You giggled and jumped up and down in his arms, pressing a hand to your lips. Tim laughed quietly, holding tighter onto you, his nose brushing the shell of your ear. In the last few weeks you'd grown even closer, and it all felt more right than ever.

"Told you you're amazing."

Nervous wasn't word enough to describe your current state.

The Grammys.

The fucking Grammys.

Never would you have thought this would happen. Who would have thought you'd make it this far?

Fidgeting with your small clutch nervously, you took a deep, trembling breath. Tim grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers and giving them a reassuring squeeze. You'll be okay.

The wait had been torture.

Waiting for the day to come, waiting for the announcements. It was like a dream come true, yet the wait left you on edge.

You'd been nominated for single of the year. Your song about Tim Be Myself had literally exploded, landing you a spot at the Grammys.

You inhaled shakily as the nominees were announced before the moderator opened an envelope. She drew it out, making the anticipation rise higher and higher until your heart suddenly slammed to a stop.

"Best single of the year goes to... Be Myself!" Your lips parted, not believing what just happened. Tim cheered, the crowd applauded, and you got up on shaky legs.

You couldn't believe it.

This was more than you could have ever wished for, and as Tim pressed a kiss to your cheek, giving you the biggest, most proudest smile you'd ever seen on him before he ushered you to the stage, you knew it.

You knew he was the one.

He was the one that treated you right. The one that loved you unconditionally.

And you'd be forever grateful for that.

Tag List

@laheysfilm @newobsessionweekly @augustvandyne @RookieTrek @dhundhchrih @nachofriess @dtftheavengers @wonderland2425 @skywalker0809 @freyathehuntress @caplanbuckybarnes @sacredwarrior88

[paperstorm]

The final chapter is up! We had so much fun writing this all season and thank you every single person who commented or kudos'd or just read this fic. Here's a tease from the last chapter. If you're looking for both morning sexy times and the happiest of endings for this little family, we got you covered 😉

Jonah flops against him and Carlos moves in closer on his other side, the two of them bracketing him like protective bookends.

“How’d you sleep?” Carlos asks him.

It might be too complex a question for a three year old, but Jonah grins up at him and brightly answers, “I have a race car bed!”

“You sure do!” Carlos agrees, reaching down and smoothing stray hairs out of Jonah’s eyes.

Jonah looks to TK and asks, “When is Daddy coming home?”

For a moment, the question twists like a GI infection in TK’s gut. He exchanges a sorrowful glance with Carlos, who sadly shrugs a shoulder. They have so much to learn, so many things to figure out on this new adventure together, and how to talk to someone this young is something TK knows he hasn't mastered just yet.

Carefully, he answers, “I don’t know. It might not be for a long time.”

“Oh.”

“But,” TK continues, slouching further down onto the pillows and snuggling in closer, “you’re gonna live here, now, with me and Carlos. And we love you so much. And everything’s gonna be okay.”

“Okay,” Jonah answers, easily accepting his answer, at least for now.

TK breathes a sigh of relief. TK knows it isn’t the end of the conversation. Jonah’s so little, he has to be so confused, and that makes TK’s heart hurt. But it’s a conversation they don’t need to have this morning. He looks at Carlos again over the top of Jonah’s head. Carlos nods at him reassuringly, moving in closer from the other side so they can cuddle Jonah together.

“Can I have breakfast?”

“Of course you can. What do you want to eat?”

“Pancakes!” Jonah decides.

“Pancakes it is,” Carlos replies. “You two hang out for a bit, I’ll get them started.”

“Stay?” TK asks Carlos quietly, circling his wrist with his fingers over Jonah’s body. “For a few more minutes.” 

Carlos pauses and looks between the two boys in his bed. He must be feeling what TK is feeling, the overwhelming emotion that comes with experiencing their first morning together as a family of three, instead of two. Carlos nods quietly and settles back against the headboard. He lets his arm drape over the pillows that have flattened during the night until TK is curled under it and Jonah is snug between them again.

“I’ll get started on breakfast soon, okay? Unless you’re so hungry now that your stomach is turning into a monster.”

Carlos tickles Jonah’s belly and he giggles. “No,” he says confidently, like a monster could never hurt him. 

TK observes quietly, feeling like he’s in a dream. He knows nights of crying and fear are around the corner, where Jonah wakes up confused and scared and missing his dad. TK knows that it’s not all smooth sailing from here, but right now he looks at Jonah’s resilience in wonder, and Carlos’ natural ability to bond with him, and he feels like the luckiest man in the world.

“Good,” Carlos tells him. “Because you know what the best part about today is?” 

Jonah looks up at Carlos in wonder, four big brown eyes staring at each other. TK is in so much trouble with these two. He could let them get away with anything. 

“What?” Jonah asks, hanging onto every word Carlos says like Carlos is already his hero. TK knows the feeling. 

“We don’t have any plans. Which means we get to sleep in and then do whatever you want.”

Jonah’s eyes grow even wider and his head whips over to TK as if to confirm Carlos’ words. “Whatever I want?” 

TK smiles, squeezing Jonah’s arm. “Whatever you want,” TK confirms. Maybe he and Carlos can be the fun brothers for one more day and spoil this boy beyond belief. He deserves it. Tomorrow, they’ll begin to figure out how to be parents that say no and set limitations, but today, Jonah can get whatever he wants. 

“I want ice cream!” Jonah cries out, and both TK and Carlos laugh. 

Carlos meets his gaze over the top of Jonah’s head, and TK nods. 

“We can do ice cream,” Carlos agrees. “But maybe this afternoon, huh? It’s supposed to be hot.”

“Hot!” Jonah repeats. 

TK chuckles. “Yeah, you’re not used to this, bud. It gets way hotter here than it does in New York.” 

“It does?” 

“Mhm. Think summer all the time.”

Jonah’s grin goes wide. “Yay,” he cheers. “Can we bring Lou-Two with us?”

TK laughs again. “To get ice cream? Probably not, he likes staying here. But you can help me feed him some red peppers later.”

“Okay!”

They fall into silence for a few blessed moments and TK’s gaze naturally drifts to Carlos again. Carlos is already looking back, and his fingers dance along TK’s neck. 

‘Love you,’ Carlos mouths, and TK smiles. 

‘Love you too,’ TK mouths back, and then puckers his lips to ask for a kiss. 

brighter in the morning

co-written with the lovely @paperstorm <3

Sometimes nights together are hard to come by, but TK and Carlos find ways to connect as husbands in the morning. A series of 12 mornings together for each of the 12 episodes in season 5 (plot permitting …)

Chapter One: 5x01 - 7.0k

Chapter Two: 5x02 - 3.8k

Chapter Three: 5x03 - 3.9k

Chapter Four: 5x04 - 2.4k

Chapter Five: 5x05 - 4.2k

Chapter Six: 5x06 - 6.6k

Chapter Seven: 5x07 - 5.7k

Chapter Eight: 5x08 - 2.8k

Chapter Nine: 5x09 - 3.2k

Chapter Ten: 5x10 - 5.3k

Chapter Eleven: 5x11 - 4.6k

Chapter Twelve: 5x12 - 5.4k

[adieutristana]

ribbons and lace; jinx x fem!reader

first smut fic let's go... part 2 to pins and needles since it got a positive reception. if this sucks don't kill me

since writing this i will have a new section in my rules post specifically for nsfw. feel free to send in any nsfw requests, but please read through before doing so!

characters included; jinx

summary; jinx getting worked up after volunteering to be a dress form for her girlfriend. her girlfriend notices, and helps her.

tags/warnings; seamstress!reader, dom!reader, sub!jinx, foreplay, semi-public, fingering, dirty talk, sliiiiight degredation, squirting, crying, explicit consent, beginning of aftercare

men and minors dni.

she's flushed, and she swears she's okay, but you know better than that. you know that jinx has always been the last person to ask for and especially accept help. but what could have her in such a state? flushed, breathless, sweaty, even. you step forward to jinx's chair, brushing your lips against her forehead in an effort to gauge her temperature. that's the only other explanation you can think of at this moment.

another shiver runs down jinx's spine. yet, she feels completely normal. the way your girlfriend looks, you'd swear that she'd be burning up.

"come on, baby. talk to me. something's wrong."

you whisper, pulling your lips from jinx's forehead. the girl can't muster up a response to you, rather she won't. your face is mere centimeters from jinx's, close enough that you can feel her hot breath against your skin. her breathing is labored and her eyes have this look in them that you've seen before- several times.

oh. that's what this is about.

you let out a huff, before striding over to the clear door of your studio. flipping the sign so that it reads 'CLOSED,' and closing the dark curtains usually reserved for off-hours.

you walk back over to jinx, still sat ever so unceremoniously in one of your chairs. probably soaking the cushion as you observe her. you cross your arms over your chest, cocking your head to the side in a faux-annoyed manner.

"i have a deadline, jinx. i can't be doing things like this," you mutter, tutting as you slowly shake your head. her rosy eyes are blown wide, looking at you as if you're her lifeline. her one and only sanctuary, the only thing that can give her exactly what she needs.

"i know, i'm sorry- i just.." she breathes out, raspy voice barely above a whisper. "i need you, toots. please."

you let out a heavy sigh, bringing your forefinger and thumb to jinx's chin. you simply look for a moment, observing the sheen of jinx's skin, the slight furrow of dark brows, the way her plump lips press into a pout. you haven't done a damn thing, yet she's already this worked up.

"you're really this helpless?"

you mutter, though it's clear you're not looking for an answer. you claim your girlfriends lips in a hungry kiss, soft lips moving against her own. your tongue swipes along her bottom lip as a silent plea for entrance, and she immediately grants it to you. one hand comes to tangle in your hair, a desperate effort to press you closer to her as if your tongue isn't already inside her mouth. you'd laugh if you weren't so busy right now.

you swallow up soft whimpers, jinx's breathing labored and her sharp fingernails now digging into your scalp. you continue to explore her mouth with your tongue as both of your hands begin to run along jinx's bare, slim waist. you pull away with a gasp as one of your hands finds the hemline of jinx's leather top, your middle finger hooking underneath.

"you're sure this is what you want?"

you ask, your eyes boring into the girl's. she frantically nods, almost as if this is the most important question she's been asked in her life. maybe in this moment, it feels like that for her.

"yes, yes- i need it. please, please-"

she's cut off by the feeling of you quickly grabbing one of her perky tits beneath her top and squeezing, a sharp whine being drawn from the girl. ever so reactive, ever so sensitive. you run the pad of your thumb over her hardened nipple, your other hand working to quickly push up her shirt up above her tits. you almost swear that you can feel yourself salivate at the mere sight. this has always been one of your favorite features of your girlfriend.

"didn't take much to shut you up, huh?"

you murmur, still teasing the pert bud beneath your fingers. you're looming over her as if you're some malevolent presence, here to take your prey and do whatever you please with her. oh, how she wishes you would.

"mm, shut up," she manages to breathe out. "i'm just.. sensitive,"

"i know, baby."

you whisper, your free hand trailing back down her waist to make its way closer to your destination. you can feel her abs tensing beneath your touch as cold fingers run over her obliques, you can feel exactly where her hip bone juts out. goosebumps littered across the pale expanse of her stomach. pale blue clouds littered across her skin, each one its own separate masterpiece on the most beautiful canvas possible. it's a sight to behold- one you've seen times prior, yet one you know will never grow old.

"i've always loved your tits," you rumble, your hand coming back to her now-neglected breast. you pinch the erect nipple, rolling it between your fingers as jinx squeals and squirms.

"so small, so perky, so perfect, and just for me."

without another word, you drop to your knees in front of jinx's chair.

you're now eye-level with her knees. you'd been here just a few moments prior, pinning fabrics onto her and trying to get her to stop squirming so damn much. now it made sense, why she couldn't keep still. your hands braced on either knee, you gently coax them apart. jinx's chest is heaving, perky tits on full display as her breaths come in shorter and shorter. it's a good thing you pulled that curtain.

"dirty girl. i'm trying to do a job here," you chastise as your fingers fly to unfasten her belt, a quick and practiced movement. you pull it off of her, whilst your fingers hook into the waistband of her striped pants. "but you just couldn't wait. this client is gonna be pissed, you know. maybe you should go explain yourself to them. tell them why there was a hold-up."

the fabric is battered and torn from countless battles, cuts and holes strewn across the garment and the legs of her pants impossibly frayed. you'd offered more times than you could count to fix them, hell, even make new pants for her, but she'd always insisted on wearing these old things. said they had 'character.' you sigh, shaking your head as you pull the article from her ankles.

jinx is left nearly bare before you, save for a manipulated top and a pair of baby blue panties. your eyes dart beneath her thighs, directly towards the wet patch on her underwear. soaked through. good gods, she was insatiable. you let out a low chuckle while you moved up on your knees, bringing your dominant hand toward her pussy. pressing your middle finger down right over her clothed clit, eliciting a sharp cry from her.

"fuck!"

"come on. this wet already, and i haven't even touched you properly."

you tut, though you can't bring yourself to be truly angry. it's kind of endearing, how desperate she is. her body taut as each muscle coils with pure, unabashed need. fingers dancing along the edge of her panties, before swiftly pulling them down and off of her. you spread jinx's thighs just the slightest bit wider, then glance back up to jinx. her big eyes are still fixed on you, following your every move and whim. your fingernails drag along jinx's inner thigh. a tantalizing tease, remining jinx of what she wants, but she can't have. not yet, anyways.

"s-stop teasing," she whines, her voice low. you snicker lightly, before pressing your middle finger back over her needy clit. jinx's body nearly stutters with the sensation, the feeling of you rubbing slow, borderline torturous circles into her. her lips are already parted while she looks down at you, before you sink your middle finger into her.

"shiiiit," she breathes out, feeling the steady movement of your finger. slowly pumping in and out of her, stretching her ever so gently.

"you like that?" you whisper, adding your ring finger as well. there's a bit of resistance, though jinx is quickly able to accommodate to the new addition. lewd sounds of wet squelching fill your studio, jinx's increasingly loud moans bouncing off the walls like some perverted medley. your fingers begin to pound into jinx, drawing nearly pornographic noise from those beautiful parted lips.

"hnggh- oh! don't stop, right there-" she grunts, your fingers making contact with the spongy spot that always makes jinx see stars. you brace your free hand on her opposite thigh, grabbing both to hold her in place and ground her. a low laugh escapes you. nothing about this is amusing necessarily, but it's just too damn perfect.

"look at this pussy," you murmur, your voice a low husk. "swallowing me up. nice and wet f'me." watching your fingers disappear again and again into jinx's sopping hole, ever so eager. as if she was made to take you.

"ah, aaah- you- ngh!" the girl pauses, head falling backward. "you like it?"

"oh, i love it," you affirm, your fingers continuing their delirious assault on jinx. "i love this pussy so fuckin' much. you have no idea."

"mmph... show me, show me," she pleads, her voice a weak rasp. her tits are bouncing the slightest bit whilst you finger-fuck her, the pale skin of her neck exposed and her braids dragging on the ground beneath her. "show me how much you love it."

you don't need to be told twice. your thumb comes to press into jinx's throbbing clit, which forces a guttural moan from the depths of her chest. that shut her up. your fingers continue to pound in and out of jinx, going at break-neck speed. you might break your fingers for all you know, but you also can't be bothered to care at this point. jinx is taking everything you're giving her so well, her chest and face flushed pink as her breath comes to her in short pants. she's nearly shaking under your touch; exactly how you like her.

your fingers continue to curl inside her just right, your thumb playing with that pretty clit in the way you know drives jinx mad. she's starting to grind her hips down onto your hand, seeking any bit of extra friction that she can get. her abs and thigh muscles clench amidst the pleasure. maybe another time jinx would bite down on her bottom lip in an effort to stifle the noises, but not today. she's entirely unashamed.

"so damn loud, too." you remark, accentuated by another sharp thrust. "the whole of zaun is gonna hear you at this point. is that what you want, hm? want everyone to know i'm fucking their symbol?"

the words draw a high-pitched whine from jinx, though she doesn't seem to respond to them.

"hnng.." she grunts." i need- hmph,"

"you need...?" you urge, your voice barely audible over the wet sounds you're drawing from her cunt. you know what she needs, you can feel it in the way her gummy walls are clenching around your digits. the way her body is heaving, her chest in an interrupted rhythm of up, down, up down. she needs to cum is what she needs, but frankly, you want to draw this out a bit.

you know jinx's mind is growing fuzzy, that it's difficult for her to string together a coherent sentence, let alone say it right now. she'd gotten herself into this, really. getting so turned on by just a few innocent touches, when she had been the one to offer herself up as a dress form. her little whines and moans fill your ears, a rhythmic 'ah, ah, ah.'

and still, part of you can't help but take pity on her. head tossed back, blue bang partially sticking to her face while moans spill from her lips. she looks a damn mess, yet divine. curse jinx for being so beautiful, for being able to make you fold so easily.

"please," she cuts through. hot tears are beginning to well in her eyes, a testament to just how good you're making her feel. how desperately she needs this. "please, i need to-"

"shh," you interrupt, shifting on your knees to rise slightly. peppering light kisses on the expanse of jinx's neck. "cum for me, jinx."

jinx is teetering on the precipice of climax, so damn close. you continue your relentless rhythm, and it's as if a dam breaks. light pink liquid squirts onto your hand and forearm, a strangled cry of your name escaping jinx. she writhes in the chair, thrashing back and forth against your hand while her hips stutter, trying to ride out the high. her face falls forward, tears running down pale cheeks and dark mascara staining her under eyes.

she looks a damn wreck, but gods is she beautiful.

"shh, shh," you offer, sliding your soaked hand out of jinx's cunt. "i'm here."

taking to your feet, you gently scoop jinx into your arms and settle into her chair, situating jinx on your lap. her breathing is still shallow, coming to her in pants, but the lovestruck look in those half-lidded eyes is all of the reassurance that you need to prove your girlfriend is okay.

she almost immediately wraps her toned arms around your shoulders, pressing her cheek against your chest in an effort to anchor herself back to reality. your clean hand brushes her bang from her face, then brushes underneath an eye to wipe her tears as your lips brush against her forehead. a gentle reminder of your love, yet a stark contrast to how you were handling her just a moment ago.

"i'm sorry," she breathes out, voice weak. "i interrupted your work..."

you chuckle lowly, shaking your head. jinx isn't actually sorry, she never is about this kind of thing. maybe it's some effort to please you, but no matter.

"i don't mind. you were so good for me."

you whisper, before claiming her lips in a soft kiss. plump lips move against yours slow and steady.

"i love you."

"i love you too," you hum. "let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

[nyxelestia]

I have an addition to this but that will require some addendums / additional points.

This got a lil long so I threw the rest under the cut but tl;dr

The interrelation and complexity of marginalized identities irl makes authors' usage of them as protective labels on content counterproductive and discourages community and empathy.

Either don't mention your identity, or at most save it for the author's note instead of the tag when it's a contribution instead of a protection.

We don't need to hide what parts of ourselves inform our writing, but we do need to avoid normalizing the sharing of personal information to justify writing choices.

Too Long But Reading Anyway:

I know the degradation of privacy is getting normalized everywhere else on the Internet, but that sounds like all the more reason to avoid dragging that new norm into fandom.

A lot of this comes from the fear of making mistakes in public. After all, many fans (especially young one) grew up with the hyper-awareness that damn near their entire lives -- or at least their entire lives since entering social media -- would be documented and therefore could be dragged up from the depths of the past and used against you. People are trying to achieve "perfection" not for a sense of superiority, but a sense of safety; "if I do everything right, no one can call me out." I'm telling you right now, bullies don't work that way. They'll find a way to twist anything and everything into harassment campaigns. It is much better to be willing to write outside your lived experiences, to learn and grow, to own up to any mistakes you do make, and be ready to tell anyone who tries to castigate you for mistakes you didn't make to go screw themselves.

A lot of these identities are fluid. Maybe you're still trying to figure out your sexuality or gender, maybe you'll convert religions, maybe you'll discover something new about your heritage, maybe you will be able to treat your disability such that you won't have it in the future, etc. The fact that your identity might change in the future doesn't change your past, so it doesn't affect why you are putting that label for yourself on a fic…but, it does mean that if some bully wants to cause you trouble, they can absolutely turn around and use this against you. Just throwing this out there as a follow-up to both the first and the second points.

Being close to or part of a marginalized group doesn't give you carte blanch to write whatever you want. You can absolutely be part of a marginalized group and also perpetuate stereotypes or problematic tropes. (e.x. Transformative fandom is heavily dominated by women, yet so much of the het fanfiction is also saturated with sexist or downright misogynistic tropes. Obviously, being part of the marginalized identity group didn't help anyone writing that marginalized identity group. This is just the most prolific example but hardly the only one.) And that's if your own marginalization really matches the character's to begin with. Some axes of marginalization are incredibly vast (ethnic experiences and disabilities come to mind) and encompass a wide variety of identities, so being part of one doesn't give you magical insight into all the rest.

I feel like this also ignores the way identities and marginalization experiences intersect with each other. If we're so focused on labels for one identity, we end up discarding the others. This applies even when thinking about fictional characters in completely fictional settings. Most of these settings will, to varying degrees, reflect our real world. By using an identity label for only one aspect of a character's in-universe identity that happens to reflect a real world identity, what does this about all their other in-universe identities that reflect real world identities?

Circling all the way back to OP's point (sorry for the hijacking!):

Fandom is made up of communities. That doesn't sound like much on the surface when everyone uses that as a buzzword, but what I mean is that fandom isn't an institution or object that exists without people participating in it. Fandom is the participation, fandom is the interaction, fandom is the mutual connections fans build with each other. The 'mutual' there is important; a lot of social media makes it very easy for people to feel like they are friends with someone, when that other person barely knows them or doesn't know them at all. (The word is "parasocial relationships" if you wanna learn more.)

The "Author Is X" tag is about the author as an individual. Sharing facets of yourself as an individual isn't an inherently bad thing. Sometimes, we're proud of that and want to share that; or our specific experience is relevant to the specific story we're telling; or we want to make others with the same identity who feel alone know that they can reach out to us. These are all ways that sharing part of your identity with your audience can build a community. (Hell, even just writing out this long ramble right now, I find myself debating whether or not I should mention my own ethnic heritage on the fanfic where my heritage is influencing the way I'm worldbuilding.)

But using it as a justification or as a defensive measure is inherently contradictory to the spirit of community and the pursuit of empathy. It's implying that an individual author is supposed to be on their own and only relying on their knowledge and experience to write something; or that the author who already wrote something had no input from people around them. Quite frankly, that's never true. It's extremely rare for someone to just start writing fanfic without some semblance of community, even if it's literally just the single fandom friend. (Never mind the fact that fanfic by default always has at least two creators, the author of the fic and whoever made the canon thing that the fanfic is about.)

When we ask each other how our various experiences affect our lives, that is a connection we are building. When we ask multiple friends for their various inputs, for the different ways they experienced the same marginalization as their identity, for the ways a marginalized identity might have impacted their lives (even if that identity wasn't their own), all of that is building connections and thus building a community. These are threads of empathy fans build with each other.

And we should be doing more of that.

One trend on ao3 that I feel uneasy about is the increased use of “author is trans” “author is disabled” “author is ace” etc tags.

On the one hand I can understand how it can feel like a reassuring sign for readers who are trans/disabled/ace etc that their lives are less likely to be misrepresented in that fic because the writer has lived experience.

But at the same time, when we’re writing fanfiction—about kids who can manipulate the force of the waves, about necromancy, about flying on dragons—I think the suggestion that you need to have lived experience to write sensitively about something is so limiting.

Like if we aren’t exercising the full force of our imaginations and empathy in fanfiction, where exactly are we doing it?

It also makes me sad because sometimes you can tell from the nervousness of the author’s note that the writer felt they had to justify their writing with their lived experience. And I don’t think you should feel ethically obligated to gesture toward personal and often painful aspects of your identity to justify writing you do in your spare time that makes you happy.

Some of the best fics I’ve read about disability have been written by authors that didn’t have experience with that exact condition and did heartfelt research and really let themselves inhabit it. And I think that’s a bravura display of empathy and the very best that fiction can offer: caring about a character enough, and caring about your readers enough, that you want to understand what it’s like.

Sometimes friends have asked me about my visual disability to better understand Zuko for their stories, and I’ve always found it really moving. It means they care so much about the fictional world that they want to get the real world right too. It means they’re learning and growing so they can make stories about disability.

It means they love the show, and it means they love me.

[babybeeelle]

Hiii, long time no see. I was writing a different story, but I wasn't satisfied in the direction it was going so this just spouted from my brain. This was based off a request, but I'm dramatic so I amplified it :)

Summary - When Agatha's grief causes her to lash out at the reader, she hurts them deeply.

Warnings - Agatha needs therapy, mention of self-harm scars, near-death experiences, and detailed? suicide attempt.

Word count : 4400+

a/n - Very important Warnings. The is a very detailed fic. Please please please read them and make a safe decision to continue reading💖

What's Said and Done

You didn't intend for your reminiscing of Nicky to trigger Agatha the way it did. You had hoped that maybe the decades upon decades spent grieving together created a safe space to talk about the short, but treasured time you all had with Nicky. You craved to fill the hole his death left with the precious memories that had filled your heart with joy. You wanted that for Agatha. You wanted to mend the corrupted memory of him. He deserved to be cherished.

It was obvious now Agatha couldn't. You knew that unadulterated grief that was entangled into her loving soul very well. You thought her forgiving Rio, inviting her back into her heart after two centuries, meant that she was in a stage of grief where she would want to talk about him.

You had so many memories of Nicky etched into your heart, moments that glowed like a lighthouse in the violent weather of grief.

The day he first came into your lives, his tiny hands were gripping tightly to your fingers as Agatha held him, and his wide, curious eyes darted around the unfamiliar space in the bedroom of the little cottage you shared.

Rio had been cautious at first. Viewing his birth from the door frame, knowing she was going to be the one who would lead him to the afterlife before he could truly live.

Yes, she created him, but she also knew the possible complications of creating a precious life unnaturally. But when Agatha looked at her, tears brimming in her eyes as she nodded her head, she could see Agatha was thankful for giving her the time he deserved. To Rio, the pain would be worth it.

Anyone could tell Nicholas was made from Rio. The resemblance was uncanny as he grew older. His facial structure mirrored hers perfectly, from his sharp jawline to the delicate angles of his cheekbones. His eyes a warm chocolate, filled with mischief, were identical to hers. Even down to the smile lines that shined so brightly with his perfect smile. He truly was a mirror image.

There were the little everyday moments that had became everything.

Rio kneeling in the backyard, dirt smudged on her cheek as she pressed her hands to the soil, coaxing life from the earth. Nicky crouched beside her, his tiny fingers buried in the dirt, eyes wide with awe as delicate petals bloomed before him. Every time a new bloom appeared, he’d clap his hands and turn to Agatha with Rio's smile.

Then there were the nights Agatha loved most. She would sit on the edge of his bed, her hands glowing with a soft purple light as galaxies lit across his bedroom ceiling. Stars twinkled, planets drifted in slow, mesmerizing orbits, casting his room in a cosmic glow. Nicky’s small hands would reach up, tracing constellations only he could see, his laughter light and full of wonder.

It was all the things Agatha didn't want to remember.

Her shoulders stiffened while she was putting away laundry. “Why?” Agatha asked finally, her voice low and clipped.

You frowned, caught off guard by her tone. Feeling the sudden change in energy, you began to rub your scarred arm, a self-soothing habit you picked up when you began to feel on edge. “Why what?”

“Why do you have to bring him up?” she said, halting the chores. She turned to face you as you stood beside her. Her eyes were trained on yours, unwilling to break eye contact. “Do you think that helps? Reliving every little memory like it’s going to bring him back?”

The words stung, but you took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. “I don’t bring him up to hurt you, Agatha. I just... I miss him. I thought maybe we could talk about the good times, try to focus on—”

“On what?” Agatha snapped, her voice rising. “On how he was never ours to keep him? How we couldn't heal him? On how everything we tried wasn’t enough?” She slammed her hand on the dresser in agitation causing you to jump, eyes-widened as your breath was caught in your throat from surprise. “Because that’s all I see when I think of him.”

Your heart clenched as you watched her unravel, the grief in her voice morphing into anger. “It wasn’t your fault, Agatha,” you said quietly reaching out for her hand. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

She laughed bitterly, shaking her head as she avoided your touch, crossing her arms defensively. “Of course you’d say that. You always have to be the understanding one, don’t you? Always so composed, so...forgiving”

Her words hit like a slap, but she was being unfair. “You’re not the only one who lost him, Agatha. I lost him too. And Rio—”

“Don’t,” Agatha interrupted, her voice cutting through the room. “Don’t you dare bring her into this.”

The tension between you thickened as your shared grief and unresolved pain collided.

“Why not?” you challenged, ready to defend. “She loved him too. We all did. And maybe it’s hard for you to see, but she’s been trying, Agatha. She’s been trying to make things right with you.”

Agatha's lips curling into a bitter smile. “Trying?” she repeated mockingly. “Trying to what? Pretend like everything’s fine? Pretend like she didn’t—”

“Like she didn’t what?” you demanded as you cut her off, beginning to believe she had never truly forgiven Rio. “Say it, Agatha. Whatever it is you’ve been holding in, just say it.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her body trembling with fury. “Like she didn't take him from us. He’s gone, and all you can do is sit there and talk about him like that’s going to fix anything.”

You stared at her, a silent conformation of your theory. "It wasn't her fault and you know it. He was our boy too," you whispered in defeat. You weren't sure if she had even heard you. But her response showed you she did.

"It wasn't her fault?"

But before you could respond, she delivered the blow that shattered your soul.

“He was never your son,” she said, her voice sharp as she looked at you like you were nothing to her. “Not you. Not Rio's. He was my son. I'm the only one that did anything and everything to keep him alive, and here you are defending Rio like you always do,” she spat out with a sneering expression.

The words hit you hard. You felt physically sick. Your breathing was shallow like Agatha's words were constricting your lungs.

“No,” You protested, your voice breaking. Your eyebrows scrunched as your eyes shone with tears, searching Agatha’s face, desperate for any sign that the woman you loved hadn’t truly meant those words. “You don’t mean that."

Agatha’s expression hardened leveling down to look you straight in the eyes. “I mean it from the bottom of my heart,” she seethed, annunciating every word. “God, I can’t even look at you. It's pathetic. You have no right to be crying right now.” Pushing past you, she walked to the door like your very presence disgusted her.

You staggered back a step, clutching the edge of the dresser to steady yourself. Your tears fell freely now.

“Where are you going?” You asked, your voice thick from crying, inadvertently pleading for her to stay.

“Anywhere but here,” Agatha bit without looking back.

With that, she stormed out, her footsteps echoing down the stairs. The back door slammed shut moments later, leaving the house in a suffocating silence.

Letting the dam crumble, you clasped your chest, trying to ease the ache that felt like it was tearing you apart from the inside.

Your legs seemed to move on their own, carrying you to the bathroom in a haze.

As you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the reflection staring back at you felt foreign, like someone you barely recognized. You searched your own face for something, anything, that might explain why you weren’t enough. Why Agatha couldn’t bear to look at you.

"How could anyone love you?" that dark, familiar voice in the back of your mind whispered. It had been gone for a while, but it has returned making its mission to demolish all the progress you've made.

You gripped the edge of the sink so tightly that your knuckles were turning white. Agatha's words echoed endlessly.

"He was never your son." "Not you. Not Rio. He was mine."

The venom in her voice, the disgust in her eyes—how could she say something like that? How could she not see how much you loved him, how you would've given everything if it meant saving him?

You couldn't wrap your head around it. She couldn't actually think that of you, right?

The intrusive thoughts came in waves, each one dragging you deeper into despair.

"She doesn’t want you anymore. She'd be better off without you. Rio too." You squeezed your eyes shut, as though it could stop the endless spiral.

The thought of Rio did it for you. Rio’s face flickered into your mind. Her eyes, usually filled with warmth, was devoid of any love for you. She's death, literally. She is a cosmic being, and you are so...ordinary. You didn't have a sharp, captivating aura like Agatha who demanded anyone and everyone's attention the second she walks into a room.

Your love wasn't worth all the pain. You weren't worth all the pain. You're a burden to them.

The weight of those thoughts pressed down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. You needed both of them. There was already a piece of your heart missing, but Agatha and Rio kept your heart from crumbling. You wouldn't survive that pain again.

You glanced down at the sink, where droplets of water had leaked from the faucet. For a moment, you began to visualize your arm as the faucet, slowly leaking blood.

Your gaze shifted back to the mirror. The self-hatred hit you like a tidal wave. How could they love you? Agatha’s words weren’t just anger—they were confirmation of your deepest and darkest fears. That they didn't need you the way you needed them.

The familiar ache in your chest morphed into a dangerous mission. You opened the drawer beneath the sink, your trembling hands rummaging through its contents until they found what they were looking for. You hesitated for a moment, pausing as you were unsure if this is what you wanted. You had been so good, so happy. Then you remembered what your reality had shifted to.

It was a little purple jewelry box. It once held the ring on your finger from a day you'd never forget. A vow of a love that would be everlasting. But as you opened the box and found the blade hidden within, none of that mattered anymore.

Freeing it from the packaging, you noticed it still had the same sharpness from the last time you used it, and the glint made your stomach twist in anticipation.

The blade felt cool and familiar in your hand as you slowly sank into the cold, empty tub, the icy surface sending a chill down your spine. You hesitated again, gripping it tightly, the thoughts racing through your mind almost convincing you to stop. But one reason kept you convinced: you were doing this for them. This way, you could take the burden of yourself off their shoulders. You were doing them a favor.

With a shaky exhale, you glided the blade lightly across the center of your arm, testing the waters. The first cut was a shallow line that only allowed little bubbles of blood to come to the surface, but the sting grounded you nonetheless.

With more urgency, you pressed down harder, carving another line into your skin. Blood welled up, slowly making its way down your arm like a raindrop rolling down a window.

Taking a deep breath in, you moved the blade down to your wrist where you knew the blood would really flow. As you exhaled, face scrunched, you swiped quick and deep, finally getting to the point where you knew you did damage.

But it wasn’t enough. You craved balance, symmetry. You mirrored the cuts on your other arm, your movements growing more frantic, wanting you're relief to come faster. The tears flowed in rhythm with your blood, causing a hysterical laugh to escape from your throat.

Your vision swam as exhaustion began to set in, your body growing heavy. The pain that had once felt grounding now dulled, your consciousness blurred. It never really dawned on you who would be coming soon.

On cue, a familiar presence filled the room. The usual warmth was now an unwelcoming cold. Her usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced by wide-eyed panic as she took in the scene before her.

“No, no, no, no,” Rio panicked, her voice raw and breaking as she kneeled beside the tub. Her hands were trembling as they hovered over your wounds.

“You can’t do this to me. I won't do it. I refuse to take you,” she cried out in anguish as tears streamed down her face, denying her duty as Death, denying the natural order.

Her hands glowed a faint green as she pressed her palms to your arms. A tingling warmth spread through the cuts, knitting the torn flesh back together. She murmured soft reassurances under her breath, though they were as much for herself as they were for you. Her power wasn’t meant for this, for preventing death, but she gave freely of herself, pouring every ounce of her strength into pulling you back from the edge. The strain showed in her creased forehead, but she fought against it because her heart depended on it.

When the bleeding finally stopped, Rio sagged back on her heels, her hands trembling as the adrenaline drained from her body. Her breath came in uneven gasps, her pulse pounding in her ears. She stared at you, her vision blurring with a mixture of relief and pain.

Carefully, as though you might shatter at the slightest touch, she reached out and gathered you into her arms. Your body was limp against her, your head lolling weakly onto her shoulder. She could feel the shallow rise and fall of your chest—too faint, too fragile—but you were breathing. That was enough.

She pressed a trembling kiss against your temple, her lips barely grazing your skin as she carried you from the bathroom. Each step was slow, deliberate, as though she feared moving too quickly would send you slipping away from her again.

By the time she laid you down on the bed, the world around you was a hazy blur, shifting in and out of focus. The weight beneath you felt unfamiliar—softer than the cold tub, warmer than the tile floor. A distant pressure tugged at your limbs, grounding you, but your thoughts drifted in a fog. Sounds came muffled, like you were underwater.

Rio’s voice, low and strained, broke through the haze. You couldn't make out the words, only the shape of them, the warmth in them. Then she was gone, footsteps fading, leaving you adrift in the silence.

A moment later, something soft slipped over your head. The scent of lavender and something faintly smoky curled into your nose, stirring something deep in your chest. A trembling breath left your lips, the familiarity of it pulling you back, dragging you closer to the surface of awareness.

Your lip quivered. A whimper—barely more than a breath—escaped before you even realized it. The sweater clung to your skin, warm and safe, and for the first time since your body hit the tile, the numbness began to crack.

“What is it?” Rio asked urgently, cupping your face with her hands, searching your face for any signs of pain or discomfort. “What’s wrong?”

Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over as you whispered, still dazed, “She doesn’t want us anymore.”

Rio froze, her heart dropping at the words and the hopelessness in your voice.

She cupped your face, her thumbs brushing away the tears that continued to fall while she forced herself to stay calm, to steady her voice. “That’s not true,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “Agatha loves you. She loves us. She’s just... hurting.”

You shook your head weakly, your gaze unfocused, lost in the thick fog of exhaustion and heartbreak. "She said it. She said... he wasn't ours, only hers. She doesn't want us.” Your voice cracked, breaking on the last sentence. “She doesn’t want us.” Your words grew softer, fading into incoherent murmurs as exhaustion pulled you under.

Seeing you like this brought bile up. Your pain was making her physically nauseous. Rio’s arms wrapped around you tightly, as though sheer force alone could keep you from slipping away again. “She’s lost in her grief,” she said softly, resting her chin on top of your head. “She doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t.”

But your eyes were already fluttering closed, exhaustion and despair pulling you into an empty, restless sleep. As your breathing evened out, Rio stayed by your side, her hand resting on yours.

For a long moment, she simply sat there, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. She leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

She wanted to believe Agatha hadn’t meant it, that the words had been spat out in grief and anger, not truth. But seeing you like this—weak, barely conscious, drowning in the pain Agatha had inflicted—made it impossible to excuse.

“She’s lost in her grief. She didn't mean it," Rio murmured again, this time to herself.

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

The argument replayed in Agatha’s mind as she sat on the bench, viewing the garden Rio created centuries ago as the cool night air brushing against her skin. Her fingers pressed against her temple, rubbing slow, desperate circles as if she could knead away the headache forming beneath her skull.

She took a swig from the half-empty beer bottle, the taste flat and useless to distract her from the ache in her chest. Her words had been cruel, sharp-edged daggers thrown in anger. "He was never your son. Not you, not Rio. He was my son." The memory of your devastated expression was seared into her mind.

She’d meant it in the moment. Or at least, she’d convinced herself she did. Grief over Nicky had festered into something raw and ugly, and in her anguish, she had taken it out on you—the person who had only ever tried to love her through her faults. Your love was pure.

While Nicky had inherited little of your features, what you had given him was more personal than any resemblance. Your ability to love someone regardless of their past and all the terrible things they've done is one of a kind. Agatha was sure there was no one who could ever grace this world the way you did. That was what made you stronger than any power she or Rio could ever possess.

But that purity was suffocating. It was too much like his. It was like he had never left. And yet, he was gone.

That was the worst part. Every time she looked at you, at Rio, it was a reminder of what she had lost. Of what she could never get back.

It wasn’t fair that you and Rio were still here with her when he wasn’t. It wasn’t fair that you kept loving her, even after all the ways she pushed you away. It wasn’t fair that you could carry on, bearing his memory with softness, while she was drowning in the weight of it.

Maybe that was why she lashed out. Because she hated that you were proof love could survive grief. And she hated herself even more for resenting you for it.

But now, in the openness of the garden, regret gnawed at her, eating her alive. She wished she could take it back, wished she could go back in time to undo the pain she’d caused. She hated herself for how easily the words had slipped out, sharp and unforgiving. It was a defense second nature to her. It was as unstoppable as her magic siphoning. It relented before she could remember that the people she lashed out at were the ones she loved most.

The sound of the back door slamming and heavy footsteps jolted her from her thoughts.

Agatha shot to her feet, as she carelessly discarded the bottle she had been nursing. She turned sharply, her heart hammering against her ribs as Rio strode toward her. The guilt and sorrow clung to Agatha like a shadow, but Rio wasn’t here to acknowledge her pain. This wasn’t about her.

She didn’t speak at first, only stood before Agatha, her entire body trembling with a rage barely containable as she tried to formulate her words carefully. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, her fists curling so tightly at her sides that her knuckles went white.

Agatha froze. The half-empty bottle hung uselessly at her side, momentarily forgotten. Her gaze flickered toward Rio, taking in the rigid set of her shoulders, the barely restrained fury rolling off of her in waves. Then Agatha saw it—dark stains smeared across Rio’s hands, stark against her skin. The realization hit her like ice water.

Your blood.

Her stomach twisted violently. She felt the breath hitch in her throat as her gaze snapped back to Rio’s face. The rage was still there, burning bright, but beneath it—buried just deep enough to go unnoticed by anyone else—was fear.

“You know what you’ve caused?” Rio’s voice was low and deadly, trembling with restrained rage.

Agatha swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I—”

Rio cut Agatha off before she could try to explain. “Do you know what Y/N tried to do because of you?” The words were spit through clenched teeth, but her voice cracked on your name.

“What... what-” she stammered. Once again, getting cut off.

“She thought you didn’t want her anymore. That you didn’t want us anymore.” Rio’s composure shattered, her breath coming in ragged bursts. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to find the love of our lives bleeding out in that tub? Because of you? Because you let your grief fester into something that poisoned her?”

Rio’s hands trembled as she dragged them through her hair, her breath coming in sharp, angry heaves. Then, suddenly, as if overwhelmed by the weight of it all, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and let out a harsh, shuddering breath.

Agatha couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Her vision swam, your face flashing in her mind—not the way she had last seen it, but the way it looked utterly lifeless

Tears welled in her eyes, her hands trembling as she clutched at the edge of the bench for support. “I... I didn’t know,” she choked out, her voice barely a whisper.

Rio dropped her hands, her gaze snapping to Agatha with something close to disbelief. Then she laughed, humorless and bitter. “You didn’t know?” she echoed, voice raw. “How could you not know, Agatha? Don’t give me that pathetic reasoning, Agatha. You know her more than you know yourself. You know how deeply she feels everything. Love. Pain. And now she thinks you hate her.”

Agatha’s tears spilled over, her chest heaving with the weight of her guilt. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just... I didn’t know how to deal with it. I didn’t know how to-.”

Rio’s expression softened for a fleeting moment, the raw pain in Agatha’s panic stirring something deep within her. But she quickly steeled herself, unwilling to let sympathy distract her from the truth.

"You need to fix this." Her words were quiet. Firm. And final.

Agatha blinked through the blur of tears. She hadn't felt this type of fear since Nicky.

“If you’ve ever loved her, if you’ve ever loved us, then you’ll make this right,” Rio said filled with tiredness and desperation. “Because if you don’t, you’ll lose us both.”

Agatha’s breath hitched.

Rio’s words hung in the air like a heavy, suffocating fog. Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode back inside, the door swinging shut behind her with a thud.

She had been so consumed by her own grief that she hadn’t realized she had become the very thing she had feared, the thing that had broken you.

Agatha stood there in stunned silence, her mind reeling. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed into the dirt of the garden, her fingers dug into the soil as though it could somehow anchor her to the ground. The weight of Rio’s words crashed over her like a tidal wave, and for the first time, the full gravity of her actions hit her.

Her guilt twisted like a knife in her gut. Her sobs were quiet at first, but soon they grew louder, wracking her body with the force of hardened grief. Her pain pulsed around her, a sickness that spread without forgiveness. Her gaze darted around, watching in anguish as the pink azaleas she had once tended with such care now wilting, their petals curling in on themselves as if recoiling from her presence. The energy emanating from her twisted the life around her, black veins creeping up the stems, the poison of her emotions seeping into the earth.

Just like she had seeped into you. It was a silent parallel of how she had poisoned you.

The thought made her sick.

She had always known that her anger and pain had pushed you and Rio away, but she hadn’t realized just how far it had gone until now. The fear that she might lose both you and Rio, it was too much to bear. And for the first time, the full weight of her actions hit her, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She didn’t know how to fix it, how to undo the damage she’d done. But she knew one thing for certain: if she didn’t try, she would lose you both. And that was a price she couldn’t afford to pay.