#it sounds like something howling outside instead of the wind

[koogalaxzy]

the veiled prince | j. jungkook

pairing: knight! jungkook x royal! fem. reader

genre: royalty au, smut

wc: 21.4k+

summary: jeon jungkook is anointed as the protector of the kingdom’s future king, but this proves to be a more difficult job when he realizes the crown prince is hiding a big secret.

content warning: explicit sexual content, violence & blood, gender concealment, period-typical sexism, religious themes/sacrilege (blasphemy, sex in sacred space), slight dubcon elements (power imbalance), reference to infant death, mild emotional abuse, parental pressure, alcohol consumption, mentions of prostitution/brothels.

a/n: hiii! *nervous wave* this is my very first jungkook fic, and i’m actually buzzing with nerves rn. i’ve been working on this since last year so i’m rlly excited to finally share it with the world. hope you enjoy! let me know what you guys think in the comments or my inbox <3

The tavern was filled with the sounds of raucous laughter and the scent of ale. The men of the town brigade sat around a big wooden table, their hearty chuckles bouncing off the low ceiling.

“Can’t believe our youngest here’s landed himself a spot in the royal brigade!” Sergeant Lee, a grizzled veteran with a salt-and-pepper beard and a booming voice, clapped Jungkook on the back hard enough to rattle his cup.

Jungkook offered a polite, almost shy smile. “It’s just another post, Sergeant.”

“Just another post, he says!” Lee roared, laughing heartily. “Royal brigade’s not just any post, boy. It’s the post.” He slammed a hand down on the table, the wood groaning under the force. “Best keep that modesty in check, or you’ll make the rest of us look bad.”

“Aye, I remember when he first set foot on the base, half my size, and now look at those arms…” Chuck added, his voice slick with humor. He was a lanky man, with messy blonde hair that hung over his face. His smirk was all charm despite the missing tooth in the front as he tossed a wink at the serving girl who kept casting Jungkook flirtatious glances. “Leave some of the ladies for us, eh?”

“Let’s not celebrate too soon,” Garret muttered, his tone sharp as always. He was stocky, with a broad chest and thick arms, a man whose worn plate armor bore more scratches than anyone here. His gaze flickered to the door, where the wind howled outside, carrying the cold scent of the mountains. “Royal brigade’s no game. You’ll be under different standards from the moment you set foot in that palace.”

Chuck rolled his eyes. “Here we go. You’d think they were sending him to the gallows.”

Garret ignored him. “I’m just saying… there’s more to that post than guarding a door. And there’s him to deal with.”

Jungkook arched a brow. “Him?”

“The crown Prince,” Jack chimed in, setting his mug down with a loud thud. He was younger than most soldiers but sharp-eyed, his dark hair messy and unkempt, his leather jerkin a little too tight from years of fieldwork. He leaned forward with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Haven’t you heard the whispers? Thought you kept your ears as clean as your boots, Jeon.”

“You know I don’t care about gossip,” Jungkook replied calmly but with a hint of curiosity. it’s true that he didn’t care about rumors, but there was something about this conversation that caught his attention.

Jack leaned forward, his grin widening. “Then you’ve missed the best one. His highness isn’t… like other men. There’s a reason they call him The Veiled Prince.”

Jungkook tilted his head, brow furrowing. “The Veiled Prince? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chuck chuckled, the firelight catching in his eyes as he adjusted his cloak, its deep blue fabric embroidered with the insignia of the kingdom. He didn’t meet Jungkook’s gaze, instead turning his attention to the wooden rafters above. Garret exchanged a glance with Jack before shrugging.

“It means what it sounds like,” Garret said, almost whispering as if the walls themselves might be listening. “He’s not what he seems.”

Jack tapped a finger on the table. “Just take one close look at him and you’ll know somethin’ ain't right. He’s too… delicate. His face, his voice—hell, even his body.”

Jungkook squinted at him, confused but half-amused. “Maybe there’s something you’ve discovered about yourself, Jack… being that interested in how the prince looks,” he joked, nudging Jack with his elbow. 

The table erupted in laughter and Jack leaned back, a sly grin creeping across his face. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough, won’t ya? Spend enough time close to him, and you’ll know exactly what I’m talkin’ about.” He raised his mug “Here’s to Jeon Jungkook, the youngest royal guard! May he survive court life without losing his mind.”

The morning of Jungkook’s inauguration into the royal brigade arrived faster than he’d expected. He woke before dawn and pulled on his boots for the long walk to the palace. The soft clack of his steps echoed down the narrow stone path, the world around him still shrouded in that gray hush before sunrise.

Something felt off, though. He couldn’t shake the conversation from last night. Jack’s words about the Prince looping through his mind, stubborn and persistent.

Jungkook had always kept to himself, learned early on to steer clear of gossip and mindless chatter. The other men in the brigade thrived on rumor and speculation, their voices filling every corner with wild stories, but he’d never had the patience for it. It was easier, safer, to stay silent.

Since he’d arrived in this town at the age of seventeen, he had devoted himself entirely to the regimented life of a soldier. There was no room for distractions. No time for the petty squabbles of royalty or the whisperings of court politics. His focus had been on training and on earning his place among the fiercest warriors the kingdom had to offer.

And yet, here he was, on the morning of what was supposed to be the culmination of many years of hard work, and his mind was anything but clear. The royal brigade, the very one most soldiers dreamed of joining, was now within his reach—and yet, his thoughts kept returning to the prince. The Veiled Prince. The very rumors that he'd managed to ignore til now seemed to be clawing at him now, demanding attention. 

Jungkook gritted his teeth as he approached the entrance of the palace. His duty had never been about men of the royal family. It had always been about the honor of serving the kingdom, about proving himself worthy of the rank he’d earned. The others called him a quiet one, distant even, but that had only served him well. The younger recruits often found it difficult to match his drive and focus, and the older soldiers admired his ability to keep his head down and do what was asked of him, no matter the cost. And he meant to keep it that way.

His thoughts drifted back to the prince, but not the rumors this time. He thought of the responsibility the crown prince bore, a burden Jungkook had always respected from afar. His place at court, his family, the weight of an entire kingdom’s future hanging on his shoulders. Jungkook could scarcely imagine it. 

He approached the palace gates, boots scuffing softly against the clean stone path, only to be stopped by two royal guards standing tall in polished armor. Their eyes locked on him immediately—one looked him up and down, the other stepped into his path, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“State your business,” the taller one barked. His tone wasn’t hostile, but it was firm, clearly not his first time turning away overeager boys from the city.

“Jeon Jungkook. I’ve been newly assigned to the royal brigade,” Jungkook replied calmly, though his heart ticked a little faster.

The second guard squinted. “You’re the new brigade recruit?” he repeated slowly. “You sure you’re not here to deliver someone’s breakfast?”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed, but he kept his tone leveled. “Captain Toren is expecting me.”

They exchanged a glance. One of them huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re barely out of your training boots.”

“And pretty enough to be a court musician, not a guard,” the other added under his breath, though not softly enough.

Before Jungkook could respond, another figure stepped out from inside the main doors—an older guard with sharp eyes and a clipped voice. “Is there a reason you’re delaying the newest escort?”

The two guards stiffened immediately, their mockery vanishing. “No, sir!” they echoed.

Jungkook walked past them without a word, though he felt their eyes on his back the whole way.

Before he could step further inside, the older guard who’d reprimanded the others approached him with a slow, assessing gait. He was tall and lean, his silver-streaked beard trimmed to regulation, and his armor bore the faint scuffs of long service.

“You’re Jeon, then?” he asked, voice gravelly but not unkind.

“Yes, sir.”

The man gave a small grunt. “I’m Wrenhart. Lieutenant of the East Wing. Been in this place longer than some of the stonework.” He nodded toward the interior hall. “I’ll escort you to Captain Toren.”

Jungkook gave a sharp nod, falling into step beside him.

As they walked through the tall archways and polished corridors, Wrenhart cast a sideways glance at him. “You’re younger than I expected,” he said plainly. “They’ve got plenty of sharp-eyed recruits, but it’s rare to send one straight to the Prince.”

Jungkook didn’t take the bait. “I go where I’m ordered.”

Wrenhart gave a low chuckle. “Good answer. Just keep that mouth closed and your sword ready. The palace has fewer blades, but more ways to bleed.”

His boots echoed against the pristine stone floor of the main hall, and he instinctively straightened his posture. The space was immaculate, the air tinged with the faint scent of oiled leather. 

A few men were already inside, their movements precise as they adjusted their uniforms or inspected their weapons. Unlike the lively, chaotic energy of his old comrades, the men of the royal brigade seemed quiet and focused.

It was all so… different.

Jungkook felt a twinge of unease as he stepped further into the hall. He’d spent years thriving in the rugged environment of the town’s brigade, where banter and brotherhood masked the grueling demands of their work. Here, the men seemed distant, their camaraderie subdued by formality.

Even their uniforms were different. Much more crisp and tailored, a sharp contrast to the well-worn gear Jungkook was wearing now. He caught his reflection in a polished shield hanging on the wall and suddenly felt out of place. His hair, still slightly disheveled from the early morning wind, and his roughened boots stood out against the pristine order of this place.

Would he fit in?

“Jeon,” a voice called, breaking through his thoughts. He turned sharply to see a tall, broad-shouldered man approaching him, he could guess just by his looks that he was an important man. His expression was calm but piercing as his eyes swept over Jungkook. “I’m Captain Toren. You’re early,” he said, his tone neither harsh nor warm, just efficient. 

“Yes, sir, nice to meet you sir.” Jungkook replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

“Good,” Toren said with a curt nod. “Punctuality is expected here, as is discipline. You’ll find things are different from what you’re used to in the town brigade.” He glanced at Jungkook’s boots, and though he said nothing, the slight raise of his brow made Jungkook acutely aware of the scuffed leather. “But you’ll adapt.”

“Yes, sir!” Jungkook repeated, though he wasn’t so sure.

As Toren turned and began talking to Wrenhart, Jungkook exhaled slowly, his gaze wandering across the room again. 

As he observed the soldiers around him, a thought struck him. Their restraint, their unwavering discipline, it wasn’t unlike the way he approached his own duties. He had always been more reserved than his mates. Perhaps, in time, he could find his place here. These men didn’t waste words, and neither did he. 

“Jeon, I trust you’ve been thoroughly debriefed on your assignment here by the recruiter,” Captain Toren began, his tone brisk as his boots clapped in a quick pace. “Due to the importance of your post, we can’t spare time to show you around the castle. I expect you to learn as you go.”

Jungkook hurried after him, the captain’s long strides forcing him to half-jog just to keep up. The deeper they moved into the palace, the quieter it got, as though the very stones carried the weight of centuries of secrets. 

“Sir,” Jungkook began, his voicd edged with hesitation, “I was told my post was with the royal guards... to protect the palace and accompany the King during his out-of-town duties.”

Toren didn’t break stride, his sharp gaze fixed ahead. “You’ve been misinformed,” he said curtly. “Your assignment is to protect the crown Prince directly.”

Jungkook nearly stumbled as his mind raced to process the statement. The crown Prince? How could that be his post? He was new and clearly untested at this level. 

“What?” Jungkook blurted out, his voice louder than he’d intended. The captain turned his head slightly, his expression neutral save for the raised eyebrow that conveyed mild disapproval.

“Is there a problem, Jeon?” Toren asked, his voice calm but cool.

“No, sir!” Jungkook replied quickly, his pulse quickening. “I just… Excuse my intrusion, but how can I already be assigned to directly serve someone under the line of succession? I’ve yet to familiarize myself with the royal court.”

Toren stopped abruptly, and Jungkook came to an awkward halt behind him, straightening instinctively. The captain turned, his keen eyes locking on Jungkook’s with an intensity that felt like being measured and weighed.

“Your skills and conduct at the town brigade earned you this position,” Toren said evenly, though there was a faint shift in his tone, a note that hinted at something beyond the words. “We’ve heard great things about you, Jeon. There’s a clear reason why you were the only recruit from your brigade. Your discipline, your ability to focus on the task at hand without distraction—that is what we need.”

Jungkook frowned slightly, unsure if he should respond. There was something in the captain’s choice of words, the way he spoke of focus and distraction, that felt strange. It wasn’t the kind of praise he was used to. Back in the barracks, it was your strength, your swordsmanship, or your guts that got you recognized.

“The crown Prince requires a certain kind of discretion,” Toren continued, his tone neutral but purposeful. “And not everyone is suited for that role. If you feel you aren’t, now is the time to say so.”

The air between them seemed to tighten. Jungkook knew better than to ask what the captain meant, but his curiosity stirred. Discretion? Was that just a polite way of saying he needed to keep his head down and mouth shut? The gossip about the Prince drifted back into his mind, but he shoved them aside. Speculation wasn’t his place.

“No, sir,” Jungkook said firmly, straightening his back. “I will fulfill my duty to the crown Prince.”

Toren’s eyes stayed on him for a moment longer before he nodded once. “Good. Then follow me.”

Jungkook followed him up the staircase. The flight seemed endless, spiraling upward like it reached the heavens themselves. Each landing revealed another stretch of steps, their polished white marble gleaming faintly in the soft light filtering through narrow stained-glass windows.

When they finally stopped, Captain Toren gestured toward a pair of imposing black doors, their surfaces adorned with subtle carvings of intricate vines and heraldic symbols. 

“The Prince is currently in a meeting with the King and the court,” Toren explained as he stood in front of the doors. “We’ll wait here until he’s done. Once introduced, you’ll accompany him to his duties for the day.”

“Understood,” Jungkook replied as calmly as he could.

He couldn’t help but feel a mounting sense of unease—no, not unease. Awe, perhaps. The sheer weight of the role he was about to step into, was almost suffocating. It wasn’t every day that a common soldier was thrust so close to the royal family, and certainly not so soon after arriving at the brigade.

The Captain’s reasoning earlier had been logical, but incomplete. There was more to this assignment than his discipline or skills, though it wasn’t his place to question further. Still, the doubt gnawed at him. Why only him? Why now?

His thoughts churned as they waited, time seeming to stretch and warp in the cavernous silence of the hall. The muted murmur of voices behind the heavy doors was barely audible. Jungkook adjusted his stance, willing his nerves to still. Whatever his assignment entailed, he had to appear composed. 

After what felt like an eternity, the great black doors creaked open, revealing a flood of richly dressed courtiers spilling out into the corridor. Their fine silks and embroidered velvets brushed past him as they moved in hushed conversations, their faces a mixture of poise and exhaustion. Jungkook stood at attention, his eyes fixed forward, though he couldn’t help but feel out of place amid such finery.

Then, from the back of the group, a figure emerged.

The King.

The man’s presence filled the space effortlessly, his broad shoulders draped in a robe of deep blue trimmed with gold. His expression was calm, yet commanding, the kind of look that left no room for doubt about his authority. As the king passed, Jungkook bowed slightly.

But it wasn’t the King who held Jungkook’s attention when he straightened back.

Behind him, moving with a quieter grace, was the Prince.

Jungkook’s breath caught. He had seen the Prince before but it was mostly glimpses from afar during public ceremonies or images in portraits hung in the barracks. But this was different. Up close, the rumors that had once seemed exaggerated now felt startlingly real.

The Prince was petite, his frame almost fragile under the soft folds of his ceremonial attire. His features were striking in a way that defied conventional expectations of masculinity: high cheekbones, a finely sculpted nose, and full lips that looked so soft. But it was his eyes that drew Jungkook in. They were wide, framed with dark, long lashes, and impossibly expressive.

For a moment, their gazes locked. The Prince’s eyes flicked up to Jungkook’s, studying him with curiosity. It wasn’t scrutiny, but more like a fleeting assessment, a glance that seemed to measure him without judgment. Jungkook felt rooted to the spot, caught in the subtle pull of that gaze.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this.

The Prince’s beauty wasn’t just unusual, it was disarming. It made sense now, why the court whispered, why the people gossiped. Standing before him, Jungkook could almost understand how someone might mistake him for something other than what he was.

Jungkook swallowed hard, breaking the spell. His jaw tightened as he schooled his features into neutrality, reminding himself that this was no time to indulge in those thoughts. 

“Jeon!” the Captain said sharply, motioning him forward. Jungkook nodded, stepping forward with purposeful strides.

Toren addressed the King and Prince with a bow so fluid it seemed rehearsed to perfection. “Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” he began, his tone deferential. “This is Jeon Jungkook, the newest recruit of the royal brigade. He will be serving Your Highness directly. Despite his youth, he has been highly decorated for his exemplary skills on the battlefield—”

The king raised a hand, a simple gesture that silenced Toren mid-sentence. 

“I am already acquainted with his reputation,” the King said, his gaze sharp as it settled on Jungkook. “You are the one who aided in reclaiming the Lowlands, are you not? Yes… I recall the reports. Remarkable work for one so young.”

Jungkook bowed low, his heart pounding in his chest. “Your Majesty, it was an honor to serve.”

The King’s expression softened just enough to show a flicker of approval. “And now, you are entrusted with the protection of the crown Prince. A task of no small consequence. See to it that you are equal to the duty.”

Before Jungkook could utter a reply, the King turned with the unhurried grace of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question. His robe swept across the floor as he walked away, speaking over his shoulder. “Toren, you are dismissed. The Prince will brief him further.”

Captain Toren bowed deeply. “As you will, Your Majesty.” Straightening, he added, “Your Highness, I shall leave you in capable hands.”

The Captain gave a curt nod before following the King. Jungkook stood there, momentarily frozen, feeling the vastness of the hall closing in around him. He clenched his fists lightly, willing himself to focus. 

He dared to glance at the Prince, who stood observing him without a word. The Prince’s bearing was every bit as regal as one might expect, but there was an inscrutable quality that made him seem untouchable. His attire, rich in dark blues and silvers, was impeccably tailored, but it only enhanced the delicacy of his frame and the fine structure of his face.

The Prince’s gaze lingered on Jungkook for a moment longer before he hummed softly, a sound neither dismissive nor approving, and then turned.

Jungkook followed obediently, falling into step just behind him. 

“What is your name?” the Prince asked, breaking the silence. The sound of his voice startled Jungkook slightly. It was softer and lighter than he’d imagined.

Jungkook hesitated for a second. “Jeon, Your Royal Highness.”

The Prince stopped abruptly, glancing over his shoulder with a look of mild reproach. “No,” he said, his tone almost indulgent, as though correcting a child.  “Your given name. What is it?”

Jungkook stiffened slightly, caught off guard by the question. “It’s Jungkook, Your Highness.”

The Prince turned fully, his expression softening into something faintly amused. “Jungkook…” he repeated, almost as though testing the sound of it. His lips curved into a faint smile that made Jungkook’s stomach tighten unexpectedly. “Very well. You shall address me as ‘Your Highness’ when required, but you needn’t do so with every sentence. I have no need for overdone pleasantries.”

Jungkook blinked, unsure how to respond. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said anyway, earning a slight chuckle from the Prince.

As they continued down the hallway, Jungkook followed closely, his eyes occasionally drifting to the Prince’s profile. There was something almost ethereal about him, a lightness that seemed at odds with the gravitas of his station. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, and Jungkook wondered if it was coming from the Prince or the castle itself. 

The day stretched on endlessly into a slow and languid rhythm that Jungkook hadn’t expected. His first glimpse into royal life had been eye-opening, though not in the way he expected. For all the grandeur and prestige, the day’s proceedings were mind-numbingly dull.

By mid-day, Jungkook found himself struggling to keep his focus from wandering. The halls, while beautiful, began to blur together in their sameness with its gold inlays and towering arches. The endless meetings, each one echoing the last, left him yearning for the brisk efficiency of the town brigade.

The Prince, however, seemed unfazed by the monotony. He carried out his duties with a serene elegance that both impressed and baffled Jungkook. There was a calmness in the way the Prince moved through the day, as though he were immune to the weariness that tugged at everyone else. His voice remained patient even during the most repetitive discussions, addressing each advisor with the same respect.

It wasn’t until the afternoon meeting with the townspeople that the day took on a semblance of life. The grand chamber was transformed, its imposing walls softened by the presence of ordinary villagers who had come to voice their concerns. Jungkook stood behind the Prince, his posture rigid, but his focus sharpened by the shift in energy.

The Prince’s demeanor also changed subtly as the first villager stepped forward. His previously restrained expression softened, his dark eyes warming with an attentiveness that felt genuine. For the first time that day, Jungkook saw a spark of life in him.

When a farmer approached, bowing low as he spoke of the Prince’s help with irrigation for the season’s crops, the monarch’s entire face lit up.

“Your efforts have been tireless, Your Highness,” the farmer said, his voice tinged with gratitude. “We’ve never seen such bountiful yields. My family and I can’t thank you enough.”

The Prince inclined his head gracefully. “The success of your fields speaks to your diligence as much as the Palace’s aid,” he replied, his tone light but earnest. “Still, it gladdens me to know that we’ve been of some help to you.”

Jungkook couldn’t help but notice the way the Prince’s shoulders relaxed with each expression of thanks, as if the villagers’ words were a balm against the otherwise dull repetition of his duties. The praise seemed to energize him in a way no formal meeting or courtly discussion could.

Another villager—a young woman clutching a small child—stepped forward. Her voice trembled as she thanked the Prince for providing medical supplies during a recent outbreak of illness in her village. The Prince listened intently, nodding with quiet encouragement as she spoke.

“We are fortunate to have such a compassionate leader,” she finished, bowing deeply.

Jungkook observed the Prince, taking in the quiet pride in his expression, the way he lingered just a moment longer as he assured the woman her thanks was unnecessary. It was subtle, but Jungkook felt something about the Prince’s connection to these people was different from the polished indifference he showed in the court meetings.

When one elderly woman clasped her hands and tearfully thanked him for providing seed grain during the last drought, Jungkook caught the faintest flicker of a smile on the Prince’s lips. It was quick but genuine, and it lit his delicate features in a way that momentarily silenced the soldier’s restless thoughts.

By the end of the day, it was Jungkook’s duty to escort the Prince safely to his chambers. As part of his routine, he was to stand watch outside until another member of the royal brigade relieved him for the night. Come morning, he would resume his post as the Prince’s shadow.

The corridors were quiet at this hour, their stillness broken only by their footsteps. Dim sconces cast flickering shadows against the walls, lending the space an almost eerie air. Jungkook kept his pace only a step behind the Prince, who moved with his usual grace… at least at first.

He noticed something peculiar then. The Prince’s gait, which had been smooth the whole day, was off. His steps were uneven and his shoulders sagged as though carrying an invisible weight. As Jungkook drew closer, he caught the faint sound of labored breathing.  

“Your Highness, are you well?” Jungkook asked.  

“Yes, perfectly fine,” the Prince replied sharply, though the strain in his voice betrayed the words. He quickened his pace, forcing Jungkook to keep up. “Let’s hurry,” he added, his tone clipped but tinged with urgency.  

Jungkook frowned, his instincts flaring. Something wasn’t right. The prince’s complexion appeared pale, almost ashen. His breathing grew more ragged with every step, and for a moment, Jungkook thought the Prince might collapse before they reached the chamber doors.  

When they arrived, the Prince pushed the heavy wooden doors open and disappeared inside without so much as a backward glance. Jungkook hesitated outside. He wasn’t sure if he should remain at his post or wait for further instruction.

Just as he was debating, the door creaked open again. The Prince reappeared, his face now alarmingly pale, almost bluish, and his breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Find Lady Evra,” he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. Without waiting for a response, the Prince closed the door once more, leaving a confused Jungkook staring at the polished wood.  

He cursed inwardly. He had no idea who Lady Evra was or where to find her.  

With no better option, Jungkook set off down the corridor. His eyes scanned for any sign of staff, his mind racing through every scrap of information he’d gathered about the palace since his arrival. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spotted a young servant carrying a tray of linens.  

“You—wait!” Jungkook called out, his tone urgent but controlled. The servant froze, wide-eyed as Jungkook approached “The Prince has requested someone named Lady Evra. Do you know where I can find her?”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll fetch her right away,” she said before hurrying off in the opposite direction, the linens swaying precariously in her arms.

Jungkook retraced his steps to the Prince’s chambers, resuming his post by the door. He hesitated for a moment before raising his voice just enough to be heard through the thick wood. “Your Highness, I’ve sent someone to call for Lady Evra. She should arrive shortly.”

There was no response from inside, only the faint sound of movement. Jungkook stood stiffly at attention, his sharp eyes fixed on the door. His hand rested instinctively on the hilt of his sword.

After a few minutes, Jungkook saw a group of servants approaching hurriedly. Leading them was a woman who exuded an air of authority. She was dressed in what resembled a maid's attire, but hers was of a richer fabric and a distinct color. From the way she carried herself, Jungkook could only assume she was the head of the royal attendants.

When her sharp gaze fell on him, she slowed her stride, clearing her throat. Her eyes locked onto his with a look of immediate distrust.  

“And who might you be?” she asked warily.

“I’m the Prince’s new charge, ma’am,” Jungkook replied evenly. “I began my post today.”  

Lady Evra’s brow arched in suspicion. “New charge, you say? Strange. I was not informed of such a change.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t dwell on it. “Regardless, you are dismissed. The night watch will take over from here.”  

“With all due respect, ma’am,” Jungkook said carefully, “protocol dictates that I remain until the next guard arrives. Leaving now would mean leaving His Highness unprotected.”  

Her expression hardened, and she stepped closer, her voice dropping into a sharp whisper. “I can assure you the Prince will be fine in my care. Now, do as you’re told.”  

Without waiting for his reply, she brushed past him, her shoulder nearly grazing his. As she entered the chamber, Jungkook caught a fleeting glimpse inside. The Prince was hunched over on the bed, his face obscured. Then the door shut firmly in his face.  

Jungkook stood there for a moment, jaw tightening. He reminded himself why he was chosen for this position: his ability to follow orders without prying. He exhaled slowly, shaking off his unease. Whatever was happening in that room was not his concern.  

Inside the room, the air was tense as Lady Evra worked deftly, her fingers unlacing the corset that had tormented the Prince all day.  

“I’ve said this countless times, this wretched contraption no longer fits!”  you hissed, your voice strained as you finally freed yourself from the suffocating garment. “I’ve been wearing the same corset since I was sixteen. I cannot endure it any longer.”  

Lady Evra’s expression remained composed. “Your Highness, you know you must wear it. I’ll do my best to have it adjusted.”

“It’s useless,” you countered, exhaling deeply. “My mother won’t allow you to leave any room for my natural shape to show. How does she expect me to fulfill my duties when I can’t even take a full breath?”

You moved toward the tall mirrors lining the chamber wall, your gaze sharp as you scrutinized your reflection. Each year, your form became more pronounced, and with it, the corset grew more punishing.  

“And what of this new knight?” you said, turning away from the mirror. “Why replace Sir Alric? And with this boy from the town, no less. He probably now thinks the Prince is sickly and will soon share whatever nonsense he concocts with his mates.” You sighed, letting the maids step in to prepare you for the evening’s rest.  

“If I may, Your Highness,” one of the younger maids ventured as she led you to the waiting bath. The warm, perfumed water enveloped you, the milky lather soothing your strained muscles. You gave a slight nod, allowing her to continue.  

“There are whispers among the palace staff,” she said cautiously, her tone respectful but firm. “The new guard, they say, is no ordinary recruit. He is highly decorated, despite his age. He’s also not bred here, and, according to what I’ve gathered, he’s a man of few words”

Lady Evra, clicked her tongue. “He was standing outside like a watchdog! Refused to leave even after I dismissed him. Stubborn as a mule.” She crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “I’ll be keeping a close eye on him. If he’s strange, I’ll speak to Toren and have him out of here in less than a day.”

You sighed, sinking deeper into the warm water, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. “Do as you see fit, Evra. Just ensure he keeps his mouth shut and stays out of my way.”

The days following the corset incident were nothing short of exhausting. Every interaction with Jungkook felt like walking a tightrope—your irritation simmering just beneath the surface, and his calm, dutiful presence only served to fuel your frustration. It was unbearable. Everywhere you turned, there he was standing guard by your door, shadowing your steps through the halls, his eyes always watchful. You hated it. You hated him—or so you kept telling yourself.

"Must you always hover?" You snapped one afternoon as you walked through the palace gardens. "I can breathe without you monitoring every step I take, you know."

Jungkook, walking a respectful distance behind you, replied smoothly. "It’s my duty to ensure your safety, Your Highness."

You spun on your heel, glaring at him. "My safety? From what, exactly? The murderous rose bushes? The treacherous cobblestones? Or are you afraid I’ll trip over my own feet and die?"

His face remained impassive, though his jaw tightened ever so slightly. "I take my role seriously, Your Highness. If my presence offends you, I’ll adjust my distance."

You huffed, crossing your arms. "It’s not your distance… it’s your attitude. You act as if I’m some fragile doll that’ll shatter at the slightest inconvenience. I survived before you came along. I’ll survive after you’re gone."

For a moment, he said nothing, simply watching you with those wide, unreadable eyes. Then, with a slight bow of his head, he replied, "I don’t doubt your strength, Your Highness. But even the strongest need someone to watch their back."

The calmness in his voice only irritated you more. You turned sharply, continuing down the garden path, your footsteps quick and uneven. "I don’t need you to watch my back. I need you to stay out of my way."

His response was quiet but firm. "Understood."

The weight of his simple reply settled over you, making your anger feel misplaced, almost childish. But your stubbornness wouldn’t allow you to back down. You marched ahead, determined to ignore the strange tightening in your chest, the inexplicable guilt gnawing at your resolve.

This tension became a constant, simmering beneath every exchange. Every glance Jungkook cast in your direction felt scrutinizing, even though he never once said anything out of line. And every time you snapped, he took it with that maddening calmness, never rising to your provocations.

Until one day, he didn’t.

The great hall buzzed with murmurs as townspeople filled the space for another people’s meeting, their faces lined with worry and frustration. You sat on the elevated dais, your gaze steady as the villagers came forward to air their grievances. It was a familiar scene, mostly complaints about taxes, disputes over land, requests for aid. You nodded, offering solutions where you could.  

But then, a middle-aged man stepped forward, his expression twisted with anger. His clothes were worn, his hands calloused from hard labor. "Your Highness," he began, his voice shaking with barely restrained fury, "the crime in the city is out of control. Our streets are no longer safe!”

You leaned forward slightly. "We are aware of the issue, and I assure you, measures are being taken—"  

"Measures?" he interrupted, his voice rising. "The only measures your soldiers seem to take are the ones that lead them to the bottom of an ale tankard! They’re useless, wasting our coin while we fend for ourselves."  

The crowd muttered in agreement, their voices a low rumble of discontent.  

You raised a hand to calm them. "I understand your frustration. The crown does not take this lightly, and I will personally ensure—"  

"You?" The man’s voice broke, his hand trembling as he reached into his coat. "All you do is sit on your throne safely while we suffer!"  

Before you could react, the flash of a blade caught the light as he pulled a knife from his cloak. Gasps filled the hall, and everything seemed to slow for a moment.  

But Jungkook was faster. In a single, fluid motion, he stepped in front of you, his sword drawn and leveled at the man’s throat. "Drop it," Jungkook commanded, unwavering.  

The villager’s eyes widened, his hand faltering as the tip of Jungkook’s blade pressed against his skin. "I—I didn’t mean to—" he stammered, his anger now mixed with fear.  

"Drop the knife!" Jungkook repeated, and this time, the man obeyed, the weapon clattering to the stone floor.  

Captain Toren and the other guards quickly moved in, seizing the man and leading him away. The tension in the hall was palpable, the murmurs of the crowd now hushed whispers.  

The meeting was promptly dismissed, the townspeople ushered out under by the guards. You rose from your seat, heart still pounding, and marched out of the hall without a word.  

Jungkook followed close behind.  

Once you reached the privacy of a secluded courtyard, you whirled around to face him. "What in the world was that?" you snapped, your voice sharp with anger.  

Jungkook stood firm, his arms crossed. "I was doing my job, Your Highness" he replied evenly.  

"Your job?" you repeated, incredulous. "Your job is not to scare my people!"  

He frowned, his eyes narrowing. "With all due respect, Your Highness, my job is to keep you alive. That man could’ve killed you."  

"He was desperate, he was not going to harm me!" you countered, your voice rising. "He needed help, not a blade at his throat."  

Jungkook took a step closer, his tone hardening. "Desperation makes people dangerous. If I hadn’t acted, you could’ve been seriously hurt or worse."  

You glared at him, hands clenched at your sides. "You made me look weak, Jeon. In front of everyone. How am I supposed to lead when my own guard undermines me?"  

His composure slipped, frustration evident in his voice. "And how am I supposed to do my duty when you refuse to see the risks around you?"  

There was a moment of silence. Finally, Jungkook exhaled. "I’m not your enemy, Your Highness. I’m trying to protect you, even if you dislike me for it."  

You looked away, the anger still simmering but now mixed with an uncomfortable realization that he might be right. Without another word, you turned and walked away. But the tension between you lingered as a crackling undercurrent that neither of you could ignore.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into a full month of the same dull duties. The Prince hadn’t experienced any further incidents, and since he rarely left the castle, Jungkook’s duties felt more ceremonial than protective. Inside the palace walls, the biggest threats were mundane like slipping on the stairs or burning yourself on a stray candle.

Still, one thing did unsettle him and that was the maids. It felt as though they were constantly watching him. But more scrutinizing was Lady Evra, whose sharp glances and curt words made it clear she didn’t think highly of him. Jungkook couldn’t quite pinpoint why, but he suspected she was just waiting for him to slip up.

Today, however, promised a break from routine. The kingdom was hosting dignitaries from neighboring states to celebrate the success of this year’s crops. The festivities included a hunting game, and the Prince would be participating.

Jungkook found himself looking forward to the day’s events. He had never been hunting before. The reason being that this activity was largely reserved for nobles and royals. For Jungkook, weapons had only ever been tools of war, used against enemies of the kingdom. 

As he waited for the Prince to emerge from his chambers, Jungkook couldn’t help but notice how long it always took him. He’d observed plenty of men prepare for the day, from fellow soldiers to high-ranking officers, and their routines were straightforward: a quick wash, a shave, clothes thrown on with minimal fuss. Even royals, he assumed, wouldn’t stray far from that. But the prince? His routine was far more elaborate.  

It wasn’t just the time he took but also the constant presence of maids—never a single male servant. Jungkook found this unusual. Nobles might have personal attendants, but it was customary for male royals to be assisted by male stewards, especially when dressing for public appearances. Yet here, only women fluttered in and out of the Prince’s chambers.

Jungkook’s brow furrowed as he leaned against the wall outside the door. Why so much secrecy? He wondered. 

His thoughts were abruptly cut short by the sharp clearing of a throat. Jungkook straightened at once, spinning on his heel to face an unimpressed Lady Evra, with the Prince standing just behind her. 

Jungkook’s gaze slid past the head maid and landed squarely on the Prince, who was wearing a finely tailored black velvet suit. Unlike his usual flowing robes, this ensemble clung to his form, outlining every contour. Jungkook’s mind involuntarily drifted back to that night at the tavern:

He’s too… delicate. His face, his voice—hell, even his body.

He could see it now. The Prince’s build was slender, with narrow shoulders tapering to a small waist. But lower still, his thighs seemed more shapely, fuller than one might expect. Jungkook swallowed, his thoughts beginning to tread into dangerous territory.

“What are you gawking at with that foolish expression, boy?” Lady Evra snapped, her tone sharp enough to slice through his reverie. She clicked her fingers in front of his face, jolting him back to reality. Jungkook mentally cursed himself for being so obvious.

“My apologies, ma’am,” he muttered, quickly lowering his gaze.

The Prince cast his eyes downward, a faint pink tinge brushing his cheeks. Jungkook’s heart stuttered at the sight, but before he could dwell on it, the Prince turned on his heel and began to walk away. Lady Evra followed, though not without shooting Jungkook a final withering glare, her eyes narrowing in warning.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, pressing his lips into a tight line. Focus, fool. 

When they arrived at the hunting grounds, Jungkook was immediately struck by the lack of royal guards. Only Captain Toren and two more guards stood watch over the King, alongside Jungkook himself. The absence of a larger contingent seemed odd, given the importance of the event. 

More surprising, however, was the presence of Lady Evra. She stood out sharply among the assembled men, all of whom were accompanied only by their stewards or squires. Jungkook couldn’t help but wonder what purpose a maid had at such a gathering. It was unusual, to say the least, for a woman—especially one in her position—to attend a hunting excursion.

The journey there had been rough. The carriage lurched and swayed over the uneven, muddy roads, making the ride uncomfortable for all. By the time they arrived, Lady Evra was visibly pale, her knuckles white as she gripped the carriage’s edge. As soon as the wheels stopped, she nearly leapt from the cabin, clutching a handkerchief over her mouth. She looked as though she might empty the contents of her stomach at any moment.

"Please fetch Lady Evra some water," The Prince instructed one of the nearby stewards.

Turning to Lady Evra, he added, "You may rest in the carriage. I won’t require your assistance for the time being."

Lady Evra nodded stiffly, still covering her mouth. Without another word, she retreated to the designated camp area, her usual sharp demeanor dampened by her obvious discomfort. Jungkook watched her leave, unable to shake the feeling that her presence here was more than just an odd coincidence.

The dense forest stretched around them, the towering trees creating long shadows as the afternoon sun began its slow descent. The hunting party had dispersed, each group fanning out in search of game. Jungkook remained close to you, bow in hand, his eyes sharp as he scanned the surroundings. His primary duty was to ensure that the area was safe, yet his gaze kept drifting to you instead.

You moved with a certain grace, your slim figure seeming out of place among the rugged hunters. The tight-fitting black velvet suit from earlier now seemed even more impractical in the wild. The way it hugged your narrow waist and flared slightly over your hips was… distracting. Jungkook found himself stealing glances, his grip tightening on his bow each time his eyes wandered.

“You’ve been staring,” you said suddenly. You didn’t turn to look at Jungkook, instead keeping your gaze ahead.

Jungkook stiffened, clearing his throat. “I’m merely keeping watch, Your Highness. It’s my duty.”

You finally glanced back, one brow arched. “Is it? Funny, I didn’t realize my waistline required such vigilant protection.”

Jungkook felt heat rise to his cheeks. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I was… assessing the terrain.”

“Of course,” you replied, your tone light but your eyes lingering on him just long enough to unsettle him.

Jungkook tried to shake off his discomfort, focusing on his surroundings. His instincts were on high alert, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted—not by his thoughts, and certainly not by you.

Suddenly, a sharp rustling in the underbrush made both of you halt. Jungkook raised his bow instinctively, scanning the dense foliage.

“It’s probably just a deer,” you whispered.

Before Jungkook could respond, a sharp sound cut through the air. An arrow zipped past, grazing Jungkook’s arm and embedding itself in a tree behind him. He barely registered the sting before he heard your sharp intake of breath. His heart stopped as he turned to see you clutching your side, blood seeping through your fingers.

“Your Highness!” Jungkook lunged forward just as the ground beneath you gave way. You stumbled, and before Jungkook could grab hold of you, both of you tumbled down a steep slope. Rocks and branches tore at your clothes and skin until you landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

Jungkook groaned, pushing himself up despite the aching in his limbs. His eyes immediately sought out your form. Scrambling over, he knelt beside you. “Your Highness, are you all right?”

Your eyes fluttered open, face pale. “I… I think the arrow grazed me.”

Jungkook’s gaze fell to the blood-soaked fabric at your side. He knew he had to act quickly. “It’s more than a graze, Your Highness. You’re losing too much blood. I need to tend to the wound.”

You shook your head weakly, attempting to push his hands away. “No. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Jungkook insisted firmly. “If I don’t stop the bleeding, you could—”

“I said no!” You snapped, voice trembling with both pain and defiance. Your hand gripped the torn edge of your garment. “You cannot… I won’t allow it.”

Jungkook hesitated, understanding dawning in his eyes. You weren’t just refusing out of pride… you were hiding something. But there was no time for hesitation. Gritting his teeth, Jungkook grabbed your wrist gently but firmly. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but your life comes before anything else.”

With one swift motion, Jungkook tore the fabric away from your side, revealing the wound… and something else. His breath caught. Beneath the blood and torn fabric, your chest was bound tightly, concealing curves that no man would possess.

Jungkook froze, his mind racing, but he forced himself to focus. “Your Highness… You—”

“Just hush,” you whispered hoarsely, eyes burning with both fear and anger. “And do what you must….”

Snapping out of his shock, Jungkook nodded, his hands steady as he worked. He pressed a cloth to the wound, applying pressure to stem the bleeding. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he murmured, his voice low. “But you need to trust me now.”

Your eyes searched his eyes for a long moment before you finally, reluctantly, nodded. Jungkook tore away the side of the corset where the arrow had struck, making you gasp, your hands instinctively flying to cover your chest. But Jungkook’s focus was entirely on tending your wound. He ripped a strip from his own jacket and wrapped it tightly around you, improvising a bandage. His mind was whirling with a million thoughts but his hands remained steady. 

“How could this happen…” you winced weakly, eyes blinking slow and unfocused.

Jungkook glanced around the tangled underbrush as he finished securing the makeshift bandage around your side. “I don’t think it was a missed arrow, Your Highness. All the groups were assigned different parts of the forest… no one should’ve been near us. Whoever shot that arrow meant to hit you.”

His gaze drifted back, lingering for a second where your ripped corset revealed the bound curves beneath. Realizing, he cleared his throat and jerked his eyes up to meet yours. You stared him down, cheeks flushed more with anger than embarrassment.

“We need to move. It’s not safe here.”

You tried to sit up, grimacing as pain knifed through your side. “I… I don’t think I can get up,”

“I’ll carry you to the carriage,” Jungkook said, already moving to help.

“Absolutely not.” You shot him a fierce glare, even as your lips trembled. “I refuse to be hauled around like some helpless damsel.”

Jungkook gave an exasperated huff. “Your Highness, this isn’t up for debate. My duty is to keep you alive no matter what.”

You lifted your chin. “I will not be carried.”

“For the love of—” Jungkook muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re so damned stubborn.”

Your eyes blazed, but the pain kept you from doing more than gritting your teeth. “Excuse me?!”

“Quiet now.” 

Before you could even protest the absolute audacity, his arms scooped under your knees and shoulders, lifting you easily. The motion jostled your side making your breath hitch through clenched teeth.

“You absolute brute!” You hissed.

“You're bleeding out,” he shot back, adjusting his grip just slightly so your head could rest against his chest. “Forgive me for prioritizing your survival over your comfort.”

Your fingers dug into the front of his uniform. “You could have at least warned me.”

“I did,” Jungkook muttered. “You just don’t listen.”

You scowled up at him, though the expression was weakened by your paling face and the way your head lolled slightly from the blood loss. “I am the crown Prince, you know. You should treat me with a modicum of…of dignity.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” he snapped, glancing down at you with frustration simmering just below the surface. “You make my job more difficult when you act like you'd rather die than accept help.”

He got nothing more than a quiet huff of indignation in response. You were clearly growing too weak to argue back so he quickened his pace. His gaze flicked constantly between the path ahead and the shadows shifting through the branches. But despite his vigilance, he still looked down at you every few seconds, checking your breathing.

After a moment, your voice came softer, more strained. “Do you think it was one of the guests? Someone who knew I’d be out here, away from the castle?”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But whoever it was, they knew enough to aim for where you’d be most vulnerable.”

“You mustn’t tell anyone,” you murmured weakly after a second. Jungkook glanced down at you. “About what you saw.”

His jaw flexed subtly, and for a moment he was silent. “Your secret is safe with me, Your Highness.”

Something in his voice made you believe him, despite your best instincts warning you otherwise.

He adjusted his grip and pushed into a jog. The pain flared along your ribs, but you bit back the cry, burying it in the fabric of his collar. 

“Stay with me,” he murmured quietly, quickening his pace. “We’re almost there.”

Within minutes, shapes emerged on the rise. Toren's eyes widened when he saw the crimson stain at your side.

“Prince—!” He started.

“Later,” you rasped, before Jungkook could answer. “Find whoever fired that arrow first.”

Toren snapped a signal to his men. The physician rushed forward as Jungkook eased you into a soft cushion inside the carriage, but your hand caught his wrist before he could step back.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

The female physician began cutting away the rest of the corset. Jungkook turned, placing himself between you and the widening circle of soldiers, shielding your secret with his own body as the hunt for the unseen archer began.

“This is an outrage! An arrow shot at the Crown Prince! What barbaric times are we living in?” the Queen seethed, her heels clicking furiously across the marble floor as she paced the length of your chambers. Her hands, adorned in glinting rings, were clenched tightly at her sides, white with fury.

You lay still in bed, propped up against a pile of silk-stitched pillows, a dark expression carved into your face. Pain still throbbed beneath the bandages at your side, but it was nothing compared to the knot forming in your stomach.

You hadn’t yet told her.

She was already fuming, her voice echoing off the high ceilings, and you had no idea how to add to her fire without sparking a full inferno. You didn’t even know what they’d do to Jungkook if they found out. A soldier learning the most guarded secret in the kingdom? The risk alone was enough to get someone executed. But…

Your thoughts flicked back to the look on his face when he saw you bleeding. Not disgust. Not hesitation. Just focus. A strange steadiness that lingered even after his shock.

You wanted to trust him. But did you know you could?

“The royal guards scoured the entire forest,” your father said, his voice tight with exhaustion. He sat slumped on the edge of the chaise, one hand pressed to his temple, the other clenched over his knee. “There were no tracks, no signs, no discarded arrows. Whoever it was, they planned their escape well.”

He looked older than he had the day before. You know he hadn’t slept. his robes were still wrinkled from the previous night’s vigil at your bedside.

“The wound could have been fatal!” the Queen snapped, turning toward him. “They aimed for her side! Low enough to bleed her out before help could arrive. This wasn’t a warning shot.”

“The physician said she’ll make a full recovery,” your father reminded gently. “Thanks to quick action. The bleeding was stopped in time.”

“Thanks to Jungkook.” You said, staring at the gilded canopy above. “If he hadn’t acted, I might not be here.”

Your mother’s eyes snapped to yours, sharp with calculation. “That boy…he bandaged your wound?”

You hesitated. The truth was teetering at the edge of your tongue. “He saved my life,” you said, skirting the specifics, not quite meeting her gaze.

Your father let out a slow breath. “Then we owe him a debt. At least some among the guards still know their duty.”

But your mother was not so easily appeased. She narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “I want to speak to him. Alone. If he is to be your constant shadow, I need to know exactly what kind of man we’ve invited into this family’s confidence.” Her words left no room for argument.

A tremor of fear ran through you—not for yourself, but for Jungkook. The more people who knew, the more fragile your secret became. And you couldn’t shake the worry that your mother would see straight through any lie he tried to offer.

A knock sounded. Lady Evra slipped inside, curtsying quickly. “Your Majesties, Sir Jeon has returned from debriefing with Captain Toren. He requests permission to deliver his report in person.”

Ice rippled through your chest. The Queen’s eyes flashed. “Bring him.”

Jungkook entered and sank to one knee, head bowed. “Your Majesties. Your Highness.”

“You kept my child alive,” the King began. “For that, the crown owes you.”

“Yes,” the Queen cut in, “but you also led the hunting party that placed the Prince in the arrow’s path. Explain.”

Jungkook lifted his gaze. “Your Majesty, the party followed the assigned quadrant. The assailant lay in wait outside any sanctioned sector. Whoever it was moved with purpose and vanished the moment the shot was fired.”

“You saw no crest, no colors?”

“None, Your Majesty. Only a black-fletched arrow. I have secured it for inspection.”

The Queen folded her arms. “And after the attack? How did you manage the wound?”

Jungkook’s shoulders squared, but his voice stayed steady throughout the questioning. “I made a bandage from my uniform and transported the Prince to the carriage as quickly as possible.”

Your chest loosened by a fraction at his quick wit.

The King exhaled. “I will make sure to let the court know you’ll remain as primary escort for the Prince.”

The Queen looked ready to object, but your voice slipped in first “I concur. Sir Jeon acted decisively. I am alive because of him.”

The Queen inclined her head after a few seconds, the gesture sharp as a sword’s edge. “Very well. But from this day forward you answer to me as well, Sir Jeon. Fail once, and no medal will shield you.”

“I understand, Your Majesty,” Jungkook said firmly.

“Then go,” she ordered. “See the prince’s guard doubled and the gate captains briefed about our new security measures.”

He bowed once more and withdrew.

You let out the breath you’d been holding. Your father rose to leave. “Rest, my child. We will find whoever did this.”

When your parents had gone, Lady Evra fussed with your pillows, but you caught her sleeve. “Send for Sir Jeon quietly. I… need to thank him.”

Lady Evra’s brows arched, but she only nodded. “As you wish, Highness.”

After a few minutes, a knock sounded at your door. You sat up with difficulty, wincing as the movement tugged at your healing side. “Come in!” you called, adjusting the blanket around your waist.

The door creaked open, and Jungkook stepped in with his usual calm, bowing his head slightly before crossing the room. He stopped just at the edge of your bed, posture rigid, as though unsure how close was too close.

Your loose camisole left little to the imagination. The bindings were gone so the faint curve of your chest was now impossible to hide. Still, Jungkook’s eyes didn’t waver once. His gaze held respectfully to your face.

“You wished to see me, Your Highness?”

“Yes.” You found yourself nibbling the inside of your lip nervously. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he now carried your greatest secret or the simple fact that you were alone with him in your chambers. Both felt equally improper. “I wanted to thank you again for saving me.”

“It was only my duty, Your Highness.”

“I know…”  You drew a slow breath. “I also wanted to apologize… for being so difficult.”

“I don’t hold it against you, Your Highness. I’d be difficult too, if I were in your place.”

“I think the Queen suspects you know more than you let on.”

“Yes, the interrogation made that pretty clear,” he replied without missing a beat.

His deadpan delivery made you huff a laugh despite yourself.  He didn’t smile back but his expression softened. And for just a second, he looked at you not like a soldier looking at a royal, but like a boy looking at someone he wasn’t sure how to categorize anymore.

Your smile made him lose that unwavering focus he was known for. His eyes dipped ever so slightly before darting back up. He swallowed.

You caught the slip. “Something wrong, Sir Jeon?”

“No,” he said too quickly. “You should rest. You’re still healing.”

“Is that a dismissal?” you teased, a faint smirk tugging at your lips.

His jaw tightened. “No, Your Highness. Merely a concern.”

“Very well, then. You’re dismissed.”

He bowed and slipped out, the door whisper-quiet behind him.

From the day the physician cleared you to leave bed, Jungkook seemed to multiply—one shadow was no longer enough. If he’d hovered before, now he was practically stuck to your side. Always posted outside your door even after his shift was supposed to end, tracking every corridor you crossed, materializing whenever a servant so much as sneezed in your direction. You told yourself it was because of the arrow, because you were still healing. But deep down you sensed it was because of what he’d seen in the ravine.

Your first outing was a simple walk across the inner courtyard. The morning sunlight spilled over the flagstones and you longed to feel it on your face. You managed three steps before Jungkook appeared at your side.

“If I trip, will you throw yourself under me like a mattress?” You huffed, trying hard not to roll your eyes.

“If necessary, your Highness,” he answered, unblinking.

You clicked your tongue and kept walking, noting the way castle staff parted around him cautiosly. Rumors had already taken flight about the Prince’s new guard, silent as stone, deadly as winter. You wondered which version of the story they told, the one where you were a delicate invalid, or the one where Jungkook was an overzealous watchdog. Neither sat comfortably.

Later that week, you attempted to sneak to the library after dusk to review the latest grain-tax ledgers. You’d just slipped through the double doors when a low voice cut the stillness.

“Your highness.”

You whirled. Jungkook was standing neared the doors, arms folded, as though he’d just spawned there.

“Did you follow me? Your shift ended hours ago” you hissed.

“You must’ve forgotten that the Queen ordered double watch on every entrance after the attack. I can hardly leave the future monarch to wander unguarded gaps.”

“This is the royal archive, not a battlefield.”

“Any place becomes a battlefield once an enemy steps inside.” 

You opened your mouth to retort but suddenly footsteps sounded in the antechamber. Jungkook was beside you in an instant, one hand on the hilt at his waist, the other gently pressing you behind a towering shelf.

The door creaked and two junior ministers drifted in, whispering about budget approvals. Only when they left did Jungkook relax.

“One cannot be too careful,” he murmured. “Not every foe announces himself with a blade.”

You shot him a glare. “You see threats where there are none.”

“Perhaps. Yet my vigilance has saved Your Highness before.”

A dozen retorts crowded your tongue, but none survived the heat in his gaze.

You stepped back first. “Very well. Sit and read if you must, but do so in silence while I work”

He inclined his head. “As you wish.”

You took a table by the tall windows; he chose a chair just within arm’s reach, angled so he could watch the door and, annoyingly, you. Under the wavering candlelight, you tried to drown in numbers, yet awareness of him pulsed at the edge of every calculation.

When the tower bell tolled midnight, you closed the ledger with a thud. “Finished,” you said, more to the thudding in your chest than the paperwork.

Jungkook rose, offering his arm. You hesitated, then took it—if only to steady the soreness in your side. His warmth seeped through the linen sleeve.

As he guided you back to your chambers, you realized two things with unsettling clarity:

First, the palace seemed far safer when he was near.

Second, no safety had ever felt quite so perilous for your heart.

Your injuries had yet to fully mend when your mother, in all her gilded grandeur, declared it time to host a royal ball.

As if a pierced flank and bruised ribs were no excuse to be spared the torment of brocade and small talk.

Worse still, guests from your mother’s bloodline—house Calderan, of the western realm—had been invited. And with them, your cousin Victor. You despised Victor. He was as insufferable as his father, your uncle the marquess of flintmere. Both were horribly self-important, crude, and always eager to remind the court of your… delicate disposition.

Your father had little love for them either, but decorum bound his hands. Calderan and your court were long allies, and the celebration required their presence.

Because of this unfortunate fact you were now struggling into formal attire before a tall gilt mirror. Fresh bindings hugged your ribs, hot with ache, and the new double-breasted velvet coat—blood red, embroidered in silver—pinched at your shoulders. Just as you contemplated tearing a seam for air, a knock rattled the door.

“For the love of the gods, enter!” you snapped.

The door swung wide and Jungkook stepped inside, one hand pressed to his breast in courteous greeting—then froze at the sight of you half dressed, corset strings dangling like snakes.

“What is it, Jeon? Can you not see I am rather occupied?” you demanded.

“My apologies, Highness.” He dipped his head. “I bear word from the Great Hall. The royal party from Calderan has arrived sooner than expected, and Their Majesties request your presence at once in the Receiving Hall.”

“What?” you exclaimed, voice pitching higher than you’d like. “I’m not even dressed! And these wretched clothes don’t fit. Fetch lady Evra at once.”

“Lady Evra is presently addressing some disturbance downstairs, Highness. It seems the scullery maid set the kitchen alight.”

“Curse it all!” you swore, fighting the urge to fling something across the chamber. Jungkook's lips twitched as if he found your outrage amusing.

“Well, don’t just stand there! Come help me with this.” You jabbed a finger at the offending corset’s laces.

His eyes went round. “M—me, Your Highness?”

“No, i’m speaking to the armor in the corner. Of course you! Make yourself useful for once.”

Color climbed his neck, but he crossed the carpet without further protest. You turned, bracing both palms on the bed-post while he gathered the laces of your corset. His fingers brushed the small of your back. He worked carefully, drawing each pull snug but not cruel.

“Too tight?” he asked, voice a shade lower than usual.

“It will have to do,” you muttered, trying—and failing—to ignore how your pulse fluttered where his knuckles grazed skin.

He tied the final knot, then helped settle the velvet coat over your shoulders. You faced the mirror. The garment now lay smooth, waist nipped just enough to suggest aristocratic elegance.

“Thank you,” you said, voice softer than expected.

“Always, your highness.”

His eyes lingered before he bowed and turned toward the door.

“Jeon.”

He glanced over his shoulder.

“If Victor so much as looks at me the wrong way tonight,” you said, slipping into your polished boots, “I expect you to ‘escort’ him into a wall.”

“Gladly, Your Highness”

The bells of the west tower chimed eighth hour as you and Jungkook left your chamber. He offered his arm which you accepted only because the corridor felt endless and your side still ached under silk and whalebone. 

At the doors of the Great Receiving Hall, you let his arm go as the herald struck his staff with three measured raps that silenced the string ensemble within.

“His Highness, The Crown Prince, accompanied by Sir Jeon Jungkook of the Royal Brigade.”

The carved oak panels swung wide. Heat washed over you first coming from the braziers that roared in every corner. Tapestries of your house stag and House Calderan’s silver hawk hung side by side. Above the high tablewas  a chandelier bristled with beeswax candles, dripping slow pearls of wax toward the floor.

All eyes turned as you crossed the threshold. Some widened in sympathy at the pallor still ghosting your features; more than a few flicked to Jungkook, curiosity sharpening into speculation. The string players shifted seamlessly into the opening of the ceremonial court dance—a formation performed in a large circle by the noblemen and lords, and a second concentric circle by the ladies and visiting dignitaries.

“Steady,” Jungkook murmured.

“I am steady,” you replied with a tight smile.

Halfway across the hall, a voice as smooth as oiled steel cut through the courtly murmurs.

“Cousin!” Victor Calderan detached himself from a knot of western lords, crossing to you with the swagger of a man certain every eye belonged on him. He bowed then straightened to his full, irritating height. “I feared we should meet next at a funeral. Imagine my relief to see you upright, if not entirely… unharmed.”

Your jaw locked. “Your concern dazzles me, Victor.”

He smirked, gaze darting to Jungkook. “And this must be the heroic shadow who hauled you from barbaric brambles. Tell me, Sir… was it bravery or blind luck that kept the arrow from finding a truer mark?”

Jungkook’s expression did not change, but you saw his muscles tighten under his vambrace. “Luck always bows to skill, my lord,” he said evenly. “And skill serves the crown.”

A hint of annoyance crossed Victor’s face then vanished under a grin. “Well spoken. Still, I wonder if our dear Prince would fare better guarded by men of better lineage.” He let the insult hang but Jungkook seemed unaffected.

“You damn–”

Before you could finish, the Queen appeared beside you “Victor,” she said warmly, “your father awaits you by the dais.” It was not a suggestion. Victor bowed again, much deeper to her, and left.

Your mother’s smile dropped the moment his back turned. “Behave,” she warned under her breath. “The first set is the ceremonial march, you must appear united.” 

You bowed just to hide an eye roll. “As Your Majesty wills.”

A drum signaled the dance’s start. You and Victor joined the outer circle of lords, your places dictated by birth, while Jungkook took his place along the wall with the other guards. Victor’s presence at your side was unavoidable, his harsh touch on your side during the linking step made you wince.

“Still sore?” Victor murmured as the circles rotated, his lips barely moving. “If those bandages split, imagine the scandal.”

You kept your smile frozen. “If that happens, it won’t be my bindings that split... it will be your lip.”

His eyes glittered, but he was forced to move on as the circle turned and you broke away, hands briefly joining with Lord Banford, then Lord Giles. At every turn, you felt Jungkook’s gaze on you.

When the dance ended, you made to walk away and sit down but Victor stopped you, pulling you back harshly.

“Come on, cousin! Are you tired already?” 

Jungkook was at your side in a second.

“Does the guard speak for the Crown now?” Victor chuckled darkly.

“He speaks when the Crown cannot waste breath,” you answered, accepting Jungkook’s steadying arm. “My physician forbade further strain.”

The Chamberlain hurried forward, announcing the second formation, where you would join a different grouping—this time among the royal cousins and western lords. Custom demanded your continued presence, but you lifted your chin and turned to your mother.

“This set I forfeit,” you declared, voice ringing over the music. “In gratitude for my continued heartbeat, I would honor the man who saved the heir to the crown.”

A jolt of shock moved through the hall, but your mother inclined her head reluctantly, and the King gave a small nod from the dais.

Instead of taking a place in the second set, you moved aside, allowing Jungkook to join. Though not strictly within the bounds of custom, your action was shielded by royal decree.

You leaned in, voice just for him. “You see? I can break a rule or two when I must.”

He let the hint of a smile curled his mouth. “And survive it, Highness.”

The rest of the ball blurred past with Victor’s dark looks from the dance circle, the Queen’s measured glances, and the way the court’s eyes tracked every step you took with your silent, loyal guard at your side. Your closeness would not go unnoticed nor, perhaps, would you want it to.

“Mother, you cannot be serious! They’re an utter nuisance! Why would you keep them here longer than necessary?” you protested, trailing at her heels as she moved about her solar the following morning. Sunlight gleamed off gilded mirrors and the silver trinkets that lined her shelves, mocking your mood.

She turned sharply, her jewels flashing. “Because they are family, and because I say so. Besides, your father is in the midst of delicate negotiations with them.”

You scoffed, folding your arms. “Oh, please. My father would sooner share a cell with the rats under the kitchens than spend another day at table with Uncle and Victor.”

Her lips thinned. “That’s enough. You’re acting like a spoiled child.”

You clenched your jaw, biting back another retort. Without waiting for dismissal, you stormed from her chambers, slamming the heavy oak door behind you.

Jungkook was waiting outside, posture alert. He fell into step at your side the moment you emerged.

“This is absurd,” you muttered, barely slowing your stride as you swept down the corridor. 

“Your Highness, if you walk at that pace, you’ll tear your stitches,” Jungkook cautioned.

You bristled, refusing to look at him. “I am perfectly capable of walking, Jeon. Kindly grant me some dignity.”

Before he could reply, a familiar, grating voice drifted down the hall.

“Cousin.”

You stopped dead, spine stiffening as Victor sauntered toward you.

“I trust you heard the good news,” he drawled, spreading his arms joyfully. “We’re to enjoy your fine hospitality for several more days. How utterly delightful.”

“Truly wonderful,” you replied, the cold expression in your face not matching the words at all.

He grinned. “Since we have so much time to rekindle our friendship, perhaps we should indulge in some amusement. You know, like old times.”

You glanced quickly at Jungkook, drawing a steadying breath before stepping closer to Victor.

“I hardly think that would be appropriate.”

“Oh, come now!” Victor’s voice rose, clearly intended for Jungkook’s ears. “Be a man, will you? You’re the only Prince I know who shuns a bit of female company. It wouldn’t kill you to enjoy yourself for once. Visit the city, see the girls dance. In fact, your guard is welcome to join us. The last one… what was his name? Sir Alric, was it? He could hardly stay away from those girls. Surely Sir Jeon doesn’t object to a little pleasure?”

Your eyes narrowed, refusing to give Victor the satisfaction of a reaction.

“I assure you,” you said, voice icy, “I have neither the time nor the inclination to carouse with you, cousin. Nor do I require your advice on how to behave as a man.”

Victor chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “We’ll see. Even the purest Prince in the realm has his vices. Perhaps your new shadow here might teach you a thing or two.”

“Mind your tongue, Lord Victor,” Jungkook interrupted. “You tread close to slander.”

Victor arched a brow, clearly amused. “Slander? I thought the Prince welcomed plain speech.”

“My loyalty,” you said, stepping forward until your boots touched the hem of Victor’s cloak, “does not extend to brothels or barroom gossip. Neither does my patience.”

His smile thinned. “So prickly. Perhaps the arrow did more harm than I heard. Well—” He spread his hands in mock apology. “The offer stands. Should you grow tired of the court, you know where to find me.”

He pivoted and strolled away. Only when his footsteps faded did you release the breath strangled by the corset.

Jungkook’s eyes stayed on the corridor’s far end before returning to you. “You should not let him bait you.”

“I know.” You pressed a palm to the ache beneath your ribs. “But I know him well enough to know he won’t stop pestering me.”

Night had already draped the capital in velvet by the time Victor found a way to corner you again.

You were halfway through supper when a page arrived with a folded billet stamped in House Calderan’s hawk.

His Highness is invited to continue the evening’s festivities in the city. Your father’s treaty depends upon our growing “camaraderie.”A carriage waits at the north postern.

You could almost hear the smug lilt in every curl of ink. Refusal would definitely reach your uncle’s ears by dawn which would likely damage  the negotiations your father desperately needed. 

The truth was, your kingdom had seen better days. Crime crept through the streets, the fields had withered beneath a relentless drought, and the coffers grew thinner every day. In his desperation, your father had turned to family, forging alliances wherever he could.

So you swalloed your pride and slipped from the palace under cover of night, Jungkook at your side. Neither of you spoke as the postern gate thudded shut behind you. Two Calderan riders flanked the carriage. Inside, Victor lounged with his legs crossed, grinning wide as you entered.

“Cousin! I thought you’d faint from virtue and abandon me to the wolves.” He knocked twice on the carriage roof, and the horses surged forward. “No need to fret. The Gilded Swan keeps its finer rooms for those of proper blood.”

You took your seat opposite, brushing off his jibe. Jungkook stood by the door, his eyes fixed on the shadowed streets beyond the rattling shutters.

Victor uncorked a silver flask and swirled its contents, his gaze sharp. “Tell me, have you ever seen dancers from the southern isles? They’re… a rare delicacy. Your guard may feast his eyes as well. Consider it a courtesy from one man to another.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, but he held his tongue. 

The carriage rattled downhill through a maze of twisting lanes until you reached The Gilded Swan’s front of polished wood and gilded carvings of wings. Women in gauzy silks greeted patrons on the steps

Victor was out first, flipping a coin pouch to the doorman. “See that House Calderan gets the finest chamber.”

There were severak ushions sprawled around low tables laden with wine and fruit inside, while a sunken stage in the center drew all eyes. Dancers shimmered in veils and jewels, their skirts flashing as they twirled, each movement met with cheers and hungry applause.

Victor sank into a couch, discarding his boots as if he were in his own chambers. He beckoned a pair of courtesans with a lazy curl of fingers. “Wine for the Prince,” he ordered, “and something stronger for Sir Jeon… he looks parched.”

“I don’t drink while on duty,” Jungkook said firmly. He stationed himself at your shoulder, watchful as a tower guard.

Victor’s grin turned sly. “So disciplined. Perhaps the dancers can loosen that spine.” He snapped, and a tall woman with chrysanthemum tattoos crossed to Jungkook, offering a tray of crystal cups.

Jungkook took none.

The woman turned to you, lowering gracefully. Her kohl-lined eyes roved over your figure, pausing at the stiff line of your torso. She tilted her head, curiosity pricking but before her hand could brush the boned front of your doublet, you leaned back.

“No entertainment,” you said, keeping your tone princely and bored. “I am here only to ensure my cousin’s discretion.”

Victor laughed, raising his goblet. “Ever the dull blade, cousin. Truly no edge for pleasure. Tell me, do the bindings truly leave no room for—”

Jungkook stood between you. “Mind the heir’s dignity, Lord Victor.”

“Spirits be merciful, Sir Stonewall. We are all friends here.”

Yet his stare lingered before drifting toward a curtained staircase that led to secluded chambers.

“Very well,” he sighed, feigning magnanimity. “If my cousin will not try  the Swan’s delights, I shall enjoy twice the share.” He stood up with a girl on each arm, and sauntered toward the stairs. “Perhaps another night, Your Highness… when your nurse allows.”

You forced a breath past clenched teeth.

“We can leave if you wish to, Highness.”

You shook your head, eyes still on the curtained stairs. “No. Victor thinks I’m weak. Let him wear out his appetites. We will see how well he argues tariffs tomorrow with a pounding skull.”

You managed a tight smile. “Besides, I have my own entertainment.” You pointed to a quieter alcove overlooking the stage. “There. Far from roaming hands.”

He escorted you to the nook, positioning himself so no stray reveler could approach unnoticed. 

Hours later, when Victor was well and truly lost beyond those curtains, you remained in the alcove. Below, you could see the dancers entertaining nonstop. A single brass lamp burned on your table, scenting the air with clove and orange its low flame gilded Jungkook’s profile and it was hard not to notice the clean line of his jaw, the faint scar at his temple, the way lamplight glanced off his dark lashes whenever he blinked.

Perhaps it was the spiced wine Victor pressed on you before he vanished, which you refilled at least twice seen. Perhaps it was the warm stupefying musk of incense that drifted from braziers along the wall. Either way, your limbs felt pleasantly untethered, your thoughts inhibited. You laid sideways on a velvet bolster, temple propped on your fist, studying the man who refused to leave your side.

“You do realize,” you said, words coming slower than usual, “that you have not taken your eyes off that door since we sat down.”

“It is the only entrance to these private stairs,” Jungkook answered. His tone was even, but his gaze slid to you for the briefest moment. “If trouble returns, it will come from there.”

You let your head loll back. “Still the dutiful shield. Even in a house of vice.”

“I am sworn everywhere,” he said quietly.

“Sworn everywhere,” you echoed. “To me”

That earned his full attention. His eyes, dark as spilled ink, held your own and you wished nothing more than to see into his thoughts.

An idea, warm and reckless, bloomed behind your ribs as you reached across the low table and brushed a fingertip along the edge of Jungkook’s gauntlet where metal met leather. “Remove this,” you murmured.

“Highness?” His voice caught in surprise.

“The armor,” you clarified, sliding your finger higher, grazing the strap at his wrist. “If I must endure bone and lace, you may relinquish a single plate. Humor me.”

His lips parted and you could tell he was trying to find a way to refuse. But the dutiful soldier in him told him to obey. Slowly he unbuckled the vambrace and removed it.

Without the gauntlet, his hand looked strangely vulnerable, long fingers scarred at the knuckles, veins tracing elegant lines beneath skin. You found yourself cataloging each detail as though it were a secret map.

You took the risk, folding your hand over his. Jungkook did not pull away, though every muscle in his forearm flexed.

“Your pulse is fast,” you whispered, sliding your thumb across the roughness of his knuckles.

“So is yours,” he replied, eyes locked on the place your hands met.

Perhaps he meant to reclaim discipline and perhaps you meant to retreat. Neither happened. Instead you leaned forward, wine-sweet breath mingling with his steady exhale. From this close you noticed the faint scent of cedar oil on his tunic and the way a single strand of hair curled against his cheek. Your gaze drifted to his lips and how soft they looked. You’d never been kissed before but suddenly the curiosity to experience it felt stronger.

“Highness,” he breathed.

“Do you truly not desire any distraction?” you asked, trying for light teasing, but the words husked in your throat.

“I desire—” He stopped, swallowed. “I desire your safety.”

“And now?” Your lips were inches from his. “Am I in danger?”

A flicker of something like hunger flashed in his eyes. He raised his free hand, intending, you knew, to guide you back to a safer distance. But he misjudged and his fingers brushed the bare line of your collarbone instead. The touch was light as a feather yet it felt like embers striking tinder.

“I think you’ve had more wine than you intended, Highness.” His jaw tightened slightly, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before swiftly darting back to your eyes.

“I know precisely how much I’ve had,” you countered quietly. “And it is just enough to see clearly.”

He exhaled slowly, but made no move to withdraw. “And what is it you see clearly now?”

“You.”

His dark eyes searched your face, their careful mask slipping. “Your Highness, I—”

But words seemed suddenly insufficient. Before caution could whisper warnings, you leaned in even closer, enough to feel the warmth of his breath fan across your cheek.

“You’re quite handsome, Jeon,” you breathed, and then the realization of your boldness caught up to you. But even then, you couldn’t pull away.. or didn’t want to.

Jungkook’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Highness,” he finally managed, voice strained. “We must be careful…”

But still, he did not move away. And you wondered, heart racing wildly in your chest, whether either of you truly wanted him to.

The city’s raucous glow had faded behind you, but your thoughts were a muddle. Jungkook carried you through the shadowed halls, keeping to the servants’ ways where no courtiers would see. Your head lolled, the fine points of your princely attire digging into your ribs and making every step a trial.

When at last you reached your chambers, Jungkook all but dropped you onto the old settee. You slumped with a groan, fingers clawing at your sash and the linen bindings beneath.

“You must shed these clothes, Highness,” Jungkook said, trying to keep his tone respectful. “You’ll not heal sleeping in such tight bindings.”

You snorted. “Spare me the lecture. If you’ve any compassion, help me before I die of strangulation. Saints, this is tighter than a miser’s fist.”

He hesitated, glancing aside. “This is improper—”

“Oh, by the gods, Jungkook!” you snapped, voice sharper than intended. “You think I care for propriety tonight? I’ve suffered arrows, your company, and Victor’s idiocy. Help me or leave me for the crows.”

He muttered something under his breath—a curse, probably—but obeyed. His fingers found the cords at your back, unsteady only in the beginning. The binding was nothing like court ladies’ corsets. It was just cruel, tight linen, meant to flatten your chest beneath the shirt and sash. As he worked, you nearly sagged in relief from all the air rushing in.

“Mercy, that’s better,” you groaned. “If I die of a broken rib, you have my permission to toss me in the moat.”

“You should lie down, Highness” he murmured, his voice low and strangely gentle.

You shot him a side look, drunken bravado bleeding into your words. “Only if you swear to catch me, Jeon. I think my legs are lost to the night.”

He slid an arm behind your shoulders, helping you upright. The motion spun you and you tumbled against his hard chest, hands gripping his shirt for balance.

“Gods, you’re sturdy,” you slurred, grinning like a fool. “Is that what they teach in the brigade? To stand firm no matter what fool Prince pitches into you?”

He swallowed, lips parting. “It’s…expected of me, Highness.”

You laughed brightly. “Expected. Hah. I expect nothing and am never disappointed. Look at you, face all grim as judgment day. No jest, not even a smile.” You squinted up at him, noting the worry in his gaze. “Why do you look at me like that?”

He was silent, hands still steady on your waist, but his eyes betrayed him.

“Don’t be so serious,” you whispered, suddenly closer. “There’s no secret between us. Not anymore.”

Your lips brushed his, barely a touch, but it was enough to scatter any pretense of sobriety. He froze. Both honor and desire warring under his skin.

You pulled back, smirking despite yourself. “You have no taste for this, have you? No appetite for ruin?”

“That is not it,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

Before he could protest further, you kissed him. A real kiss this time, hard and sure, all the reckless longing you’d been holding in. His hand curled at your back.

You broke away, breathing hard, half in his lap now. “Tell me truly,” you demanded. “Do you want this, or must I beg?”

He exhaled like a man dying of thirst. “I do.”

As his hands slid under the last linen, your bindings came undone and for the first time—maybe in your entire life—someone saw you not as a Prince, but as you.

You waited for judgment, but Jungkook’s eyes only darkened as his gaze swept down your bared chest.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he whispered. His hands trembled as they cupped your waist, his thumbs smoothing over your ribs, mapping bruises and your wound. His fingers relished on the softness, the secret curves only you had ever touched until now.

You wanted to make a joke to break the nerves, but the words melted in your throat. Instead, you watched him watch you, and your heart ached, shocked at how it felt to be gazed at like that.

He bent his head, lips ghosting down your collarbone. “Tell me if you wish me to stop,” he murmured against your skin.

You shook your head, voice ragged. “Don’t you dare.”

He smiled and kissed down your body. Mouth lingering on every inch, tracing the swell of your breast with reverent lips. Hands spreading your legs open—showing you, wordlessly, that nothing about you needed hiding. When he finally pressed his mouth to your nipples, you gasped, one hand flying to tangle in his hair.

His tongue traced gentle circles around the softest part of you, his breath hot, the scrape of his jaw rough but grounding. You shook in his hands, aching from the inside out.

Your thoughts unraveled. This is me, my true form. You could barely remember the last time you’d felt your body as anything but a disguise, made to fit someone else’s story. Now, with his tongue and lips coaxing pleasure from you, every moan felt like reclamation, every arch of your back a defiance of everything the court said you were not.

Let them say I’m unfit, let them call me monster or traitor, you thought as you cried out for him, but at least he knows me. He knows me.

His kisses trailed lower, aching passes of his lips that left your skin flushed and trembling. Every inch of you he touched felt new no longer hidden. When he settled between your thighs, you jolted. Not from fear, but from the terrifying ache of being seen there. You’d bound yourself for years, flattened what made you a woman. No one had ever touched you like this, looked at you like this.

“Please,” Jungkook whispered, hands firm on your thighs as he guided them apart. “I want to see you.”

Your head tipped back, lips parted in a soundless plea. “Don’t mock me,” you breathed.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, voice rough with restraint. “You don’t know what it does to me—seeing you like this. Real. Unhidden. Do you know how many men would fall to their knees for you?”

Then he did. Right there, between your legs, head bowed not in service to your crown, but to your body.

He kissed the inside of your thigh first then higher, then higher still, until your hips jerked and your hand flew to his hair again, fingers twisting in the strands like rope. The first pass of his tongue against your most sensitive flesh made your knees lock around his shoulders.

You gasped helplessly. “Jungkook—!”

He didn’t speak. Just moaned low against your cunt, and the vibration sent a white-hot jolt straight through you. He licked you with so much fervor, you’d think he was a starving man.

It was unbearable, how good it felt. Unfathomable. The Prince—you, who had fought in war councils and sparred in training yards—reduced to nothing but trembling whimpers and heat between your thighs. His hands never stopped holding you, grounding you, keeping you from flying apart.

The room blurred. Your mind went blank. All you knew was the relentless pressure of his mouth, the way he sucked and licked and groaned against you as if your pleasure was the only reward he’d ever wanted.

“Gods,” you whispered, hips grinding up into his face, “I— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, voice muffled, filthy and warm. “Let go. Let me have it.”

You shattered with a cry that would haunt the stone walls if they had memory, back arched, thighs trembling, every muscle locking as you spilled into his waiting mouth. He held you through it, drinking it in, the wet sounds obscene and sacred all at once.

Only when it ended, when your body finally stopped thrumming did Jungkook stop. Slick with sweat, chest heaving.

He didn’t speak. He simply rose, face flushed, lips glistening with your pleasure, and met your eyes with something so raw it made your throat close.

No man had ever kissed you there. No man ever could.

And now, Jungkook—your sworn protector—had knelt between your legs and made you come undone as if it was his greatest duty.

“If the world had sense, it would crown you queen,” he whispered against your ear.

You woke to a shaft of pale morning light spilling through the narrow windows. For a long, breathless moment, you lay utterly still, not quite sure where you were or even who you were.

But your body reminded you with the ache in your thighs, the softness where your bindings usually gripped you, the strange, delicious soreness between your legs. And then…Gods. The memories rushed in, scenes flashing through your mind with blinding clarity. Jungkook’s mouth, the press of his hands, the way you’d let yourself be worshipped in every way you’d been forbidden.

A spike of panic shot through you. You sat up too quickly, the room spinning, covers falling to your lap. Your shirt was thrown across the foot of the bed. Your bindings lay in a heap by the settee. You drew your knees up, arms wrapped tight around yourself, heart racing so loud you could barely hear your own breath.

You looked for Jungkook, already knowing before you checked that he was gone. The hearth was cold, the door shut tight. No trace of him but the memory of the weight of his body, the heat of his mouth, the words he’d whispered into your skin.

Your throat burned with shame and dread. What if someone knew? What if someone heard? You pressed your palm to your mouth, trying to stifle a gasp that was half horror, half desperate longing.

Last night you weren’t a prince or a pawn or a prisoner. Last night, you were just a woman. A wanted woman, loved with a fierceness that still lived in your bones.

But now, daylight had returned you to the castle and its old lies. Your heart pounded as you forced yourself to move, fumbling to dress, to pull your bindings tight enough to erase the softness he’d worshipped. Your fingers shook on the knots.

You tried to compose yourself, to breathe, to remind yourself of what must be done. Of the mask you had to wear.

But as you stared at your reflection, at your mussed hair, bruised lips, and bright eyes, there was no hiding what had changed.

You’d been seen and touched for the first time.

And now, as you moved about your lonely chamber, the world pressing back in with all its old weight, you didn’t know if you wanted to cry, scream, or just go back to last night and live it over, consequences be damned.

You stepped into the corridor still lacing the last tie of your sash, trying to compose your face into something neutral. But it shattered the moment your eyes met the uniform of the man standing at your post.

And it was not Jungkook.

A different guard—older, stiffer, unfamiliar—stood at attention outside your door, hands behind his back, chin high.

“Where’s Jungkook?” you asked sharply.

The man blinked, clearly startled by your tone. “Pardon, Your Highness?”

“Jeon Jungkook. My personal escort. Where is he?” You stepped closer.

“I was told by Captain Toren that he’s... indisposed. I was assigned to relieve him of today’s duty.”

“Indisposed?” You raised a brow. “Since when does Sir Jeon shirk duty for a sickbed?”

The guard shifted uncomfortably. “I know not, Highness. Only that Captain Toren said he’d not be attending the Prince today.”

You didn’t wait for another explanation. Your jaw clenched as you spun on your heel, fury pumping through your limbs faster than your blood could carry it. 

“Your Highness—!”

He left. He just left.

Coward.

You stormed through the hallways, ignoring the glances of courtiers and servants as your pace grew more feral with each step.  You checked the guard barracks first—empty. Then the inner court. Then the old stables.

Every place he might’ve been, every shadow you thought he could’ve retreated to after defiling the body of a prince in the hush of night.

And he was nowhere.

You hadn’t known what you expected… maybe guilt, maybe him standing with his head bowed, ready to explain, to apologize for slipping away like a thief but this absence felt worse.

As if he’d taken your skin with him. As if he’d kissed you, tasted you, broken every rule and decided afterward that it hadn’t been worth the risk.

You finally found Captain Toren speaking to a handful of men by the training yard. The moment he saw you approach, he bowed slightly.

“Your Highness. Is something the matter?”

You ignored the others. “Where is Jungkook?”

Toren’s brows lifted. “He is indisposed—”

“Indisposed is not an answer,” you snapped. “I asked where.”

There was a brief pause, but it made your stomach turn. “I granted him leave this morning. He left the grounds. Said he needed time to clear his head.”

Your breath stilled in your chest. The silence after felt like it scraped your ribs raw.

He ran away from you.

Without another word, you turned on your heel, fury crackling just beneath your skin. But underneath that humiliation.Your guard, your confidant, your secret, your lover—for one night—had taken all of you in his mouth and hands and then vanished.

So be it.

If he thought he could disappear without consequence, he’d sorely underestimated you.

The door closed behind Jungkook on a breathless hush. He paused in the corridor, back pressed to the wall, eyes shut tight. He could still feel you, your hands clutching his hair, the press of your thighs around his head, the taste of you lingering on his tongue.

He should have stayed. He should have faced you when the sun came. But the enormity of what he'd done, that you'd let him do, was enough to shatter the foundation of every vow he’d ever sworn.

He moved through the empty palace like a ghost, head down, avoiding every servant’s gaze. He'd barely made it to his quarters before the panic set in for real.

Saints above, what have I done?

He'd known you as a Prince—sharp-tongued, reckless, always shoving against every rule. But last night… last night he'd seen you as no one else had. The hidden softness of your body, the way your voice broke when you begged, the wild way you pulled him close, desperate for something real.

And gods forgive him, he’d worshipped you. He’d knelt before you, tongue aching to give you pleasure until you broke against him. The memory of your cries was a brand on his soul.

But daylight did not bring peace. It brought terror. Every moan, every gasp, every whispered plea was a risk not only to you but to the very kingdom.

He'd tried to clean himself in the barracks, scrubbing your scent from his skin with icy water, as if cold could erase the warmth of your body or the sight of your eyes as you came undone for him. It didn’t work.

He couldn’t face you. Not with his hands still shaking, not with want and shame fighting in his gut.

So when Captain Toren found him at dawn, face haggard, and offered him leave—“You look like you’ve not slept in a week, Jeon. Take the day. Gods know the court will not collapse if I put another sword outside the Prince’s door”—he took it, barely trusting himself to speak.

Now he wandered the city’s edge, cloak pulled tight against the morning chill, lost in the noise of market stalls. He had nowhere to go. All he could do was remember the taste of your skin, the way you’d looked at him, and the sick ache that he’d ruined everything by wanting you too much.

He did not know if you would forgive him. He did not know if he deserved it. He only knew one thing with blinding, ruinous certainty…  he could never protect you from this. From the court, from scandal,  from himself.

Jungkook wandered through the winding city streets, the clang of cathedral bells chasing him from square to square. He couldn’t settle, couldn’t think. Every step was just distance put between himself and the castle—between himself and her. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, still tingling with memory and regret.

He ducked down a quieter alley that  eeked of wine, piss, and cheap perfume. He hadn’t even made it to the edge when he heard that smug, drawling voice he would’ve recognized in his sleep.

“Well, if it isn’t the Prince’s lapdog. Out chasing your own tail this morning, Sir Jeon?”

Victor leaned against a tavern wall, cloak askew, hair a mess, a faint stain of last night’s excess still clinging to his collar. His eyes were bloodshot, but the venom in them was sober as steel.

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. “Lord Victor. Shouldn’t you be sleeping off such an entertaining night?”

Victor smirked, pushing off the wall. “I could ask the same. I imagine the Prince kept you plenty busy yesterday. I wonder what the palace would say if they knew where that mouth of yours had been last night?”

Jungkook froze. There was no way he could know about what you did in your chambers, it was just the two of you there and he was too preoccupied here drinking himself to death. He must’ve seen you in the alcove, the kiss.

Jungkook stepped closer, refusing to show his worry. “Watch your tongue, my lord.”

“Or what? You’ll cut it out?” Victor’s grin sharpened. “How long’s it been going on, hmm? I’ve had my suspicions, of course. That little princeling’s been avoiding women like plague since birth… Makes sense now, doesn’t it?”

A dark fury settled over Jungkook. “You know nothing.”

Victor only laughed. “What, struck a nerve? What would the Queen say if she knew her heir was letting a common-born soldier mouth her off in a brothel? What would the court say, the people? Tell me, Jeon…do you prefer her weeping or begging?”

The blade was out before Jungkook even knew he’d drawn it.

Victor flinched, but it was too late. Jungkook slammed him into the alley wall, forearm pinning his throat, dagger pressed tight to his cheek.

“If you ever breathe a word, if you ever so much as look at the Prince sideways—“ Jungkook growled, “and I'll carve your tongue out and mail it to your father.”

Victor struggled, but Jungkook’s grip didn’t loosen. “You wouldn’t dare—”

Jungkook headbutted him. The crack of bone echoed in the stone alley.

Victor reeled, collapsing to his knees. Jungkook didn’t let up. He kicked him hard in the ribs then grabbed the back of his collar and slammed him face-first into the cobblestones.

Blood splattered as Victor groaned, trying to crawl away. Jungkook pressed a boot between his shoulder blades, blade poised at the base of his skull.

“You speak ill of her again and I'll make sure they find your corpse hanging in the north woods with your cock stuffed down your throat,” he whispered.

Victor coughed, wheezing. “Go on, then! Kill me! Prove you’re just as feral as they say!”

Jungkook held still, the blade trembled in his hand. A bit more and he’d cut straight into the skin and he could only imagine what a satisfying moment it would be.

But he put the blade away.

“You’re not worth it,” he said coldly. “But understand me, Lord Calderan—if I so much as hear your boots echo near the Prince’s door again, I will make you regret it”

Before walking away he landed a few more raw punches to Victor’s face, so he would not forget when he saw his reflection. Then he turned, leaving your cousin bloodied and gasping in the filth.

Back in the castle, you were done waiting. You tore through the corridors, snapping orders, refusing to let anyone stop you. You would find Jungkook. Drag him back if you had to.

Just as you walked into the training yard to demand Captain Toren to send a search party, the clang of the portcullis carried clear across the ward and a breathless sentry sprinted in.

“Your Highness… the south gate… Sir Jeon returned.”he said between breaths.

You spun, boots biting the sand, cape snapping behind you as you stalked for the archway that opened on the outer bailey. Two guards tried to flank you but one glare sent them scattering. 

Jungkook crossed the drawbridge alone. His cloak was torn, his knuckles split open, and you could swear shreds of Victor Calderan’s livery clung to his sleeve. But his eyes fixed on you the moment he stepped beneath the gatehouse. Whatever storm lived there matched yours blow for blow.

He stopped three paces short and dropped to one knee with his head bowed. “Your Highness.”

You didn’t give him leave to rise. Instead you stared, shaking with fury.

“Look at me.”

He lifted his head. The courtyard might as well have been empty save for the two of you. A few servants hovered at distant doors, merchants stalled their carts, even the ravens on the battlements fell quiet.

“Where did you go?” Each word was a blade you flung at him. “You swore to keep me and then you vanished before dawn like a coward.”

Pain flickered across his face, “I left because I feared I’d done you harm, Your Highness. Because if the court learns what we… what I did—”

“You think a disappearing act protects me?” You laughed bitterly. “Don’t be so damned honorable.”

“I regret nothing,” he said, the words bursting out. He surged to his feet before closing the gap in two strides. “Nothing but leaving you alone. I couldn’t breathe for it.”

You wanted to strike him and scream but you shoved him instead. He barely moved, but his breath hitched like you’d run him through.

“I searched every hall,” you hissed. “I nearly ripped the castle down stone by stone.”

“I fought Victor,” he blurted shakily. “He cornered me in the city, spewing poison about last night. He saw us in the alcove. I lost my head… I drew steel. If rumor spreads, it will be by his tongue or mine.”

The anger in you swelled, then toppled under a wave of cold fear. You seized his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Did you kill him?”

“No,” Jungkook said. “But I left him bleeding enough to remember my words well.”

You exhaled a jagged breath, fingers slipping from his face to his shoulder feeling the tremor there, matching your own.

“You cannot fight every battle for me,” you said, softer but no less fierce.

“I can try,” he answered. “Or die on the attempt. But I will not run again.”

The resolve in his eyes cut through every echo of shame. In that heartbeat, the yard, the court, the watching world—all of it fell away. You stepped into him, fists twisting in the collar of his torn cloak. His hands found your elbow, reverent even in urgency, a touch that spoke more than any public display.

“Swear it,” you breathed, low and fierce.

“On blade and blood,” he said, voice for you alone, “I am yours to command.”

The onlookers could only see a Prince and her battered guard, standing eye to eye in the hush, but between you the promise burned brighter than any scandal or sword.

You released him at last, straightening your cloak, resolve returned. “Come. Tend your wounds and then we will decide how to silence Calderan.”

He nodded once and together you walked back toward the heart of the castle.

The eyes of the court lingered on your back as you strode from the yard, Jungkook at your side. He matched your pace despite the raw edge of tension radiating from his every step, one hand curled loosely into a fist, dried blood still crusted along his knuckles. Neither of you spoke until the castle swallowed you both.

You ducked into a side chamber near your quarters—a private room used by the royal guards. You shut the door firmly behind you. Jungkook started to speak, but you held up a hand.

“Sit,” you ordered softly, voice no longer edged in fury.

He hesitated only a moment before lowering himself onto the bench, watching carefully as you gathered clean cloth and water from the cabinet. Your chest was tight, heartbeat thrumming wildly beneath your bindings, but your hands were steady as you knelt in front of him.

Taking his hand, you examined his split knuckles, anger rising anew at the bruises forming under torn skin. “You should have been more careful.”

Jungkook’s voice was low and quiet. “He deserved worse.”

You sighed softly, dipping the cloth into water and gently pressing it against his hand. Jungkook’s muscles tensed, but he didn’t flinch or pull away.

“You know he will speak, don’t you?” 

“Not if he values his tongue.” His reply was dark, certain.

Your lips twitched despite yourself. You carefully cleaned the blood from his hand, gentle in contrast to the fury still simmering beneath your skin. “I feared I might never see you again,” you admitted quietly.

He looked away, jaw tightening. “I was a fool. I thought leaving would protect you. But I swear it won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” you whispered, thumb brushing lightly over the raw skin. You glanced up, meeting his eyes. “I cannot endure another morning like this.”

Jungkook’s gaze softened, and slowly he turned his hand, catching your fingers gently. “Nor I.”

“You’ll be sore tomorrow,” you murmured, releasing his hand.

“A worthy price,” he said simply.

You stood slowly, allowing yourself one last lingering look at him before straightening your posture, mask sliding back into place. “Come. You must report back to Captain Torren.”

But you didn’t even make it halfway down the corridor before a servant intercepted you, bowing deeply.

“Her Majesty requests your presence in his chambers, Your Highness. At once.”

Jungkook stiffened beside you. You didn’t look at him, only nodded.

“Of course,” you said tightly.

The King’s receiving room was a gilded cage with high windows and the constant scent of cigars and bitter tea filling the air. He stood by the hearth, hands behind his back.

“Prince,” He greeted you coolly. His gaze flicked to Jungkook with a razor’s edge. “And Sir Jeon. I am glad you’re both still in one piece, judging by the trail of whispers currently flooding my halls.”

You gave a slight bow. “Father.”

“Come now,” he said with feigned warmth, “let’s not pretend I haven’t already heard every version of this morning’s spectacle. The servants have been fussing all morning about you causing a ruckus and then you cursed Sir Jeon dead in front of the entire court.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Am I missing any details?”

Jungkook moved to kneel, but you raised a hand subtly to stop him.

“I was retrieving my guard,” you said evenly. “His absence was unexplained, and I had cause to be concerned.”

“Concerned enough to shout at him in front of the entire southern garrison?” the King asked, voice growing colder. “Tell me, my child… is this guard so essential that you’d undermine royal decorum to drag him back by his collar?”

“He is sworn to my protection,” you said firmly. “When he vanished, I acted accordingly.”

“Vanished,” the king echoed, his eyes flicking to Jungkook. “And what explanation have you, Sir Jeon, for abandoning your duty? For coming back bloodied, with half the city talking?”

“He defended my honor,” you said without hesitation. “From a man who has done nothing but insult this house since the day he arrived.”

The King raised one brow. “Victor Calderan?”

“Victor Calderan.”

His eyes shifted again to Jungkook. “Is this true?”

“I acted in defense of the Prince’s dignity, Your Majesty,” he said steadily. “I drew no blade until insult turned to threat.”

The King let the silence stretch then finally, he exhaled and moved toward the table.

“I should send him home,” he muttered. “That little rat and his bloated father both.”

“I would not object,” you said under your breath.

He shot you a look. “But Calderan blood is not easily spilled without price. Should Lord Victor demand satisfaction, the entire treaty may hang by a thread.”

You bristled. “With respect, Father, if Lord Victor can’t hold his tongue, perhaps he’s not fit to negotiate for his house.”

The king’s stare sharpened. “That is not your decision to make. And it is not your duty to chase after your guard through the halls like a lost child. Whatever has passed between you—” his eyes narrowed, and your heart froze, “—remember that you are heir to this kingdom. Your choices weigh more than anyone else’s.”

“As for you, Sir Jeon… if you fail to keep your place at the Prince’s side without incident it will more than your commission you lose. Is that clear?”

Jungkook bowed his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The King let the silence stretch again, letting you both feel the chill in his study seep into your bones.

“I will not have the future of my house risked for the sake of one reckless guard and one reckless heir,” he said at last. “From now on, you will both be watched. Do not give me cause to regret my patience.”

You stared at the mosaic floor, jaw clenched, every muscle urging you to argue, to insist that you’d had no choice. But the weight of the crown perched on his brow reminded you that here, in this chamber, he was not just your father; he was the King, and you were the wayward heir who’d brought fresh rumors to an already restless court.

“You are dismissed. And kindly refrain from further disrupting my morning.”

You bowed and turned away with your last bit of dignity, Jungkook gliding into step beside you. Only once you were a safe distance from the council chamber did you allow yourself to breathe.

“Well,” you murmured, your tone edged with wryness, “that was less severe than I anticipated.”

Jungkook let out a quiet, sardonic laugh. “His Majesty did not order to remove my head. I consider that a win.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, the tension easing ever so slightly from your shoulders.

“It would seem we are to live another day, then,” you replied.

He glanced at you, a trace of mischief flickering in his eyes despite the gravity of your situation. “Fortune favors us.”

The palace chapel sat at the far end of the eastern cloister, practically forgotten now that grander temples dotted the city. Few ventured there except old priests and novices to maintain the statues and other sacred artifacts, and at this late hour the tiny sanctuary was empty.

You slipped through the narrow door making sure that the night time guard didn’t follow you. You’d dismissed them with the excuse of needing some time for private devotion. The king would approve— piety always soothed rumor, after all.

At the altar rail you knelt in silence for a whil, until soft footsteps echoed behind you.

“Highness,” Jungkook murmured.

“You came,” you said, rising slowly.

“I received your note.” He managed a wry smile. “It seems you were in need of some private prayer.”

You huffed a breath. “I need far more than prayer.”

“Today,” you continued, forcing steadiness into your voice, “the court saw their Prince lose control. My father saw it. And all because I could not bear to think you’d left me.” Your gaze dropped to his bandaged hand. “I was ready to tear the palace down.”

He stepped forward “I regret leaving, but I do not regret what we shared. Not a breath of it.”

The words were a balm, even if they left your heart aching. You moved closer. “We stand on the edge of a sword,” you whispered. “One misstep, and somebody will bleed.”

“I know,” he answered. “Yet here I stand.”

You reached for his injured hand. He hesitated, then let your fingers brush the knuckles. “Does it hurt?”

“Barely,” he said, gaze locked to yours.

You released a shaky sigh and turned, leading him down the side aisle to a tiny transept chapel. 

“Here,” you murmured, guiding him to a bench. You fetched a small vial of holy oil left on the credence shelf, poured a drop on your thumb, and knelt to touch it gently to each battered knuckle.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “That’s for anointing the dying, not the living.”

“Hush,” you said, pressing a final kiss to the back of his hand. “As the Prince I say this should be for the living who’ve risked death for me.”

His eyes smiled at you, crinkled at the corners and shining despite their dark color.

You rose, and this time he didn’t fight the impulse. He reached, settling his uninjured hand at the small of your back “Why did you really summon me here?” he whispered.

You drew in a steadying breath. “I just needed to be sure you’d be there when dawn comes. That you won’t disappear again.”

“I’m not leaving again.” His voice did not waver. 

“And,” you added softly, daring, “I need… your touch again, even if only here, where no one dares to look.”

The storm in his eyes lasted but two seconds before you felt the cold of the chapel wall searing through your clothes as Jungkook pressed you back.

The hush of the sacred air shattered by the rasp of hurried breaths. This wasn’t the practiced grace of royal undressing. It was frantic. Fingers slipping over sweaty skin, belts tugged half-loose, layers bunched at your elbows. Every brush of his hands felt dangerous and exciting.

Your breaths hitched, chest rising fast against tight bindings, the sound of him—hoarse, hungry—spilling into the shadowed alcove. His hands found your hips, thumbs digging in hard enough to bruise as he pulled you flush against him. There was nothing reverent in his touch anymore. You felt the tremor in his grip, the desperate stutter of his exhale as he nosed along your jaw.

You caught his mouth with yours, teeth clashing in a kiss that tasted of salty sweat. Lips parting as he bit down gently, just shy of pain.

His palm cradled the side of your face, rough thumb smearing the flush of your cheek, and for a moment you forgot where you were.

“If someone finds us—” you whispered breathlessly, voice trembling against his lips.

“Then let them bear witness,” he said darkly, eyes fierce and wild as they captured yours. “I fear no judgment but losing you.”

He spun you around, your chest pressed against the cold stone, one arm braced firmly beside your head. You felt the faint tremor in his hand as it slid roughly down your back, tugging impatiently at layers until he found the hem of your breeches and shoved inside. His palm was calloused and urgent as his fingers found you all wet and desperately willing under his touch.

Your forehead pressed against the stone, eyes squeezed shut as he opened you slowly, two fingers curling deep in your core. His other hand rose quickly to muffle your moans against his shoulder.

“Quiet, Your Highness,” he warned in a rough whisper, mouth hot against your ear. “Or do you wish the entire court to hear how eagerly their future monarch yields?”

His hand moved faster, hips pressing insistently against you, and you felt the undeniable hardness of his cock through his breeches. When his teeth grazed your neck, you bit fiercely into your sleeve, desperate to silence your moans and his name trembling dangerously upon your tongue.

His fingers work you ruthlessly, thumb circling your clit. You didn’t hold on long, coming hard and fast on his fingers.

He kept going, not letting up until you were shaking.

When he finally pulled his hand away, you twisted and caught his wrist, dragging his slick fingers to your mouth to suck them clean, meeting his eyes the whole time.

“Fuck,” He whispered, barely audible, as if even here the gods might overhear.

You hadnt even caught your breath before he turned you back around. His lips found yours, hand rising to your cheek, still wet from where it’d ust been inside you. You dragged him closer, tasting yourself on his tongue, neither of you pretending you’re anything but desperate now.

“Please,” you whisper, the word trembling out between your teeth, the plea of a sovereign who’s ready to kneel for no one but him. “I need you. All of you. Do not make me beg.”

His control snapped, finally.  He fumbled with your breeches, yanking them down just enough to bare you, his own clothes undone with the same desperate haste. He pressed himself against you, one hand tangled in the fabric at your chest, the other steadying your hip as he aligned himself at your entrance.

He was hot and hard and impossibly thick. When he pushed into you, your body stretched to take him, the unfamiliar ache drawing your eyes shut and forcing a gasp from your lips. The pain was sharp but edged with an overwhelming relief, a fullness that left you crying. For a second you could only clutch at him, feeling the sting and the fast pulse of your heart fluttering wildly in your chest.

He paused, brow pressed to yours, breath shuddering as he held himself there. “I will stop—just say the word,” he whispered, voice rough with concern and restraint.

“No,” you gasp, nails digging in his shoulder. “Don’t stop. I want this more than anything.”

He held himself still for a few seconds, giving you time to adjust, waiting as you breathed through the sting and pressure and the dizzying intimacy of it all.

After a moment, your muscles eased around him and the ache softened into pleasure blooming where pain had been. You moved your hips, testing, and the friction made you shudder, tears pricking your eyes now not from pain but from want.

He felt it too. “Gods above, you are perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with awe. “So tight, so exquisite.”

He drove into you, abandoning all pretense of gentleness, and you nearly sobbed into the hollow of his neck at the exquisite pain and the forbidden stretch of him—taken utterly where even saints had never dared to look.

The angle was all wrong and all right, knees spread shamelessly, every sound echoing in the hush of the chapel. His hand clamped over your mouth to swallow your cries, his teeth gritted as he took you deep and relentless, every last shred of knightly self-restraint destroyed by the secret he would die to protect.

You gripped his shoulders, body split open around him, still hungry for more. Needing more. He fucked into you as though he meant to brand your very soul with his shape. His grunts spilling against your mouth, your moans echoing in the sacred silence.

“Gods,” he hissed, his thrusts faltering as you clenched tightly around him. “We should not—this is… by all that’s holy, this is profane.”

“Does it feel wrong?” you whispered, lips brushing his skin as you spoke. “Do I feel like sin to you, Jeon?”

“No… you are… salvation itself,” he growled, snapping his hips harder, drawing a choked cry from you as your eyes fluttered back. “I would burn for this a thousand times.”

You laughed breathlessly “You would burn for me?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “By all the saints, yes.”

“Then make me cry out in this holy house.”

He groaned deep in his chest. “You are meant to be the vessel of the divine… holy, untouched. Yet look at you now… ruined for me against the chapel wall, spilling down my cock for any god who dares to look.”

“Stop—” you managed, your voice a trembling plea, not because you did not crave it, but because his words unraveled you faster than his body ever could.

He snarled, driving deeper, one hand rising to circle your throat. The weight of his palm there made your thighs quake.

“You will be Queen,” he muttered, voice low and ragged, each word another oath against your skin. “Anointed before the gods.”

“And what a queen I shall be,” you rasped, barely able to form the words, “impure, made so by your seed.”

He groaned, the word torn from his chest. Then his thrusts quickened, one arm locking you up by the waist as the other held your neck. Your moans broke in your throat, and you swore every star beyond the stained-glass windows flickered in answer.

“Look at me as you come undone on my cock.”

Your eyes met, wild and shining. In that moment, you cared for neither your title nor any consequence. You were simply the crown Prince, being filled by her guard in a place meant for prayer.

With a cry stifled by his hand at your throat, you fell apart. Body tightening and shaking, your legs locking around him as he drove through your climax. His own followed moments later, his body shuddering as he spilled himself deep inside you, buried to the hilt, his voice ragged and reverent as he moaned, “Mine.”

His thrusts became rougher, desperate, his hand sliding to your thigh to hold you open as his thumb found your clit again, coaxing every last tremor from your ruined body. The world melted away into the crash of bodies and need.

Somewhere outside, the bells tolled for midnight. Inside, you were left wrecked if only proven by wild hair, flushed skin, and his seed slick on your thighs. The memory of his cock and his hands, forever burned into you.

He held you there, arms locked around your waist, unwilling to let you go.

“I will burn for this,” he whispered, voice raw.

You drew him close for another bruising kiss. “Then we shall burn together.”

Afterward, the hush of the chapel pressed close. Jungkook held you, breath soft against your brow. The stone felt less cold now, your limbs leaden and content for the first time in memory.

He drew you into his lap, cloak pulled to shield you both from the lingering chill. His hand traced the curve of your cheek, eyes searching yours for what words could not say.

For a long while, you only listened to the shared breaths and the distant tolling of the bells.

But secrets had a weight of their own. You pressed your face to his shoulder. “I owe you the truth.”

Jungkook stilled, arms tightening protectively. “There is nothing you could say that would turn me from you.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You say that now, but you don’t know what I carry.”

He touched his forehead to yours, eyes fierce and gentle all at once. “Then tell me. Let me carry it too.”

You drew in a steadying breath. “I was not born to be heir. My mother, the queen…she had a son. My twin. But he did not live past his first breath. She had three failed pregnany before ours, and the king’s council grew anxious. A realm with no prince had no future in their eyes. So they gave me his name. Only a man could inherit the crown, so a man I became.”

Jungkook listened, his thumb stroking your jaw.

You swallowed. “The council never knew. The midwife was sworn to secrecy. The servants, threatened. I was raised as their son, their hope, their lie. All my life I have been split in two.. what the world must see and what I am under the skin.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your brow, his gaze full of sorrow and pride. “And yet you carry it all. Not just the crown, but your mother’s grief, your father’s ambition, the weight of a kingdom’s secret.”

You nodded, the truth finally spoken into holy air. “All for a throne I am not allowed to claim as myself.”

Jungkook cupped your cheek. “You are more than their heir, more than any king’s shadow. You are the future because you endured what none of them could.”

Tears burned hot in your eyes. “And if they learn the truth, I lose everything.”

“Not everything,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You will never lose me.”

You melted into his arms. In the hush of that ruined sanctuary—with the past laid bare and the world waiting just beyond the door—you finally understood what it meant to be free, because of the man who held you, who saw you for the woman you truly are.

[gach-doodles]

There's a big storm coming. The wind outside is fucking terrifying...

I hope everyone stays safe.

(img of the storm below the cut)

Like... What the hell is this???? 💀

It hasn't reached my place yet but there's already blown away roofs and fallen trees everywhere. My building will have a power blackout tonight too. I really hope everyone stays safe.

[science-hoes]

Safe & Sound

Jack Abbot x Reader

Warnings: PTSD, panic attack, hallucinations, graphic descriptions

Description: A stormy night in Pittsburgh causes Jack Abbot to fall into a PTSD-induced psychosis episode, and the reader does everything in her power to bring him back.

Jack Abbot Masterlist

——

The night shift was slow in the Pitt (but you didn’t dare mention it aloud). Aside from traumas coming in by ambulance, there weren’t many patients in Chairs. Nobody wanted to go out in the severe weather that night. The winds howled against the building, creating ghostly whispers with the rain that slapped concrete.

You were fascinated by the unusual weather. Usually, if it stormed at all, it was quick with little fanfare. But the system moving across Pennsylvania tonight had every local news station showcasing their meteorologists like it was coverage for the Olympics. In fact, that’s what the TVs in Chairs had on constant loop since you arrived for your shift.

Gloria had reminded everyone at shift change of the protocols in case of severe weather, usually reserved for blizzards. Backup generators, spare on-call rooms, yada yada yada.

But the storm outside was majestic. So dangerous yet so powerful. Something about it intrigued your deepest curiosity. You could only see the flashes of lightning from the exit to the ambulance bay, but the growling thunder supplied a nonstop soundtrack for your shift.

“We’ve got a high school basketball player coming in via ambulance after passing out during a game. He’s conscious again after some IV fluids but still needs some electrolyte labs and monitoring. About five minutes out.” The charge nurse snapped you out of your daydreaming.

You quickly sat up and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll head on out there.” You replied.

The nurse raised an eyebrow. “You mean in that hurricane?” She questioned.

You shrugged, standing up from your desk. “I’ll stay under the bay. Don’t want them to get lost in all this rain.” You joked.

The doors to the ambulance bay glided open as you approached them. You snatched a sterile gown and tied it loosely around your waist. Finally, you were able to stand outside and watch the storm. The sky lit up with magnificent cracks of lightning followed by rolling thunder, and the rain was thick enough to blur the bar across the street, only its neon “OPEN” sign visible.

You heard the automatic whirring of the doors behind you, along with wet footsteps trudging through the tiny river formed by the slope of the bay combined with heavy rain. “You’re gonna catch a cold if you wait out here.” The voice warned.

You peaked over your shoulder to see Jack Abbot wrapping a sterile gown around his waist to match yours. You rolled your eyes. “Thanks for the advice, grandpa.” You teased.

Jack scoffed, coming forward to stand beside you. He assumed his usual soldier stance, broad chest puffed out, arms crossed behind his back, head held high. “I’m not old enough to be a grandpa.” He defended.

You smirked, admiring the way the lightning in the sky reflected off his silver curls. “You look like you are though.”

Another look of disbelief washed over his face, his mouth agape at your audacity and those whiskey eyes rolling back. You couldn’t tell if he was seriously offended or not. “I look exactly my age.” He said.

“Which is…?”

“Classified.”

You giggled, and he couldn’t help but smile as his eyes remained fixed on the path to the ambulance bay. The red lights of the rig danced off the pools of rain in the street as it approached. The sirens were nearly masked by the looming thunder. Suddenly, the wind picked up, blowing the rain horizontally. You screeched as the freezing water drenched you head to toe in a matter of seconds, but laughed at the cathartic feeling. Jack held his hands over his forehead, trying to shield his eyes, a practiced maneuver he learned for billowing sand instead of water.

“It’s just some water, you won’t melt!” He called out to you, his voice fighting to be heard against the gusts of wind.

You flashed a grin at him and hurried over to the ambulance as it rolled under the cover. “Come on, old man!” You yelled back.

The EMTs hopped out and pulled the gurney out of the back, trying to work quickly in the rain. Within seconds, it was clear that speed had no benefit in the situation. Every single person, including the young patient, were soaked from the monsoon.

As you introduced yourself to the basketball player, a flash of lightning, more brilliant than the others, nearly blinded you. The ensuing sound wasn’t like the rumbling thunder that had plagued the night, but more of a deafening crackle. After you regained your senses from the sensory overload, you could see the flag pole sizzling, burning hot at the top.

“Holy shit!” You screamed, standing straight after realizing your body naturally cowered to the ground in response.

The rain had plastered your hair to your face, obstructing your view, so your hands gripped onto the metal rail of the gurney as you helped push it inside. “Let’s go!” You screamed, leading the way to the automatic doors.

Once you were out of the rain, you swiped the hair over your forehead and gave a smile to your patient. “Sorry about that!” You said. “We don’t usually waterboard our patients before treating them.” You teased.

The kid laughed and wiped the water off his face. “It actually felt pretty good. I was really hot.” He replied, but you noticed the shivers hitting his body from the cold air of the Pitt.

You pushed the gurney with the EMTs into Central Three at the instruction of the charge nurse. “Are you cold, baby?” You asked the patient, using the same term of endearment that you used with all pediatric patients.

He nodded. “Yeah, just a little.” He underplayed, his teeth involuntarily chattering.

You tilted your head to the outside of the room. “I’ll go get you a warm blanket.” You offered.

The rest of the team began to help the kid move to the hospital bed, and you began your journey to the linens closet. You turned the corner to the secluded room in the corner, a bit inconvenient when every room had to have new sheets after every patient.

The scanner beeped at the proximity of your badge when you pulled it from its reel, and the lock illuminated green to grant you access. You opened the door and stepped in, making a beeline for the coarse, white blankets.

But you heard breathing. Loud breathing. Fast breathing. In the darkness, only illuminated by a distant fluorescent light, you spotted a body slumped in the corner of the room. When you stepped forward, the squeak of your Hokas on the wet floor alerted him. His head snapped up.

You saw a ghost. Pale, clammy skin. Eyes blown wide. Breathing anything but normal. But you recognized the reflection of the silver hair in the light.

“Doctor Abbot?” You called his name, unsure if the apparition was truly your stoic attending.

His breathing was staggered but quick. Too quick. “I think I was hit.” He grunted.

You noticed his hands putting pressure on his abdomen. You ran to his side and placed your hands over his, still beaded with raindrops. “Let me see.” You ordered. “From the rig?”

His hands only pressed down harder, refusing to let you move them away from his injury. “No, no. It needs pressure.”

“Doctor Abbot, please move your hands so I can help you.” You demanded, your tone hardening.

He shook his head, grunting through pain, sweat and rain dripping from his forehead. You grabbed his wrists, trying to pry them, but your strength was nothing compared to his. “I can’t. I can’t.” He mumbled over and over.

You finally grabbed his face, squeezing firmly on either stubbled cheek. “Jack. Look at me. I need you to listen to me. I’m going to help you.” You said. “But you have to let me.”

Jack’s bronze eyes focused on yours, looking for any signs of danger, any signs of an enemy. Finally, he reached up with one hand to your wrist and pulled it down to where his other clutched his abdomen. You peeled the damp black shirt up, revealing rippled muscles and stainless steel dog tags hanging around his neck. In another situation, you would have spent an eternity trying to memorize each toned crease of his upper body.

He hissed at the air exposure, throat flexing his Adam’s apple to hold in yelps of pain. But the further you went up, the more you realized what was going on. He had been putting pressure on a deep, ragged scar. One that was no longer pink but beginning to blend into its surroundings, stretched like a lightning bolt across his skin, twisting and turning, mirroring the ones in the night sky. The pads of your fingers brushed against the slightly raised marks, and Jack let out a strangled cry of pain.

“Jack.” You breathed.

But he wouldn’t look at you. His chest heaved, and you knew he was going to get dizzy from hyperventilating. He clutched the dog tags around his neck.

“My name is Lieutenant Colonel Jackson Abbot. I was with the-“ he cut himself off at another wave of pain. “O Neg. I’m…I’m O Neg.”

“Jack. Baby, look at me.” You tried the term of endearment like you did with pediatric patients, just like you did with the patient back in Central Two.

No change. The sounds leaving his lips were desperate and frightened. Finally, you grabbed his face again, forcing him to look in your eyes. You could see that he was far, far away. Not in this place. Not in this time. A psychosis episode.

“I saw…I saw Simmons. He got hit in the neck, and…” He trembled, voice cracking like a teenage boy’s.

“No, Jack. No. You’re here with me. We are in Pittsburgh. We’re at work.” But your words fell on his deaf ears.

You felt powerless in that moment as well. You were an emergency room resident for fuck’s sake, but you had never seen a PTSD-induced psychosis episode, not like this. Standard protocol would’ve been an injection of haloperidol to reduce hallucinations and alleviate his agitation. To sedate him. But that would draw administrative attention to Jack, and something deep in your chest told you to keep this as private as possible.

Without wasting another second, you took in a deep breath to your chest, expanded your soft palette, and began to sing.

Just close your eyes

The sun is doing down

You brushed your thumb up and down his grizzled cheek in the same tempo as your words. Jack didn’t react to the touch, but his eyes fixated on your mouth as your lips moved.

You’ll be alright

No one can hurt you now

Your other hand came to rest on his bare chest, over his heart, icy hands sending a shiver across his warm skin.

Come morning light

You and I’ll be safe

And

Sound

Your soft mezzo voice drifted away in the silence of the room. Jack’s breaths had more depth now, more consistency. His glassy eyes reminded you of a recently passed patient, devoid of life and emotion. But he wasn’t hyperventilating anymore.

Just when you thought he might be coming back to your reality, he reached into the pocket of his cargo pants. With tears in his eyes, a new addition to his wrecked appearance, he handed you a concealed pocket knife. “I need to to stab me in the foot.” He whispered in between pained grunts.

You shook your head, pushing his hand away. “Jack, I told you. Listen to me. You are in Pittsburgh, and-“

“I know where I fucking am!” He cut you off through clenched teeth, threatening to crack at the sheer force. “I have a prosthetic right foot, and I need you to stab it like it’s a fucking snake. I need to see you do it.”

The desperation in his voice was unsettling as he shoved his pocket knife back to your grasp. You hesitated for a moment, but his next cry of pain spurred you into action. You took the knife from his hand, brushing your fingers against his rough knuckles, and switched the blade out of its safety position.

“Right foot.” You said aloud as your oriented yourself to make sure you didn’t slice the wrong foot.

You reached for the hem of his right pant leg to expose his leg, but Jack jerked back. “No!” He snapped. “It doesn’t work if you do that. Just stab my foot.”

What a fucking crazy situation. His chest heaved, dog tags glistening in the dim fluorescent light. The look in his eyes would haunt your dreams forever. The pain, the desperation, the helplessness.

Finally, you drew your arm up and came down with a searing force, the blade slicing through his shoe and coming to an abrupt halt as it met the titanium inside.

Jack let out a groan that you could only describe as orgasmic, the tension in his body dissipating. Your hand trembled as it let go of the pocket knife, stuck in his foot like an axe in a tree. Just like he said, it was a prosthetic. No blood, no additional yelps of pain.

Tears fell down your cheeks, and you took in a deep breath that you had been depriving yourself of. Then another. And another. And before you knew it, you were crying in full force.

Jack stared at you through heavily hooded eyes for a few moments, but then he reached out a shaking hand. “Come here.” He breathed. “Please.”

Wordlessly, you accepted his offer. He wrapped his arm tightly around you, concealing you against his warm body. For the first time since you entered the room, you realized how cold you were from your soaked scrubs and cold hospital air. One of your arms wrapped around his back, and the other rested on his shoulder. The hot tears from your face began to roll his chest, a sensation that helped ground him further.

When your own cries began to wane, Jack grasped your hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I made you do that.” He whispered, pulling your knuckles to his lips.

Your eyes remained fixed on his foot, pocket knife sticking out. A sight you had seen in many other patients before for one reason or another. But not like this. Usually in a real foot.

You had heard about stories like this before. Amputees needing mirror therapy or acupuncture to get rid of phantom pain. Once before, an old attending of yours from med school told a story about a veteran who needed his prosthesis stabbed to confirm that it wasn’t real, that he couldn’t feel the pain.

Jack shifted, reaching for his right pant leg, and pulled up. You moved out of his embrace, away from him. He froze, eyes fixed on you like a hawk.

“Please.” He whispered, with a desperation that differed from his tone earlier. “Don’t leave.”

Your eyes met his, and it was a new vulnerability that you had never seen before. Like he was scared. Not psychosis-induced.

“I’m not going to leave you alone.” You promised, and moved back to the opposite end of him, settling on your knees at his feet. “Can I help you?” Your fingers brushed at the hem of his cargo pants.

Jack let out an exhale of relief and slumped against the wall again, tension leaving his shoulders. His silence was confirmation. Slowly, you rolled the wet fabric up, up, up. Until metal ended and his skin began, around his knee. There was an obvious strap that kept the prosthesis in place, and you tugged it loose. Carefully, you removed the artificial limb, and he let out a slow exhale as the pressure changed.

You realized that most of the prosthesis was a socket for his shin, that his amputation was below the midline of his tibia. He absentmindedly reached for the prosthesis, and you handed it to him so he could set it aside. Your hands hovered over the newly exposed skin.

“Does it hurt?” You asked.

Jack sighed. “Just aching. It always aches.” He mumbled.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Can I…?”

A question you couldn’t finish. You didn’t know how. It felt weird to ask. Bordering inappropriate or offensive. But still he nodded, knowing the end to your intimate request.

Your fingers slid against his skin, pushing deeper and deeper. Massaging the truncated muscles. Kneading against the scar line from the closure. The tiniest sounds of relief fell from his lips, and if you had listened closely enough, not as focused on helping him feel better, you would have heard your name involuntarily falling from his lips like a prayer.

“Am I hurting you?” You asked, unable to decipher his sounds of pain from pleasure.

Jack shook his head, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “No.” His voice was hoarse. “No, it feels…”

He wanted to say ‘good.’ But the truth was that it didn’t. It still hurt. Still ached. But not as intensely. You were numbing him. Distracting him. Pushing the pain into different areas to give the hotspots a break.

“I was discharged six years ago…” He breathed.

You shook your head. “No. You don’t have to explain.”

“We were away from camp. Routine checks in the field. Then, an IED…” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know what had happened at first. I didn’t have a seatbelt, so I was thrown from the Jeep. Simmons was, too. The rest of them…they burned.”

You had halted your soothing hand motions unconsciously, listening to every word, every breath like your life depended on it.

“Simmons had shrapnel to the neck. Carotid was lacerated.” His voice began to shake again. “I was the only survivor.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Jack didn’t look at you, just stared up at the ceiling, trying to forget the memories he recited to you. His hand traced over the wretched scar that slithered across his abdomen, his fingertips brushing against the uneven skin.

“I heard an explosion tonight, and…I was there again. In the sand. Bleeding out.”

The confirmation to your diagnosis. PTSD-induced psychosis. In that moment, you were grateful you hadn’t gone to get help. You weren’t equipped to handle the situation yourself, but…

“And you brought me back.” His voice cut through your thoughts. “With that siren call.”

Jack had that half smile on his face, the one you had seen only a handful of times when he thought you weren’t looking after he’d whispered praise for a risky procedure. Your heart skipped a beat, but you matched his smile sincerely.

“Music makes new paths in the brain. I thought I could reach you that way.” You explained.

His lips pulled up until his smile was complete this time. “Like a fucking angel.” He mused. “Grabbing my deformed ass from hell.”

The compliment seeped into your chest, and you knew he could see your blush in the low light. In a surge of bravery, you leaned down until your lips brushed again his knee, searing a kiss against the skin. Then another, a little lower on his shin. Another below that. And one more on the ridged scar.

His breath shuddered at the foreign contact, and you felt him shift under your touch. Your name passed his lips, louder this time, in the same cadence of his prayer from earlier. Your doe eyes locked on his as you pressed a final kiss on his scar.

“You are not deformed.” You scolded, rubbing a hand up his shin. “You’re perfect.”

—

A/N: Thank you for reading!! This will probably end up being a two-part fic with the second part being more focused on the reader reminding Jack how beautiful his body still is, if you know what I mean 🤭😮‍💨

[cosmoszyn]

a decade | caleb.

synopsis: two years apart and a decade of loving him, caleb returns to your life again through a spontaneous roadtrip and shared bottles of alcohol that leads to unearthing the uncertainty of your feelings.

content: caleb x nonmc! reader, little hurt/comfort, light angst, feelings are hard and confusing! third and final part of the seven years series. a LOT of drinking and alcohol involved.

part one / part two

word count: 7k

cross posted in my ao3

It is an unusually chilly night, the scent of spring permeating in the air. You wrap your arms around your slightly shivering body, shifting your weight to your other foot. You exhale, glancing at your wristwatch. The bus is fifteen minutes late, again. Since the news about the train undergoing maintenance, you have never gone home before 10 pm. Before you can even release a sigh, a navy blue sports car slows its acceleration and stops across you. With furrowed brows, you take a step back from the curb, senses heightening. The window rolls down.

“What are you doin’ here?”

Oh.

You catch a glimpse of his curled lips and the shine glazing in his eyes. Then you cock your head to the side, looking at him like he grew three heads. 

“I work here, dummy.”

There was a pause.

“...Right. I knew that.”

His reply remains in the howl of the wind as you merely stare back at him as if to say “Of course you do, dumbass,” but his eyes avoid yours and instead fixate on the leather of his steering wheel. He bites the inside of his cheek as you refuse to reply. 

He whips his head back to your direction and with a beat of silence, he speaks again, “You got a ride home?”

You blink at him slowly and turn your head to the huge blue sign beside you with a bus printed across it, “What do you think, Caleb?” You reply, turning back to him. In the shadow of the night, you make out the faint tinting of his ears and cheeks.

With a sheepish grin and a hand rubbing the back of his head, he says, “Just get in. I’ll get you home.”

You hesitate.

A thousand options run through your head. A myriad of scenarios flashing before your eyes. And the memory of him lying supine in the cold tiles of your kitchen floor two years ago surfaces again. Getting in that car seems like a bad idea. No–the worst idea you’ve concocted ever since you got drunk and confessed to him three years ago. But you’ve been waiting for the bus for fifteen minutes now. It seems it won’t even arrive at this point. 

And so, with a sigh, your trembling hands reach to the passenger door and climb in.

You could feel him staring at you. You ignore it as you drop your bag to your feet and pull the seat belt beside you, locking it in place.

“Get driving, then,” you demand jokingly, looking at the emptying street across you. He gives you a chuckle, “So bossy.”

He shifts the gear and picks up the acceleration. The sound of the engine and heater enclosing the small space. 

It was silent. 

Suffocatingly silent. 

The streetlamps guide the way of the dim road. And yet it feels too dark. 

While Caleb maintains the speed of the vehicle, you could barely contain the hastening beat of your heart against your ribcage. You want to clutch your chest and breathe heavily to rid of the smothering air between you two.

This is a mistake. 

It hasn’t even been a minute but you already rack your brain of excuses to get out of the car. 

You forgot something at the office? No, he’ll just wait outside for you.

You want to grab a meal instead? It’s certain he’ll just come with.

You need to pick something up at a friend’s home? He’ll definitely drive you there,

There is nothing.

And you can even barely get a word out before you hear the sound of windows rolling down. You glance at your side, welcoming the fresh air, calming your pacing heart.

“You seem restless,” he speaks.

Of course he knows.

Of fucking course.

How could he not? When he spent most of his college and early adulthood reading you. He consumed eight years of his life studying you. 

Like you were a test he wants to pass with flying colors.

Like there was nothing else in the world that mattered aside from learning you.

And yet, two years ago, in his intoxicated state on your kitchen floor, he ruined everything you two built around.

Well. You ruined everything you two built around, three years ago. 

Or maybe it was him, confessing his stupid, non-existent feelings towards you?

Whatever, semantics. It’s just the same either way. Both decisions end up where you are today.

You don’t reply back to him, just a small nod.

Despite the wail of the wind and the steady hum of the vehicle, you could still feel the strangling silence. 

With a click of a tongue, you reach his radio. Your fingertips hover over the screen of his car while Caleb steals glimpses of you from his peripheral.

“Whatever song that plays on this will answer my fate on my lovelife,” Caleb suddenly says before you can tap on the radio, eliciting a snicker from you.

“Oh so you want to play that game huh?” You say, “Alright then. What song will describe Caleb’s fate in his lovelife?” You press the button.

Now shut up and drive (drive, drive, drive)

Shut up and drive (drive, drive, drive)

Caleb chokes on his spit and you cackle, hands clutching to your sides. 

“Sucks to be you,” you say in between fits of giggles and Caleb just alternates his gaze between you and the road with an amused smile tilting on his lips. “Well, how about you?” He says, reaching for the button. You swat his hand away and he just grins. 

“Oh please no thanks!” You protest.

“Oh no, no. We need to hear yours too.” He reaches for the radio, “What is her fate in her lovelife?” He says, turning the station randomly.

So I’ll wait for you, love

And I’ll burn

Will I ever see your sweet return?

Oh, will I ever learn?

Oh-oh, lover, you should’ve come over

‘Cause it’s not too late.

The laughter dies in your throat. The reverberating sound of the riffs of the guitar, hard beating of the drums, and the raw longing from the vocalist catches you two off guard. You squirm in your seat uncomfortably as the air between you thickens.

Caleb clears his throat, “Want to just connect your phone to the bluetooth?”

“Yeah. Sure,” you murmur, taking your phone from your bag.

He removes the radio and taps on the bluetooth option of his car as you connect to it successfully while scrolling through thousands of playlists. He glances at your brightly lit phone and your squinted eyes as you try and settle for a mood for the evening.

“How about that playlist we made in college?” Caleb says.

You purse your lips and hesitantly, you reply, “...I deleted it.”

“Oh. Right.”

There was a brief pause.

“But how come I can still listen to it?” He replies with a raised brow. “I dunno,” you respond blankly. “Must be an error.”

He hums, ignoring the dull ache in his heart.

You deleted the playlist.

Something you two cherished while tolerating the agony of four years in college. He tries to ignore it. He wills himself to. He tells himself, he deserved it.

“When?” He asked, listening to the random playlist you played.

“Huh?”

“Did you delete it.”

“Oh. Two years ago.”

“Oh.” He shrugs. “Okay.” You notice the tight grip he has on the steering wheel and his shoulders tensing.

You two neither exchanged words after that. And you knew everything had been a mistake the moment he pulled up from the curb and greeted you with that warm smile you were oh so familiar with. 

He could still tug at your heartstrings the same way he did the first time in your freshman year, when you asked him if the class he was in was Calculus 1. He gave you a nod and a polite grin, “Yeah! You can sit beside me,” he said. With hesitation, you sit beside him. And for some odd reason, he hands you his registration card with ease and precision, like you knew each other for years.

“Check if we have the same classes together,” he says casually. You could only nod obediently, perplexed at the situation as you pulled out your registration card squeezed between your binder. He leans over to your space as you compare your schedules.

“It seems we have the same schedule,” you say under your breath. And it appeared like he cheered.

Since then, you two would do everything together–despite begrudgingly avoiding his company initially. He was a strange man, you thought. But in the end, he came into your life, rather forcibly. And for some reason, even in the most mundane of things, you find yourself in his presence. Enroll in classes, join the same organizations, study the same subject, assist your juniors, even become officers of the organization you were in. It went as far as juniors calling you the “couple” of your organization. You two deny the claim profusely, settling on the term “twins,” instead. 

Four years of college and eight years of him. And you never saw him remotely look at you romantically.

With bated breath, Caleb speaks, pulling you out of your trance, “Wanna go to Whitesand bay?”

You stare at him incredulously, “At this hour?” 

He shrugs, “It’s only 8 PM.”

“At this hour?” You parrot.

“What? It’s a Friday.”

You continue to stare at him skeptically.

“We can grab a few drinks too on the way there,” he persuades.

“By drinks, you mean alcohol?” 

He bites the inside of his lips, “Yeah, why not?”

“And then you will drive back home?” 

“Huh? I mean yeah but I won’t drive while I’m drunk! I’ll get some sleep before we head home.”

You narrowed his eyes on him, “There are no hotels near Whitesand bay.”

“My car has plenty of space,” he says confidently with a smirk.

You roll his eyes at him. “Call yourself Caleb the gloater with your boastfulness,” you scoff, followed by a series of sounds imitating the noises a goat makes. 

Caleb only laughs at your teasing, 

“So? What do ‘ya say?” He asks.

You look at the passing buildings by your side, the gush of wind sweeping the hair across your face. You tuck a chunk of strands behind your ear and with a sigh, you turn to him.

“You know what? Fuck it.”

Minutes later, you find yourself under the buzzing overhead lights of a convenience store, across the fridge of alcohol with a wide array of bottles displayed. 

“What should we get?” Caleb asks, his hand against the glass door and arm outstretched. You ignore the flex of his biceps that is inches away from you. “Beer?” Caleb asks, “Not in the mood for that,” you say. 

“Surely not tequila.”

“Do you want to die?”

“As if that wasn’t your go-to drink in college.”

“College.”

He only chuckles then glances at the bottommost shelf. “How about this? We used to drink this a lot together when we’d hang at your apartment,” Caleb says, opening the door, and grabbing a bottle.

You stare at the vodka-based drink with lime and ginger beer, waves of memories flooding over your senses immediately. Especially tracing back to that one, freezing winter night at your apartment in your last year of college, sitting across Caleb on the floor. There was a pink tint on his cheeks and ears, something unusual from him since he never flushes this red when you drink. 

“Come on, cheers,” you said, clinking the bottle against his. He sent you a half-hearted smile before you noticed his downcast gaze. “Hey, what’s wrong?” You ask him, throwing him a quizzical look and your fingertips ghosting over his shoulders. Caleb shakes his head, “It’s nothin’, pips.” 

You frown at him, “It’s not nothing when there’s clearly something, Caleb.”

He just chuckles with obvious hesitation and his fingers draw imaginary apples on your floor. He gulps, “It’s really nothin’,” he says but he exhales when you remain quiet, “But…” His eyes flitted across yours which makes your heart increase in speed. Under the dim glow of your warm light and the scattered papers on the couch, you have learned the past four years that being with him just felt right. When he would get sick and had to skip class, being alone felt nauseatingly wrong. And everytime you would spend your nights with him, it would always feel like a missing puzzle piece that you didn’t even know you needed made its way to your incomplete life. You admire the freckles on his cheeks, his chapped lips slightly parting and curving into a smile and his hair slightly disheveled from the amount of times he ran his fingers through it. 

You were deeply, completely enamored by this man. 

And you’d like to think that the universe was built around you two.

“She’s just back, pips.”

The beating of your heart paused. The snow on the outside seemed to momentarily freeze your world altogether. Caleb sensed your confusion, which he misconstrued with forgetfulness rather than a heartbreak.

“The childhood friend I was always talking to you about. She’s back.”

Your world split in half.

You clear your throat as you hear the buzzing lights of the convenience store again with Caleb looking at you expectantly, a bottle still in his hand. 

“Yeah, sure. Let’s just have that.”

With a nod, Caleb returns the lone bottle and effortlessly grabs the 6-pack from the lowest shelf with one hand. You ignore the heat forming in your cheeks as he walks over across the aisles of the store, one hand holding the pack of alcohol and the other grabbing chips you two enjoyed in college. You trail behind him like a lost puppy, unsure of what to do in this unexpected situation.

Half an hour ago you were just complaining about the transportation system and now you’re back with the man you’ve longed for in years.

And your infatuation towards him is still the same as ever. Noting how in all of his 6’2” glory, the shadows of his muscles behind his white tee still manages to show and the veins in his hands protruding at the amount of items he is holding, all the while he refuses to let you hold anything.

“Hey,” he calls, slightly looking to his side to catch your attention, “Sorry but can you get us a bottle of water? We’ll need it for sure.” 

You don’t even need to be told twice. You nod and hurriedly escape from the grasp of his insanely good looks. 

Minutes later, you two find yourself back in his car.

“I’ll send you my half of the bill,” you insist.

“And I’ll return it back to you. As I said, it’s fine. I’ll cover it,” Caleb argues, locking in his seatbelt in place.

“Who is this man talking to me? In college he would force me to pay the fifty cents I owe him,” you joke, leaning against his polished seats. 

“That was in college, pips. I earn good money now. Let me treat you,” he gloats.

“Oh right, treat me with what? Alcohol and junk food?”

“And water. Duh.”

You laugh. And for a second, everything felt like it was back to where it was. How it all used to be. Music echoing across the small enclosure of his vehicle, wind gushing in the open windows, and his hands aching to reach in your warmth.

The night continues on as Caleb skillfully drives through the empty streets. The faint sound of the forgotten playlist plays in the background and the howl of the wind accompanying you two. For a moment, you blatantly watch Caleb yawn beside you, his hand covering his stretched lips. You turn away when his mouth closes. 

Half an hour passes by and you find yourself drifting to sleep, your head cocked to Caleb’s side. He catches a glimpse of your peaceful state, his lips slightly curving upward. He fights the urge to brush the stray hair away from your cheek.

It has always been like this.

Caleb beside you. 

Whether in loud and colorful spaces or in tranquil and intimate positions. Despite being apart from you for the past two years, he somehow, in some way, found his way back into your already busy life. As if to tell you that he refuses to be a fleeting moment.

That he was there to stay.

No matter what.

And it doesn’t matter if you think of his presence as a blessing or rather a pest that you couldn’t get rid of, he frankly doesn’t care.

He is there to stay. He knew that the moment you entered the doors in the classroom in college.

He drives to Whitesand bay at a steady pace, often finding himself avoiding the potholes and slowing the acceleration at the speed humps. Despite that, he always finds a way to glance over your sleeping figure.

Another half an hour later, the sounds of the waves crashing on the shore filled your ears, stirring you in your sleep. Caleb gradually applied the brakes in his car, until it came to a complete stop, cutting the engine. He turned his gaze to you, curled up in the passenger seat. He presses his lips together, eyes softening at your state, contemplating whether to disrupt your peaceful sleep. He releases a soft exhale as his hands reach over to you, pausing for a moment in sheer hesitation. 

“Hey, pips,” he whispers, his breath fanning your cheeks as he slightly nudges your shoulder. “We’re here.” Your eyes fluttered open from the movement, slightly stretching your body away from him.

Through the windshield, a thin slice of the dock is visible, along with the stretch of the ocean. You sit up straight, blinking to get a hold of your surroundings, darting your gaze to Caleb who is looking at you expectantly–with the most doe eyes you have ever seen on him.

You shake your head to get rid of the drowsiness and thoughts away, exiting the vehicle with a light slam of the car door beside you while the brunet follows suit.

You wrap your arms beside you as you lean beside his car, the wooden planks of the dock beneath you creaking with every step you take. 

You marvel at the glistening dark blue waters in front of you, the moonlight rippling against the waves crashing against the shore beneath the dock. You hear the sound of the trunk being slammed closed behind you as you rub your eyes blearily, a yawn escaping your lips. 

“Hey pips.” You turn your head to Caleb. He pats the hood of his car, a blanket hovered over it. He props himself up to the hood, leaving some space beside you. You slide next to him as he hands you an already opened bottle of alcohol.

“Cheers,” Caleb says, clinking your bottles together.

Your lips meet the opening of the glass, chugging the alcohol, feeling the cold liquid slither down your throat. Caleb lets out an exaggerated exhale of satisfaction. 

For a moment, everything felt right.

“So, how are you doin’?” He opens, eliciting a chuckle from you that sounded more like just an exhale.

“You should’ve started with that hours ago, Caleb,” you reply, side-eyeing him.

“Better late than never, right?” He replies with the same boyish chuckle he had in college. Your heart skips a beat.

You turn your gaze to the ocean. “Just fine, I guess.”

“Just fine?” He parrots.

“Hmm. Yeah. I’m doing fine.”

He scoffs, “Come on you’re sellin’ yourself short.”

You turn to him, cocking your head to the side in confusion but before you could express it verbally, he speaks as he stares at you with owlish eyes, “You’re on literal magazines and billboards across the whole damn city of Linkon. It’s a surprise the cashier from the convenience store didn’t recognize you.”

It was your turn to scoff, “Oh please. That little thing? I’m just doing my usual nerd shit at work.”

“I never thought doing nerd shit would warrant you in huge billboards on highways, pips,” he says teasingly with a grin.

“Oh please! Don’t tell me that when you’re what, one of the highest ranking pilots at the Deepspace Aviation Administration at the age of 25?!” You exclaim exaggeratingly, waving the bottle in the air. He laughs, “It’s nothin’, I swear.”

He tries to hide the disbelief written all over his face with laughter, surprised that you know that he’s a high ranking pilot at the DAA despite having no connection. He tries. But the curl of his lips in amusement is betraying him.

“It’s nothin’, I swear!” You mock him and you two laugh together, the sound resonating in the quiet air. As the laughter dies down, you take another swig of the alcohol, already downing it to its half. The tangy taste sits in your tongue and the icy cold liquid crawls in your throat with a stinging sensation. You remember the first time you drank alcohol with Caleb.

It was the evening after midterms season, or as you two like to call it–hell week. The grades were just announced in your campus portal and as two eager, overachieving students that you both are, you decided to check it together in a shared space in your apartment. Upon loading into the website, you quickly skim through the courses and its corresponding marks. As your eyes file through the last subject, you let out a sigh in relief. Passed. But just as soon as you realize your passing grade, Caleb speaks, “Want to get drunk?”

Caleb almost dropped out of the Dean’s List.

Just .1 shy away from being dropped from the roll.

And within ten minutes, Caleb has already set up the first ever drinking session between you two.

“No, but seriously, how have you been?” A voice pulls you out of your reminiscence. You watch him warily, his eyes refusing to meet yours while he chugs down his drink, “It’s been two years without contact,” he continued, followed by a shaky laugh. He wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand and places it back in the space between you two, just mere inches away from yours.

You let out a sound of contemplation, “Well,” you begin, ignoring the desperation laced in his tone, “I got promoted to two positions higher than what I used to be.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And I got in magazines because of work, as you already know.”

“Yep.”

You trace your fingers over the print of the alcohol bottle, ignoring his watchful gaze at you, “And I finally travelled somewhere outside of Linkon City for once.”

“Hm? Where have you been?” Caleb asks with his head tilting to the side, propping his left knee up and resting his elbow. “Chansia City?” He continued.

You shake your head. “No.”

You press your lips together in a thin line and with a heavy breath, you say, “Skyhaven.”

Caleb feels like he’s been dumped with ice cold water.

“Skyhaven?” He repeats.

“Yeah.”

He swallows, “When?”

You down your alcohol, emptying the bottle, “Hm. A little over two years ago? Probably some time in October.”

“October? You mean two months after we…”

Ignored each other deliberately?

Fought?

…Broke up?

“Yeah,” you just reply. Caleb continues to stare at you, but this time, with wide, owlish eyes and mouth slightly agape. You refuse to look at him and instead stare at the thick clouds obstructing the full moon. 

“Why were you in–”

“Can you get me another beer?” You say, shoving him your empty bottle. “And get some chips too. I’m famished!” You joke. 

Caleb observes you for a second before giving you a slight nod and sliding off the hood of the car. 

You never meant to slip that you went to Skyhaven, you just thought he wouldn’t ask further questions. But you must’ve forgotten how relentless Caleb could be when learning things about you. After all, this was the man that asked you about your schedule the moment you sat your ass down beside him on the first day of meeting him.

When he returns, your arms wrap around your legs and your chin settles atop of your knees with your eyes looking at somewhere distant over the horizon. 

“Here,” he says, handing you a cold bottle. You murmur a thanks and as soon as you take the drink, both of you guzzle down almost half of the alcohol in sync. He opens the bag of chips effortlessly and places it between you.

Before you can even change the topic, he says, “Why were you in Skyhaven?”

You catch a glimpse of him. 

Which was a mistake.

You see regret lingering in his eyes, his flushed cheeks, and quivering lips. Like he was on the verge of demanding all answers from you and the universe for your falling out.

You turn away from his stare. You nestle deeper in your knees, “Nothing. It was for vacation,” you say.

Caleb waits. 

He knows there’s still something in your words.

“Well, initially it was for vacation,” you continue, “But… I think deep inside, I was looking for something familiar,” you murmur.

“Something?” He asks in clarification.

“Someone,” you correct. Caleb had to physically tear his eyes from you, gravitating instead to the rusting freighters floating in the distance. “In hopes that maybe I would… bump into him,” you muttered, as if the person you were talking about isn’t getting drunk beside you.

He remains silent, counting the buoys he could spot. You take a sip of your alcohol.

“And… Get him back? I don’t know. He was never mine, anyway.” You whisper the last sentence under your breath, hoping he didn’t catch it.

Of course he did.

Caleb feels like his heart is clawing its way across his throat. Ignoring it, he takes a sip of his beer.

You chuckle uneasily, “God, I’m already tipsy. I’m still a lightweight even after being trained by you.”

Caleb’s first mistake of the night, he notes, was looking at you the moment you said those words. Your eyes are glassy, your cheeks red, lips slightly parted and curled up in an intoxicated smile, and your composure is already driven by the alcohol. 

“I didn’t know you were in Skyhaven back then,” he said.

“Of course you don’t, dummy! I never told anyone. Just our HR,” you reply, slapping his shoulder playfully.

“But you could’ve told me. We could’ve–”

“What? Fix things?” You cut him off with a frown. “Impossible. We could’ve never fixed it. Not then, not now, and not later.”

It was his turn to scowl. “What do you mean not now and not later?”

“What? I’m just telling the truth, Caleb.”

“Then don’t say that,” he says, begging. “If that’s the truth then I don’t want any of it. I don’t care if college has been dead for six years now or if we lost ourselves along the way. I hated being away from you.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have shown up to my doorstep, drunk out your mind, and almost cried on my stupid kitchen floor two years ago,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. 

Caleb groans, rubbing his temples with his fingers before drinking another shot. “I was stupid, okay?” 

“Was?”

“...I am stupid.” 

“I know.”

Silence engulfs the two of you again, only the sounds of the waves from the sea filling the empty space.

“Look–” He sighs, running his fingers through his hair, “Even before I got drunk at your doorstep, I was already regretting things between us.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “What do you mean regret? Which one?”

“Letting you handle all the burden of being alone,” he murmurs.

And you recall the month leading up to his drunken confession. After realizing how much he waited for his childhood friend to come back and how you saw the yearning stares he gave to her, whether through a screen or in person when he introduced you to her, when he was certain no one else was looking, you knew you had to save yourself.

You thought drunkenly confessing your feelings a year ago would set you free from the iron grip he has on your heart. You were certain you had been okay since that intoxicated revelation of how you have loved him since college. But every single time you see him longing for someone that wasn’t you–it tears you apart. And so, you decided that you’ll take a month-long venture in moving on. It was just a short journey, just enough so you’ll get rid of any romance in your system. It started with short texts to nothing at all, too fixated in your career and always on do not disturb. Then, it was bailing on dates that involved only you two. If Gideon was there, you’d come–god forbid you’re left alone with Caleb.

But unfortunately, Caleb didn’t take it well. He thought you were ending everything. He thought you were throwing away seven years of your friendship.

Hence, the intoxicated, faux confession of him loving you.

After he was rejected by his childhood friend.

Leading up to complete and absolute falling out. 

Which was not in your initial plans.

“Burden?” The word nearly sounds like a laugh and you shake your head, “Caleb, please. I was just in love with you, I wasn’t dying.”

“But you left.”

“So?”

“It’s the same thing.”

You look at him with furrowed brows, “You are so dramatic,” you laugh and he follows suit, emptying the alcohol bottle.

“Sorry,” he mumbles sheepishly, “I just miss moments like this more than anything.”

You ignore the dull ache in your chest, “I’m sure you do.”

He sighs for the umpteenth time tonight. “I think of you in the most mundane things I do,” he confesses.

“Like what? Getting drunk? You make me look like an alcoholic,” you joke.

He shakes his head with a laugh, “No,” he says as your lips reach the rim of the bottle, “Like when I make instant noodles and I instinctively reach for two packets because you don’t like the way you make them,” he says. Your eyes slightly widen. 

“Or when I read reports, I reach for a pen that’s your favorite color to comment on it.”

He takes a big swig of his drink.

“Sometimes when I see a new cafe in Skyhaven, I would think about asking you to come with me, only to find out I don’t even have your number saved anymore.”

You blink, feeling the gush of the salt air tangle in your hair. The crease between your brows deepens.

“Caleb…” You drawl, turning to him with a frown, “Why are you telling me this?” 

He turns to you.

“If you’re telling this to make you feel better about not loving me back after eight years, I will be the first person to tell you that it’s not your fault that you didn’t love me back.”

“No, I–”

“You don’t have to apologize for not loving me back either. It’s just the way it is, Caleb!” You almost exclaim, “We’re just friends and I have long accepted that,” you continue, inching closer to him with tears welling up in your eyes, “It’s time you do too.”

The sound of waves sloshing around the dock envelops the situation. The light from the streetlamp illuminates your skin as you forcibly try to restrain yourself from reaching out to him.

With a shake of your head, you exhale a deep breath and look away. “Sorry,” you begin, “That was a bit dramatic.”

“No, don’t be,” he replies.

“Yeah.”

Caleb chews on his bottom lip. “You want to finish another bottle or you’d rather sleep inside?” He asks.

You fiddle with the neck of the bottle, “I think I’d sleep this off. The alcohol is getting to me,” you say. 

Moments later, you find yourself in a situation that the you two years ago would find baffling. Laying inside your college friend’s car, with the seats on recline and him being inches away from you. You could feel the waves of the ocean lulling you to sleep despite the hammering beat of your heart against your ribcage, and with closed eyes, you try to.

You ignore the cramped space you are in.

You deny the subtle confessions Caleb was declaring to you.

You ignore the stares you could feel on your side.

Ignore. Deny. Ignore.

“We could get arrested for this,” Caleb whispers behind you.

“For sleeping in a car?” You reply, eyes still shut.

“For parking in a no park zone.”

“Just bribe them with your big pilot money. I’m sleeping here.”

“I didn’t expect those words to come out of your mouth,” he replies.

“And you won’t expect the next one either.”

“What?” He says, watching you turn to your side and face him, nuzzling your cheek on your hand and eyes screwed shut. “Shut the fuck up,” you whisper back, “Emphasis on the fuck and shut,” eliciting a chuckle from him.

“Alright.” 

But shutting the fuck up is something Caleb somehow can’t do when he’s lightheaded from the alcohol.

“I missed you.”

You hum.

“I missed the silence between us.”

“Then I beg of you to shut up. I miss the silence too,” you grumble.

He ignores your protest. 

“Won’t you ask why I’m in Linkon?” He asks

“To torment me, probably. I don’t fucking know.”

“That’s one thing.”

You don’t reply, relishing on the couple of seconds that Caleb has his mouth zipped.

“But I wasn’t in Skyhaven in October two years ago.”

Your heart could leap out of your throat.

“Pips, I was in Linkon the moment you were in Skyhaven.”

Like he couldn’t make it any more clear.

“I waited outside your office every day. All the restaurants you enjoyed. The cafe shops. Everywhere.”

Caleb’s second mistake of the night was when he saw how you slowly opened your eyes when his words fell from his mouth. He could see the way your lips fall into the deepest frown and your brows creased together with a fury of ten years of loving him. 

“Again, Caleb, why are you telling me this?” You ask, seething.

“What?” He asks, dumbfounded.

“You don’t have to tell me all of this, Caleb. Everything has happened already. Everything,” you begin, sitting up straight. He follows suit.

“I drunkenly declared to you my love and you outright rejected it. A year later, you visit me, intoxicated and you declare the same shit, right after you got rejected?” You scoff, “Come on, Caleb. I’m not stupid. Please.”

He looks at you, bewildered.

You feel the rush of heat in your cheeks and ears. Your fingernails clawing against the fabric of your jeans.

With a sigh, you shake your head, feeling the impending headache loom over you. “I know you missed me, Caleb. And I understand, trust me. ‘Cause I missed you too, I missed us,” you begin, slumping your back against his leather seat, refusing to look at him any further. “But nostalgia is a liar. You keep visiting the past but no one’s there anymore, Caleb. I’m here and you’re here. And we chose different things and that’s fine. We have to move on eventually.” 

“No but I just hated how I said all those terrible things to you–”

“Me too! I hated having to let you go,” you confess, your voice cracking but no tears threaten to spill from your eyes. “But let’s face the truth, Caleb. It’s what we needed.”

The man across you remains silent while you heave a deep breath, alcohol coursing through your veins, and you know what he’s doing.

He’s studying you intently. Again.

With a click of a tongue, you shake your head, plopping your body back to the reclined seat, laying on your side facing him. 

“I’m getting dramatic again. Goodnight, Caleb. And I expect you to shut up for real.”

The moon hangs bright in the sky, with sparse clouds littering around it, and a handful of stars accompanied the satellite with their soft light. A couple of rusting freighters and dimly lit buoys are still floating in the distance, with the soft sounds of waves continuously lapping against the pier. The tick tick tick from the hazard signal of Caleb’s vehicle is akin to a metronome.

He still sits upright, studying your steady breathing and eyelashes fluttering across your cheeks. Swallowing thickly, he leans back into the seat. He instinctively curls into the radiating warmth lying beside him, screwing his eyes shut in an attempt to doze off. But the pacing beat of his heart deemed it fruitless. Fluttering his eyes open and rubbing the intoxication off, his breath hitches at the sight of you.

With your hands tucked under your head as a makeshift pillow and your chapped lips caused by the harsh weather slightly parted, he finds himself staring at your serenity.

Caleb inches closer to your face, clamping his mouth shut to avoid his breath fanning you awake. His vision is still dazed from the alcohol and his mind is almost short-circuiting from exhaustion. The cold air from the slightly ajar windows whizzes through the two of you, causing you to twitch. He flinches at your sudden movement, eyes widening at the possibility that you would rouse from your sleep. But instead, you snuggle deeper in your arms, sighing blissfully.

Caleb contemplates, slowly blinking. And with the courage of ten years of being with you, he reaches over your sleeping figure, tucking the stray strands of hair behind your ear.

He softly calls your name.

Once. 

Twice.

“What?” You grumble.

“I’ll shut up for real,” he says.

“Then do it. Don’t say it.”

“But I need your help in doing it.” 

You peek at him with one eye open. “Help you shut up? It’s like telling me to hang the stars in the sky,” you say.

“Kiss me.”

“What?” Both your eyes fly open, startled by his words.

“Do me a favor and kiss me,” he casually says. You grimace, shaking your head. “You’re just drunk, Caleb. Jeez don’t say things you will regret–”

“You think two bottles of that beer will get me drunk?” He raises a brow at you and tilts his head knowingly.

Touche. 

“You say nostalgia is a liar,” he continues, “Then help me move on from it then. Make me realize it’s not real.”

He sits up once again and you follow suit.

You chew your bottom lip in contemplation, darting your stare from the steering wheel, to the shift, and back to your lap. 

“Just a kiss?”

He nods slowly. 

You gulp. 

Another mistake is about to be made, you mentally note. And you swear this is going to fuck up your friendship and you’re just inebriated, this is just the alcohol talking nonsense, and you’re certain you’re demolishing all the stability you’ve built in your life but–

“Fuck it.” 

Caleb didn’t have to be told twice.

Within seconds, Caleb slowly leans into you, “Here I go,” he mutters. You nod at him, your breaths shallow and fanning his face as his hand reaches to your cheek. With his trembling fingers over your skin, he presses your lips together–the feeling of his chapped lips against yours, slowly moving along the rhythm of the waters. Despite the tenderness of it all, you were caught off guard with the sensation, but eventually, you relax under his touch. He feels the rapid beating of his heart against his chest as you carefully slip his actions in sync.

Your heart both sinks and swells at the feeling of his warmth radiating against you, your hands grip onto his shoulder as the two of you continue to glide your lips against each other. He trails his fingers from your cheeks to your chin, gripping it tight before slightly pushing it downward, urging you to part your mouth further. He slides his tongue against yours as his other hand reaches for the back of your head, pulling you closer to him. You let out a small whimper, your hands shaking as you try to hold ground yourself back into reality.

Your nails claw through the fabric of his shirt, earning a groan from Caleb between your mouths.

Unable to keep the wild thumping of your chest at bay, you pull away from him before he can push himself further into your space, avoiding his gleaming irises. You pant heavily, heat rushing to your cheeks.

“There. That ought to shut you up.”

Caleb almost laughs in between his heavy breathing.

But you lean back into the seat, turning your back against him. 

He feels his heart sink to his stomach.

“I don’t want to hear another word from your big mouth, Caleb,” you say jokingly. “You better keep your promise.”

And for the first time in the long night, he was quiet. Of course, he kept his promise. Not until the words slip from his tongue, “I think you’re still wrong. Everything I’ve felt about us has always been real.”

But you no longer heard it with the soft snores coming from your slightly parted lips.

Hours later, after a pathetic convenience store breakfast, and the heat of the morning seeping through the car windows, you two find yourself threading through the highways and avenues of the city again.

Laughs were shared in the small enclosure of his vehicle, complaints about a splitting headache were echoed, random catching up were made, and even sob stories about how life treated you two during the years you’ve been apart were declared.

For some reason, the air still hangs thick–but this time, with more uncertainty than ever. But it’s okay, you tell yourself, with your head leaned back onto the seat of his car and his hand sometimes ghosting over yours, you tell yourself that it’s fine. 

Because once this is all over, when you’re back in the comforts of your apartment, you’re certain that whatever Caleb feels about you will come to fruition the following days. Whether he’d come to your doorstep with flowers in hand or just through random texts like a friend, it won’t hurt you.

By the end of the day, he was still the Caleb that you cherished in college. And you were content with either outcome fate decides to give you. 

a/n: hope you guys liked this :") tbh i didn't want caleb taking the route of blatantly confessing his love because i could never wrap my head around the concept of loving someone after yearning after a different person for years.

reblogs, comments, and likes are highly appreciated! pls share some love <3

[hoe4hotchner]

hiii!! :3

i saw you asking for fluff requests so... perhaps it's cold out, and the reader is out with hotch (maybe going out to a crime scene or smth) and the readers shivering and hotch looks awfully warm in his coat, so ofc the reader just goes up and asks for a hug! (just to warm up ofc. no other reason to ask your hot boss for a hug 🤭) (maybe the reader manages to slide into his jacket)

tysm! <33

The Jacket Incident | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x gn!Reader CW: it's just cold and you were stupid enough to not wear a warm jacket. Also reader is shorter than Hotch. Fluff.

WC: 0.7k

Why is reader literally me in this one. I'm so dumb and not good at staying warm.

           The wind howled through the dark, desolate street, biting through the thin layers of your windbreaker as you and Hotch made your way back to the crime scene. You’d been out there for what felt like hours, and no amount of walking had kept the cold from seeping into your bones. Your fingers tingled with numbness despite being shoved deep into your pockets, and a shiver ran down your spine for the hundredth time.

           Hotch, of course, looked completely unbothered. He stood a few feet away, his demeanor calm and composed despite the freezing temperature. You couldn’t help but envy him a little. While you were practically freezing, he seemed like he hadn’t even noticed the cold.

           As you shifted from one foot to the other, trying to get some feeling back into your toes, you watched him finish his conversation. The way he stood, tall and commanding, only seemed to emphasize the fact that he was probably the warmest person in your vicinity. His jacket, the heavy, padded one you both wore during cases in colder climates, was unzipped - wide open, practically inviting you inside.

           You bit your lip, glancing around, trying to work up the nerve to do what you’d been thinking about for the last ten minutes. He was your boss, but more importantly, he was your boyfriend, which gave you a bit more confidence. And the thought of his warmth was too tempting to ignore. Bracing yourself, you took a few steps closer until you were standing beside him, shivering dramatically to make your point.

           Hotch turned his head slightly, his brow furrowing as he glanced down at you. "Are you cold?" he asked, his voice gentle, but there was a hint of playfulness in his eyes.

           You nodded, giving him your best pitiful look. "Freezing," you muttered, teeth chattering for good measure.

           Hotch’s gaze softened, and he let out a small sigh, his eyes flicking to your jacket before returning to your face. For a moment, you thought he was going to suggest you head back to the car, but instead, he smiled - just a tiny, private smile.

           Without a word, he opened his arms, his jacket still hanging open, and gave a slight nod toward the space between them. "Come here," he said, his tone warm and inviting, holding the edges of his jacket.

           Your heart skipped a beat at the offer, and without hesitating, you stepped closer, sliding your way into his open jacket. As soon as you were enveloped by his warmth, the world outside seemed to disappear. The heat of his body instantly chased away the cold, and you sighed in relief, nestling against his chest.

           Hotch’s arms wrapped around you instinctively, the thick jacket falling around your shoulders like a protective barrier from the wind. He smelled like his usual aftershave, mixed with the faint scent of coffee and something distinctly him - it was comforting. His hands settled gently on your back, holding you close, and you felt his chin rest lightly on the top of your head.

           "You should’ve said something sooner," he murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest.

You grinned, your cheek pressed against his shirt. "Figured you’d be too busy being all stern and in charge to notice."

           Hotch chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you, and you could feel the coldness in your body start to melt away. "I always notice," he replied quietly, his voice a little softer than usual, the warmth in his tone matching the heat of his body.

           You snuggled further into his chest, your hands slipping around his waist as you relaxed into his embrace. The cold air seemed like a distant memory now, replaced by the steady beat of his heart and the comforting weight of his arms around you.

           "Thanks for sharing your warmth," you mumbled, your words muffled against him.

           "Anytime," Hotch replied, his hand giving your back a gentle rub. "I’m always here to keep you warm."

           The two of you stood there for a while longer, wrapped up in each other, you were a sight for sore eyes. The wind and the cold now just background noise.

[sheepispink]

cat hybrid reader who enjoys playing with Simon's mask bc it feels nice and accidentally makes the mask slip off one day during an important meeting. next time, Soap and Simon wrap her in a blanket to cut her nails just so it doesn't happen again (she's kicking and biting), and she's SULKING for days until they grow back

I had this written up like.. wednesday? And i just forgot to post it so my bad

Anyway this is more shifter than hybrid but here u gooooo

You had an… interesting hobby to say the least; it was one that no one else in the world had, and you were very confident in that fact. The hobby in question was something you eagerly sought out to do all day, following the man who was the only one who could provide it to you, but unfortunately he didn’t indulge in you very often so you had to snatch the advantage when it came.

It started off when Ghost decided to spend his evening on the team room’s couch, opting to indulge in a book for once. It was quiet, a storm brewing up outside as the winds began to howl and you.. may have been caught outside when it started up. Exhaustion was an understatement; you had little to no energy to even consider being a human and having to drag your entire weight back around base again.

So what better to do than take advantage of your abilities?

Your tail flicked from side to side, long and raised as you pattered into the room. You were one of the few who regularly lounged around here, and you loved every second of it. It was much better than navigating the crowded hallways, especially when you have to crane your whole head up to see someone properly. Though today, you didnt expect to walk smack into a leg, your furry face bumping straight into the muscle and forcing you to stumble in your tracks. A meow slips out, fluffy ears twitching as you shake your head and look around. Vision was always a little weird when you switched between cat and human, but your sense of smell always persevered when figuring out who someone was. You sniff the clothed leg curiously but you didn't expect what you’d find.

Since when did Ghost come in here?

You look up properly to see the skull painted balaclava move, the man now looking down at where you sit by his legs. “You need to be more aware of your surroundings, yknow.” He says, and you growl in response, though it’s nothing more than a show of annoyance since you cant give him a sharp glare in this state. You walk through his legs, soft paws silent against the hard flooring before you look over at him again. Now you understand why you hadnt anticipated for someone to be right there— that was supposed to be your napping spot, not his! Of course you thought everyone knew that fact— plus that pillow practically had your fur all over it too. You wouldn’t let this slide.

You steady yourself before jumping onto the couch beside him and pawing at the pillow behind his back, tapping his arm as you meow incessantly. “Hm? There’s many pillows, just get another.” He rolls his eyes when you carry on pawing at him, not giving up for a second. That is until you decide to take action, your claws reaching up to graze the fabric of his mask. It’s light and definitely not as far as your claws can go but instead of a reaction, he just turns back to his book again.

Naturally, as any sane person does, you resorted to climbing up onto his shoulder as you’d repeatedly kneaded your claws in and out of his mask, feeling the fabric give and pull. Over and over until the motion began to unintentionally ease you, claws digging in and out until a soft purr settles in your chest. The sound reverberates around the area, his shoulders feeling the soft vibrations as you lean against him. He continues to read, nor does he pay much attention to your antics, only pulling you off of him when you fall asleep with your kitty head hanging off his neck, letting you curl up comfortably in his lap instead.

Ever since you found that out, you’ve been roaming more and more in your cat form, searching for him in your down time to sink your claws into the thick fabric whilst purring to your heart's content. It’s a stress reliever to say the least, turns your brain to total mush too. It’s also why it was your first instinct straight after a tough mission, walking straight through the base doors and into a bathroom stall to shift. Ghost was pleasantly startled to say the very least when he looked down to see your big eyes and perked ears staring up at him. Surely it wouldnt hurt to indulge you a little, even if he was in the middle of an important briefing? ..Right?

Wrong.

You had been kneading away at his mask as usual, but the stress of the day had you more agitated than usual, getting lost in your head. Before you know it, your claws are latched deep into the back of his balaclava, grazing his skin as you unintentionally pull too hard to the point it starts to rise up, exposing his chin and lips before he catches himself.. and you, dangling from the scruff of your neck as you look up at him with widened eyes.

“It was an accident i swear!”

Both Soap and Ghost stand before you, the latter doing nothing to hide the glare written in his eyes whilst Soap tried to ease you. You were dressed hastily in a shirt and jeans, hair messy and a frown deep on your lips but a clear fear of Ghost’s glare. “We know, we know. We’re just saying it cant happen again.” Soap sighs, half tempted to run his hands over your fluffy ears from the beginning of an unintentional shift.

“It wont! I wont do it again!” You say, crossing your arms defensively over your chest.

“Like i’d believe that. Your nails are getting cut, kitty.” Ghost scoffs, reaching forward to grab you but you’re too quick, eyes widened with alert as you shift right them and there, already scurrying towards the door as you yelp. Soap is just as fast though, blocking the door handle that you cant even reach. So you shift again, trying to push past him while Ghost grabs you by back of your shoulders, Soap on your front. “Hey! Let go!”

You yowl loudly as you shift into a cat for the last time, both of the men coddling you in a large blanket before pulling each paw out to trim each individual claw. To say you were not happy about that was a severe understatement, you were fuming, biting their fingers at any chance possible. When they finally let you go, you ran, dashing out the door and down the corridors.

The next two days were the weekend, and it’s safe to say you were still very much annoyed. For starters, you refused to shift back at all, avoiding communication whatsoever. Secondly? You’d hiss at every turn, not giving them a second to try and make up for it with pets or the like, occasionally curling up on Price’s lap just to stare daggers directly at the pair of them. Just to prove you were mad, if they let their guard down too long, you’d climb up on the couch behind them and smack your tail right against their head before scurrying off again; definitely a menace to say the least.

But even they couldn't deny the sight was quite pitiful. At first, you could barely knead anything due to your blunt claws, giving up on the pillow almost immediately. Then when they started to grow back, the pillow was too thin, causing fluff to spill out and when you curled up on Price’s lap, he had told you off immediately for scratching his legs in your attempt to knead again.

Now you roamed the halls miserably, nothing to relieve you of your pent up stress from missions, kicked off the last person’s lap you could sit on—Gaz never sat still for long when Soap was around—and you couldn’t find the energy to shift back into a human. “Oh? Look who it is.” Ghost notices the miserable look, even if felines rarely show their moods so visibly, but then again your ears were practically flat against your furry head. You just look at him for a second before eventually beginning to walk past him once more.

He’s not having it though, scooping you up until he has you cradled in his arms. “Come on, lets get you some proper rest now.” He carries you over to the couch, dims the lights and rubs his fingers over your head and chin until you ease, your body flat out over his legs. He even lets you dig your claws into his jeans, figuring you’re trying to pay him back for his ‘mean’ behaviour. In the end, you cant stay truthful to your anger much longer, your tail curled up around your body as your head sinks down against his thigh and his abdomen, body warmth enough to have you sound for the whole night.

[multific]

Close Quarters

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: An injury leads you to a safe house with Simon. In there, you are forced to face your feelings for the Lieutenant. 

The cabin wasn’t much.

A single room, a battered couch, a fireplace. It was a temporary refuge, a hiding place in the middle of nowhere, and it was just the two of you.

Simon Riley wasn’t much for company.

He had been silent for most of the night, except for the occasional grunt of acknowledgement.

His mask was still on, his broad frame looming in the dim light as he paced near the window, keeping watch like the soldier he was.

You were injured, nothing too severe, but enough that travelling through the storm outside wasn’t an option.

“I don’t bite,” you said, breaking the silence, and shifting on the couch. “You can sit down.”

His shoulders tensed. He was always like this, always cautious, even when it was just you. You had fought side by side before and had saved each other more times than you could count, but being this close and alone felt different.

After a long moment, he finally sighed and sat in the chair across from you, the wood creaking under his weight.

“How’s the leg?” His voice was rough and low, the concern buried beneath layers of detachment.

You flexed your ankle slightly, wincing at the dull pain. “Better. You did a good job patching me up.”

He grunted again, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something softer, unreadable.

Silence settled between you, the only sound of the wind howling outside.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, suppressing a shiver.

Simon noticed. He always noticed. With a sigh, he stood, grabbed another blanket from the small cot in the corner, and walked over. Instead of handing it to you, he draped it over you himself, his hands brushing against you briefly.

“Can’t have you freezing to death on my watch,” he muttered, stepping back.

You looked up at him, heart skipping. “And here I thought you didn’t care.”

Something flickered in his eyes again, something hesitant. He didn’t answer immediately, just stood there, watching you. Then, finally, he spoke.

“Course I care.”

Your breath caught.

He never said things like that, never admitted to anything, and yet, here he was, standing close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“You’re always looking after me,” you murmured.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Someone has to.”

Your fingers twitched against the blanket, resisting the urge to reach for him.

But then, as if sensing your hesitation, he surprised you. He sat down beside you, shifting awkwardly like he wasn’t sure how to be this close. The couch dipped under his weight, his thigh brushing yours.

“Get some rest,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ll keep watch.”

For once, you didn’t argue.

Instead, you leaned your head against his shoulder, testing the boundary between you. He stiffened but didn’t pull away.

After a moment, you felt him shift slightly, adjusting so you were more comfortable.

It was a small thing, barely anything at all.

But to you, it was everything.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[infamous-light]

Caught in the Middle

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Gender Neutral Reader

AO3: Caught in the Middle

Summary: After braving the cold outside, you returned home to seek warmth by the fire, only to find Agatha and Rio eager to warm you up in their own playful, teasing ways.

Word Count: 1K

You stepped into the cozy warmth of the cottage, the wooden door creaking shut behind you as a gust of icy wind howled through the trees outside, rattling the windowpanes. You shook off the chill, tugging your coat tighter around yourself, and moved toward the hearth.

Sinking down onto the well-worn couch near the fireplace, you tried to relax, hoping for relief, but the cold still clung to your skin, gnawing at your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, pulling your knees up, and curled inward, inching closer to the fire. You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to will the heat to travel deeper into your limbs, reaching your frozen fingertips and toes.

But it just wasn’t enough.

The sound of footsteps reached your ears before the door to the bedroom opened. Agatha’s gaze found you instantly and her lips curved into a small, knowing smile as her eyes raked over your shivering form.

“Cold, are we?” Agatha’s voice was smooth, with a playful edge to the words.

You nodded, your teeth chattering against each other as a shiver wracked through your body.

“Y-Yeah.” The word slipped out, weak and shaky, barely more than a whisper.

Agatha clicked her tongue in disapproval, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “I told you to wait until tomorrow to fix the fence.”

With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Agatha stepped closer, her presence settling beside you with a warmth that sent a pleasant tingle down your spine. Slowly, she draped her arm around your shoulders, the weight gentle yet firm, pulling you in just a fraction closer until you could feel the steady rise and fall of her chest.

“Such a stubborn pet.” Agatha mused, her words teasing but laced with a hint of fondness.

Your cheeks warmed at her words, a flush creeping up your face that you couldn’t hide.

Before you could recover, your eyes caught sight of Rio, leaning casually against the doorframe. It took a moment for the full weight of her presence to hit you – she had been there, observing, for far longer than you'd realized. Her gaze flickered between you and Agatha, amusement dancing in her dark eyes, her smile widening as she took in the scene.

“You should have come to me for warmth instead, sweetheart.” Rio purred, her voice a low, honeyed drawl that rippled through you. “Agatha may try, but she can’t keep you warm enough… not the way I can.”

She pushed herself off the doorframe and glided over to you. Without hesitation, Rio wrapped her arm around your waist, her fingers lightly grazing your ribs as she tugged you to her side. Now, you found yourself trapped, wedged between two witches whose bodies were pressing in on you from either side, fighting against the cold with all the heat they could offer.

Agatha’s eyes narrowed sharply, her gaze flickering over to Rio, a challenge glinting there. “You think you’re warmer than me?” She hummed, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “We’ll see about that.”

Rio laughed, a rich, throaty sound that lingered in the air, her lips curving into a slow grin. “Oh, please, we both know I’m the better choice. Right, darling?”

Rio’s gaze held yours for a moment, intense and heavy, like she was waiting for you to agree. But you bit your lower lip, trying – and failing – to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. There was something thrilling about being caught in the middle of their lighthearted banter.

Agatha, watching you with a spark of amusement in her eyes, tightened her grip on your shoulder, giving you a playful squeeze.

“How about a contest?” She proposed. “Whoever makes you the warmest gets to keep you all to themselves.”

Rio’s eyes gleamed with an almost predatory delight. She leaned in slightly, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I think I’ll win,” she murmured, her voice dripping with certainty. “I always do.”

A soft chuckle escaped Agatha. “Not this time, my love.”

In an almost simultaneous motion, they both tugged you closer, sandwiching you between them. Agatha's warmth was immediate, wrapping around you like a protective, suffocating blanket, yet comforting in its closeness. She pressed you into her chest, her scent wrapping around you like a second skin, familiar and intimate. On the other side, Rio's embrace was fiery, and electric, her touch a constant spark that ignited your skin wherever it made contact. It was the kind of heat that drew you in and made you feel alive, even as it threatened to consume you.

You closed your eyes, giving into the moment, feeling the gentle weight of their arms wrapped around you.

“Are you warm now?” Agatha’s voice whispered softly against your temple.

You managed a small nod, exhaling slowly as you sank deeper into their embrace, feeling yourself melt against them.

Rio smiled down at you, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Good. Now, who’s going to be the lucky one to get you all to themselves?”

Your mouth parted, words tumbling over each other in your mind, but they failed to find their way past your lips. You loved them both too much to pick one over the other. Before you could settle on the right words to appease them, both witches exchanged a knowing look with each other.

Then, without a hint of warning, they leaned in at the same time, their lips brushing against your cheeks. The kiss was delicate, like a breath of warmth against your skin.

Agatha pulled back first, her lips curling into a subtle, teasing smile. “You’re too tempting for your own good, pet.”

Rio, never one to miss an opportunity, smirked and whispered against your ear, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll figure out who gets to claim you. I’m sure you’ll like it either way.”

The fire in the hearth was nothing compared to the heat that burned between the three of you now.

[memorabxlia]

All I Want for Christmas Is You ━ 홍중

genre: fluff (just a tad), smut summary: after getting stranded in your car during a winter storm with Hongjoong, you find other means to pass the time warnings: est relationship, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap up irl!), car sex (defintely forgot something) pairing: nonidol!hongjoong x fem!reader wc: 1.9k a/n: DAY 4!!! nets: @blossomnet @k-labels @k-films

The wind howled outside, slamming against the windows of your car like a wild animal trying to break in. Snowflakes swirled in chaotic spirals, obscuring the road ahead and coating everything in a thick blanket of white. You tugged your coat tighter around you, but it was no use—the cold had already seeped into your bones. The heater sputtered weakly, barely holding its own against the storm.

“Hongjoong,” you murmured, your teeth chattering as you glanced at him in the driver’s seat. His hands were still gripping the wheel, even though the car hadn’t moved in what felt like hours. “How long do you think we’re going to be stuck here?”

He exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the frigid air. “I don’t know. The tow truck said they’d come as soon as they could, but…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the windshield. “This isn’t exactly ideal weather for rescuing stranded idiots.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Speak for yourself. You’re the one who thought driving through this was a good idea.”

Hongjoong shot you a look, his dark brows knitting together in mock offense. “Oh, so now it’s my fault? Remind me again who begged to stop for ‘just one more coffee’ before we left?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the grin tugging at his lips stopped you. Even in the middle of a snowstorm, half-frozen and completely stranded, he had a way of making you forget everything else. Your fiancé’s sharp features were softened by the dim glow of the dashboard lights, his black hair tousled from running his fingers through it in frustration. His leather jacket clung to his shoulders, and you couldn’t help but notice how the faint sheen of sweat on his skin caught the light.

You bit your lip, suddenly feeling warmer than you had a moment ago. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m partially to blame.”

“Partially?” Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, leaning closer. His voice dropped, low and teasing. “Try fully.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was racing now. The space between you seemed to shrink with every second, the tension thickening like the snow piling up outside. You reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’re such a brat, you know that?”

His smirk widened, and before you could react, he caught your hand in his. His touch was warm, sending a jolt of electricity through you. “And yet, here you are. Stuck with me.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world outside faded away, leaving only the sound of your breathing and the faint thrum of the engine. Hongjoong’s gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, and you felt a familiar heat stir deep within you. It wasn’t just the cold making you shiver anymore.

“You’re staring,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the storm.

“So are you,” he countered, his thumb tracing slow circles on your palm. His touch was maddening, deliberate and unhurried, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you. “What are you thinking about?”

You swallowed hard, your mind spinning. “That maybe… we should find a way to pass the time.”

“Oh?” His eyes darkened, and his grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly. “And what did you have in mind?”

You didn’t answer—not with words, anyway. Instead, you leaned in, closing the gap between you until your lips were just a breath apart. Hongjoong’s sharp intake of air was the only warning you got before he closed the distance, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss.

It was all fire and need, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that made your head spin. One of his hands slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the other found your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh through the fabric of your jeans. You gasped into his mouth, your hands flying to his chest to steady yourself, but that only seemed to spur him on. He broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “Tell me what you want,” before reclaiming your lips with a fierceness that left you breathless.

Your mind raced, torn between the rational part of you that knew this was madness and the part that didn’t care. The storm raged on outside, but inside the car, the only thing that mattered was the way Hongjoong’s body pressed against yours, the way his touch set your skin ablaze.

“God, Hongjoong,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair. “I want—”

Before you could finish, he cut you off with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your toes curl. His hands moved lower, slipping under the hem of your sweater to explore the bare skin underneath. The contrast between his warm palms and the icy air sent a shiver down your spine, and you arched into his touch with a soft moan.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growled against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, not when his lips were trailing kisses along your jaw, not when his hands were roaming your body with a possessiveness that made your knees weak. Instead, you let your actions speak for you, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt until your hands met the hard planes of his chest. His skin was hot beneath your fingertips, and you couldn’t resist leaning in to press a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

Hongjoong groaned, his hands tightening on your hips as he pulled you into his lap. The steering wheel dug into your back, but you barely noticed—not when his erection was pressing insistently against your thigh, not when his lips were skimming over the curve of your ear.

“You feel that?” he rasped, his voice rough with desire. “That’s all for you.”

You whimpered, grinding against him instinctively. The friction was delicious, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you. “Joong—”

“Tell me,” he demanded, his fingers hooking under the waistband of your pants. “Tell me you want this.”

You nodded frantically, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pulled your jeans down just far enough to expose your wetness to the cold air. “Yes, yes, please—”

“Good girl,” he purred, his fingers slipping between your folds to tease you with maddening precision. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense, as he added, “Now let me hear you.”

You arched into him, desperate for more friction, more heat, more of him. The car windows were fogged up from your ragged breaths, the world outside forgotten as the storm raged on. All that mattered was the way his fingers curled inside you, stroking just right to make your hips jerk uncontrollably.

“Joong—” you gasped, clutching at his arm. “I can’t—please—”

“Can’t what?” he taunted, his voice low and rough. He added a second finger, stretching you deliciously, and you moaned at the sensation. His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you open for him as he worked you relentlessly. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

You whined, your head falling back against the seat as pleasure coiled tight in your core. “I need you,” you begged, your voice trembling. “I need you inside me, Joong—please.”

Hongjoong’s eyes darkened, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmured, “Since you asked so nicely…” He withdrew his fingers, leaving you whimpering at the loss, and shifted in the cramped space of the car. His hands fumbled with his belt buckle, the sound of it unbuckling sending a jolt of anticipation through you.

When he finally pushed down his jeans, freeing his hard length, you couldn’t help but reach for him. Your fingers wrapped around him, stroking lightly, and he hissed through clenched teeth. “Fuck, you’re impatient,” he muttered, though the way his hips bucked into your touch betrayed his own desperation.

You smirked up at him, even as your pulse raced. “You like it.”

He growled, catching your wrist and pinning it above your head. “Careful,” he warned, his tone playful but edged with hunger. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re not exactly spoiled for space here. Thought you might appreciate me taking my time.”

You bit your lip, squirming under his hold. “Take your time later,” you urged, dragging your free hand down his chest. “Right now, I just need you.”

Hongjoong groaned, releasing your wrist to brace himself against the car seat. He positioned himself between your legs, his tip brushing against your slick entrance, and you shivered at the contact. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice softer now, laced with concern despite the tension thick in the air.

You nodded, lifting your hips to meet his. “Yes,” you breathed. “I’m sure.”

With a low growl, he sank into you in one slow, torturous thrust. The stretch was exquisite, filling you completely, and you gasped out his name as he stilled, giving you a moment to adjust. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged as he fought to keep control.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasped, his hands gripping your hips tightly. “Always so perfect for me.”

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as he began to move. The pace was steady at first, each stroke deep and deliberate, but it didn’t take long for his restraint to fracture. His thrusts grew faster, harder, the sound of skin against skin mixing with the howling wind outside. The car rocked slightly with the force of them, but neither of you cared.

Every nerve in your body was alight, every touch, every kiss, every word from his lips driving you closer to the edge. His mouth found yours again, kissing you hungrily as he fucked you with relentless intensity. You could feel the coil inside you tightening, winding tighter and tighter until—

“Joong, I’m close,” you panted, breaking the kiss to bury your face in his shoulder. “Please—don’t stop—”

He chuckled darkly, slowing his pace just enough to drive you mad. “Beg for it,” he demanded, his voice rough with desire. “Tell me how much you want to come.”

You let out a frustrated whine, your hips jerking up to chase his. “Please, Joong, I need it—want to come for you—need you to make me—”

“Good girl,” he praised, his hand slipping between your bodies to circle your clit. His touch was electric, and combined with the way he filled you, it was too much. Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body shaking as you cried out his name.

Hongjoong swore under his breath, his own release hitting him hard. He buried himself deep inside you, his movements growing erratic as he followed you over the edge. For a moment, everything was quiet except for the sound of your mingled breaths and the faint creak of the car settling.

He collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the seat, but you didn’t mind. His lips brushed against your neck, trailing lazy kisses as he murmured, “Told you we’d find a way to pass the time.”

You laughed softly, running your fingers through his hair. “You were right,” you admitted, though your smile faded as you glanced out the fogged-up window. The storm showed no signs of letting up, and the thought of someone finding you both like this sent a rush of embarrassment through you. “What if—?”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted, his tone reassuring. “We’ll hear them coming.” He kissed you again, slow and sweet, before adding with a mischievous grin, “Besides, I’m not done with you yet.”

Your breath caught at the promise in his words, and before you could respond, his hands were already moving again, exploring, teasing. “Joong—”

“Shh,” he whispered, his lips tracing the curve of your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

❥﹒ ateez taglist: @casemoa143 @minkilicious @lice @amarecerasus

[onlyforsebastianstan]

"Just a Friend"

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: In a rain-soaked Brooklyn, a graphic designer falls for Bucky Barnes, a man haunted by his past as the Winter Soldier. Their connection deepens through bookstore afternoons, jazz bar dances, and candlelit nights, but Bucky’s fear of his own darkness keeps him from defining their relationship. When she overhears him dismiss her as “just a friend” to his teammates, her heart breaks, and she pulls away, seeking solace in the uncomplicated warmth of her coworker Matt. As Bucky watches her slip away, his unspoken love and jealousy drive him to confront her, leading to a raw confession of love and a promise to face their fears together. A story of heartbreak, healing, and the courage to choose love despite the shadows of the past.

📎 Genre: Romance | Drama | Angst

⚠️ Warnings: → Emotional hurt/comfort → Themes of insecurity and fear of commitment → Mild jealousy → Reference to past trauma (implied through Bucky's backstory) → Brief depictions of alcohol consumption.

See >>> Part 2

The flicker of candlelight danced across the walls of your Brooklyn apartment, casting a warm, golden glow over the cluttered coffee table. Half-empty wine glasses sat beside a dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby, its pages worn from too many late-night readings. A bowl of popcorn, barely touched, rested between a scattering of napkins and a forgotten remote. Outside, the autumn chill pressed against the window panes, the faint howl of the wind weaving through the city’s constant hum. But inside, the warmth of Bucky Barnes’ arm around your shoulders anchored you, a quiet promise against the cold.

You nestled closer, your head finding its familiar place against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat thrummed beneath your ear, a grounding cadence that felt like home. His metal fingers traced lazy circles on your arm, hesitant but deliberate, as if he were still learning how to touch without breaking something, or someone. The scent of him, a mix of cedarwood and something faintly metallic, wrapped around you, as comforting as the worn flannel he’d thrown on over his Henley.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you murmured, tilting your head to meet his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes, always carrying a shadow of something unspoken, softened as they locked onto yours. The weight of his gaze was almost too much, like he could see straight through to the parts of you that you kept hidden, even from yourself.

Bucky’s lips quirked into a half-smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes but still made your heart stutter. “Just… nice being here,” he said, his voice low, rough around the edges like gravel underfoot. “With you.”

Your heart fluttered, a fragile hope blooming in your chest. You wanted to ask what this was, movie nights that stretched past midnight, shared glances that lingered too long, kisses that felt like promises, but the words caught in your throat, tangled in the fear of breaking whatever delicate thing was growing between you. Instead, you smiled, leaning up to press a soft kiss to the sharp line of his jaw. His breath hitched, a quiet sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and he pulled you closer, his arm tightening around you like he was afraid you might slip away.

“Nice, huh?” you teased, your voice light despite the nervous flutter in your stomach. “That’s all I get? I put out candles, wine, and popcorn, and you’re giving me ‘nice’?”

His chuckle was a low rumble, vibrating against your cheek. “You want poetry, doll? I’m a little out of practice.” The nickname slipped out effortlessly, a relic of another time that he wielded with a careful kind of charm. It made your cheeks warm, and you nudged him playfully with your elbow.

“I don’t need poetry,” you said, tilting your head back to look at him again. “But I wouldn’t say no to a little more… elaboration.”

Bucky’s gaze flickered to the ceiling, like he was searching for the right words among the shadows. “Alright,” he said after a moment, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “It’s… peaceful. Being here, with you, it’s like I can breathe for the first time in a long time. No ghosts, no missions. Just this.” His metal fingers paused their circling, resting lightly against your arm. “Just us.”

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm blanket. You shifted, turning to face him fully, one leg tucked beneath you on the couch. The candlelight caught the planes of his face, highlighting the faint scars that traced his jaw, the lines etched around his eyes from years of carrying too much. You reached up, brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his skin.

“You’re getting better at this,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “The whole… talking thing.”

He snorted softly, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it. I’m still a man of few words.”

“Liar,” you shot back, grinning. “You just spent ten minutes earlier arguing with me about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”

“It’s not,” he said immediately, his tone mock-serious. “It’s an action movie that happens to take place at Christmas. Big difference.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stubborn,” he countered, but there was a warmth in his voice, a playfulness that hadn’t been there when you’d first met him all those months ago. Back then, he’d been a shadow of a man, all sharp edges and guarded silences, fresh from a war he couldn’t quite leave behind. But now, in the soft glow of your apartment, he was starting to unravel, piece by piece, letting you glimpse the man beneath the soldier.

You reached for your wine glass, taking a sip of the merlot that had gone slightly warm from sitting out too long. “You know,” you said, setting the glass back down, “I’m starting to think you like these movie nights more than you let on.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the couch cushions, his arm still draped around you. “What gave me away? The fact that I keep showing up?”

“That,” you said, poking his chest lightly, “and the way you always bring those fancy chocolates you pretend you ‘just found’ at the store.”

He smirked, caught. “You saying you don’t like ‘em?”

“I’m saying you’re not as sneaky as you think you are, Barnes.” You reached over to the coffee table, grabbing one of the aforementioned chocolates from the small box he’d brought over earlier. You unwrap it, popping the dark chocolate truffle into your mouth, and let out a dramatic sigh. “These are dangerous.”

“Glad you think so,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Took me three stores to find the ones you like.”

Your heart did that fluttery thing again, and you looked away, suddenly shy under the weight of his attention. It was moments like this, small, quiet admissions that slipped out when he wasn’t guarding himself, that made you realize how much he noticed, how much he cared. You weren’t sure when it had started, this slow dance between you, but it had grown into something you couldn’t ignore, something that made your chest ache with a mix of hope and fear.

“Three stores, huh?” you said, trying to keep your tone light. “You must really like me.”

Bucky’s expression softened, and for a moment, you thought he might say something serious, something that would shift the air between you. But instead, he leaned forward, stealing a piece of popcorn from the bowl and tossing it into his mouth. “You’re alright,” he said, his voice teasing. “For a civilian.”

You gasped in mock offense, swatting his arm. “Excuse you, I’m a delightful civilian.”

“Debatable,” he shot back, but he was grinning now, a real grin that made him look younger, lighter, like the weight of the world wasn’t pressing down on him for once.

The movie playing on the TV, a cheesy rom-com you’d picked mostly to mess with him, faded into the background, the dialogue drowned out by the easy rhythm of your banter. You shifted again, tucking your legs under you and turning to face him fully. The candlelight cast long shadows across his face, and you couldn’t help but notice how the flickering light softened the harsh lines of his features, making him look almost vulnerable.

“So,” you said, your voice quieter now, “what’s the deal with you and rom-coms? You always grumble when I pick one, but you never leave.”

Bucky tilted his head, considering. “They’re… fine,” he said after a moment. “Not my thing, but you like ‘em. And I like—” He stopped, his jaw tightening slightly, like he’d almost said too much.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning closer. “You like what?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, the metal of his left arm catching the light. “I like seeing you happy,” he said finally, his voice low, almost reluctant. “You get this look when you’re watching these movies, like you’re lost in ‘em. It’s… nice.”

Your breath caught, and you stared at him, searching his face for any sign that he was joking. But his eyes were steady, unguarded in a way that made your heart pound. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you reached out, your hand finding his on the couch. His fingers, warm flesh and cool metal, closed around yours, and the simple touch felt like a lifeline.

“Bucky,” you started, your voice barely above a whisper, but he shook his head slightly, like he didn’t trust himself to hear whatever you were about to say.

“Don’t,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “Not yet.”

You nodded, understanding without needing him to explain. There was a fragility to this moment, to the unspoken thing growing between you, and pushing it too far, too fast, might shatter it. So instead, you squeezed his hand, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his. His breath was warm against your lips, and for a moment, you just stayed there, breathing in sync, the world narrowing to the space between you.

The movie droned on, the characters confessing their love in some over-the-top, Hollywood way, but it felt distant, irrelevant. The real story was here, in the quiet intimacy of your apartment, in the way Bucky’s hand tightened around yours, in the way his lips brushed against your temple, tentative and soft.

“You ever think about it?” you asked after a while, your voice barely audible. “What this could be?”

Bucky was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. Then he shifted, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Every damn day,” he said, his voice rough with something that sounded like longing. “But I’m… I’m not good at this. Not good at letting people in.”

You leaned into his touch, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his words. “You’re doing pretty well from where I’m sitting,” you said, offering him a small smile.

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

“Someone’s gotta be,” you teased, but your voice was soft, full of the warmth you felt for him. You leaned forward, closing the small distance between you, and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was slow, gentle, a question and an answer all at once. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you could feel the tension in him, the careful way he held himself, like he was afraid of taking too much.

When you pulled back, his eyes were still closed, his forehead resting against yours. “You make it hard to keep my guard up,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“Good,” you whispered back, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I don’t want your guard. I just want you.”

He opened his eyes then, and the look in them—raw, unguarded, full of something you couldn’t quite name—made your breath catch. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you heavy with possibility. Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, his metal hand sliding to your waist, pulling you into his lap with a gentleness that belied his strength.

You laughed softly against his lips, your hands settling on his shoulders. “Careful, Barnes,” you teased. “You’re gonna knock over the popcorn.”

“Let it spill,” he muttered, his voice rough with want, and you felt a thrill run through you at the intensity in his tone. His lips found yours again, and this time the kiss was hungrier, more urgent, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into it.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of quiet moments and stolen kisses, the movie forgotten, the candles burning low. You talked about nothing and everything, his favorite diner in Brooklyn, the way the city had changed since he was a kid, the book you were reading, the missions he wouldn’t talk about but hinted at in the way his jaw tightened. And through it all, there was a thread of something new, something fragile but growing stronger with every touch, every shared glance.

As the clock ticked past midnight, you found yourself curled against him, his arms wrapped around you, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a contented haze. The world outside your apartment felt far away, insignificant compared to the warmth of his embrace.

“Stay,” you murmured, your voice heavy with sleep. “Just for tonight.”

Bucky’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice made you believe him.

You fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, the flicker of candlelight fading into dreams, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The next few days were a blur of stolen moments, each one weaving you and Bucky closer together, like threads in a tapestry you couldn’t yet see the full pattern of. On Saturday, you wandered through the narrow aisles of your favorite bookstore in Park Slope, the kind of place with creaky wooden floors and shelves that seemed to sag under the weight of stories. Your elbows brushed as you navigated the cramped space, pulling dog-eared paperbacks from the shelves and debating their merits with a seriousness that bordered on absurd.

“This one’s overrated,” you said, holding up a copy of On the Road. “Kerouac’s just… too much. All that wandering gets exhausting.”

Bucky tilted his head, skimming the back cover with a skeptical look. “Says the woman who’s got three copies of Pride and Prejudice at home.”

You gasped, clutching the book to your chest in mock indignation. “That’s different! Austen’s witty. Kerouac’s just… pretentious rambling.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and reached past you to pluck a worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye from the shelf. “What about this one? You gonna call Holden Caulfield pretentious too?”

You wrinkled your nose, leaning closer to inspect the book in his hands, your shoulder brushing against his. “Holden’s not pretentious. He’s just… sad. And kind of a brat.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, and he set the book back down, his fingers lingering on the spine. “Guess I get that,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost lost in the hum of the bookstore. “Being sad and a little lost.”

Your heart squeezed, and you reached for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re not lost, Bucky,” you said softly. “Not here.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the bustling bookstore faded away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of quiet understanding. He didn’t say anything, but the way his fingers tightened around yours said enough.

That evening, you dragged him to the jazz bar down the street, a dimly lit hole-in-the-wall with exposed brick walls and a saxophone player who seemed to pour his soul into every note. You sipped on a gin and tonic, the ice clinking against the glass, while Bucky nursed a whiskey, his eyes scanning the room like he was still wired to notice every exit, every shadow. But when the band struck up a slow, mournful tune, you set your drink down and grabbed his hand.

“Come on,” you said, tugging him toward the small dance floor. “You can’t just sit there brooding all night.”

“I don’t brood,” he grumbled, but he let you pull him up, his boots scuffing against the floor. His hands found your waist, steady and warm, and you looped your arms around his neck, swaying to the saxophone’s wail. The music wrapped around you, a cocoon of sound that made the world feel smaller, softer.

“You’re not bad at this,” you said, grinning up at him as he guided you through a slow turn. His movements were careful, precise, like he was hyper-aware of his strength, of the space he took up.

“Had a lot of practice,” he said, his voice low, almost lost in the music. “Back in the day, dancing was… different. More rules, less… this.” He gestured vaguely at the casual intimacy of the bar, the way couples and strangers alike moved together without pretense.

“You miss it?” you asked, tilting your head to catch his eye. “The forties, I mean. The way things were.”

He was quiet for a moment, his hands tightening slightly on your waist. “Some of it,” he admitted. “The simplicity, maybe. But not enough to trade this for it.” His eyes flicked to yours, and the weight of his words made your breath catch. “Not enough to trade you.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you ducked your head, focusing on the rhythm of your steps to hide the sudden shyness that gripped you. The song ended, but neither of you moved to sit down, lingering on the dance floor as the band transitioned to something faster. His hands stayed on your waist, and you stayed close, the warmth of him grounding you against the uncertainty that still lingered in the back of your mind.

Each night ended the same, back at your apartment, sharing takeout from the Thai place around the corner or the greasy diner Bucky swore had the best fries in Brooklyn. You’d sit cross-legged on the floor, cartons of pad thai or burgers spread out on the coffee table, trading stories and silences that felt just as meaningful. His guarded walls were crumbling, bit by bit, revealing glimpses of the man beneath the scars, the one who laughed at your terrible puns, who remembered the way you took your coffee, who looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

But the question gnawed at you, a quiet ache that grew with every shared moment. Was this love, or just comfort? A safe harbor for a man who’d spent too long adrift? You tried to ask once, on a quiet Sunday morning, the two of you sitting at your tiny kitchen table with steaming mugs of coffee. The sunlight streamed through the window, catching the flecks of gray in his stubble, making him look softer, more human.

“Bucky,” you said, your hands wrapped around your mug, the warmth seeping into your palms. “What are we doing here?”

He froze, his own mug halfway to his lips. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, out the window where the city buzzed with life. “I’m not good at this, you know that,” he said finally, his voice low, guarded. “My past… it’s a mess. Can we just… keep this good? For now?”

The words stung, not because they were harsh, but because they were honest. You saw the fear in his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed like he was bracing for you to push, to demand more than he could give. You wanted to—God, you wanted to—but you also saw the fragility of what you’d built together, the way it teetered on the edge of something real but undefined.

You nodded, swallowing the ache in your throat. “Okay,” you said softly, forcing a smile. “For now.”

He exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly, and reached across the table to cover your hand with his. His touch was warm, grounding, but the uncertainty lingered like a bruise, tender and persistent. You wanted to believe this was enough, the bookstore afternoons, the jazz bar dances, the late-night takeout and stolen kisses, but a part of you wondered how long you could keep dancing around the truth.

As you sipped your coffee, watching him flip through the newspaper with a focus that seemed almost performative, you made a silent promise to yourself. You’d give him time, give this, whatever it was, time. But you wouldn’t let the question fade, not entirely. Because even if he wasn’t ready to name it, you felt it in every touch, every look, every moment you shared. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep you both going, for now.

The following Tuesday, you found yourself at a small diner near the Avengers’ compound, a rare lunch meet-up with Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. Bucky was off on a mission, something vague about “consulting” that he didn’t elaborate on, and Steve had texted you out of the blue, inviting you to catch up. Natasha tagged along, her presence both comforting and intimidating, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

You slid into the booth across from Steve and Natasha, the warmth of the place a stark contrast to the chilly autumn day outside. Steve was his usual all-American self, his blue eyes bright as he grinned at you over a stack of pancakes, while Natasha leaned back, sipping her black coffee with a look that said she was already three steps ahead of the conversation.

“So,” Steve started, cutting into his pancakes with the precision of a man who’d spent decades strategizing battles, “how’s it going with you and Bucky?”

You nearly choked on your coffee, the mug clattering against the saucer. “Wow, straight to the point, huh?” you said, trying to laugh it off, but your cheeks were already warming.

Natasha’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “He’s not subtle,” she said, her voice dry. “But he’s right. You and Barnes have been spending a lot of time together. Spill.”

You shifted in your seat, your fingers tracing the rim of your mug. The question wasn’t unexpected—Steve and Natasha were Bucky’s family, after all, and they cared about him in a way that was both fierce and protective. But putting your feelings into words felt like stepping onto a tightrope without a net.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly, your voice quieter than you’d intended. “It’s… complicated. We’re close, closer than I’ve been with anyone in a long time. But he’s hard to read sometimes. I think he’s scared to call it anything more than it is.”

Steve’s fork paused halfway to his mouth, his expression softening. “Bucky’s been through a lot,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “He doesn’t let people in easily. But the way he looks at you… I haven’t seen him like that in years.”

Your heart did a little flip, but the uncertainty still gnawed at you. “I want to believe that,” you said, glancing down at your coffee. “But sometimes I wonder if I’m just… a safe place for him. A way to forget the past for a while.”

Natasha leaned forward, her green eyes piercing. “You’re not just anything,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Bucky doesn’t do things halfway. If he’s with you, it’s because he wants to be. But he’s got a lot of baggage, and he’s probably terrified of dragging you into it.”

You nodded, the weight of her words settling over you. “I know about his past, or at least parts of it. He’s told me some things, and I can see how it haunts him. I just… I don’t know how to get him to trust that I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve set his fork down, his expression serious. “Bucky spent most of his life being told he’s a weapon, not a person. Trusting someone, really trusting them, isn’t something he’s used to. But you’re getting through to him. I can see it. The way he talks about you, the way he lights up when you’re around… it’s real.”

Your throat tightened, and you looked away, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. “I’m falling for him,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “And it scares me, because I don’t know if he’s falling too, or if he’s just… holding on to something that feels good.”

Natasha reached across the table, her hand resting lightly on yours. “Give him time,” she said, her voice softer now, almost gentle. “He’s fighting a war in his head every day. But you’re not just a distraction to him. You’re more than that. Trust me, I’ve known him long enough to see the difference.”

You managed a small smile, her words easing the knot in your chest just a little. “Thanks,” you said, squeezing her hand before pulling back. “I just wish he’d talk to me, you know? Really talk.”

“He will,” Steve said, his voice steady with conviction. “Bucky’s stubborn, but he’s not stupid. He knows what he’s got with you.”

The conversation shifted after that, moving to lighter topics, Steve’s latest attempt to catch up on modern music, Natasha’s sly comments about his taste, but your mind kept drifting back to Bucky. You wanted to believe Steve and Natasha, wanted to trust that what you had was real, but the uncertainty lingered, a quiet ache that followed you out of the diner and into the crisp autumn air.

That evening, you were supposed to meet Bucky, Steve, and Sam at a café in Williamsburg, a cozy spot with mismatched chairs and the best espresso in the borough. But your latest design project had kept you at the office past dusk, your eyes burning from hours of staring at mockups and color palettes. By the time you stepped out into the rain-soaked street, your boots splashing through puddles, you were already late, the autumn air biting at your fingertips as you pulled your coat tighter.

The café’s warm light spilled onto the wet pavement, a beacon in the gray dusk. You reached for the door, ready to apologize for your tardiness, but voices from inside stopped you cold.

“So, you and her,” Sam’s teasing drawl carried through the glass, laced with that familiar mischief. “When’s the wedding, Barnes?”

Your heart thudded, loud enough to drown out the patter of rain. You froze, hand hovering over the door handle, as Steve’s chuckle followed, warm and easy. “Come on, Buck. You two are practically glued together. You dating or what?”

Bucky’s laugh was sharp, dismissive, like a blade cutting through the warmth of the moment. “Nah, she’s just a friend. We’re just… hanging out.”

The words sliced through you, clean and brutal, stealing the air from your lungs. Just a friend. The candlelit nights, the slow dances, the way he held you like you were his anchor—did they mean nothing? Your chest tightened, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. Your hand dropped from the door, and you took a step back, the rain soaking through your coat as you retreated into the shadows of the street. The world blurred around you, the neon lights smearing into streaks of color, and you disappeared into the rain-soaked night, the ache in your chest heavier than the storm.

You didn’t know how long you walked, only that your boots were soaked through and your hair clung to your face, dripping with rain. The city buzzed around you, car horns, distant laughter, the rhythmic splash of tires through puddles, but it all felt muffled, like you were underwater. Bucky’s words echoed in your head, each syllable a fresh wound. ‘Just a friend. Just hanging out.’ You’d spent months building something with him, something fragile but real, or so you’d thought. The bookstore afternoons, the jazz bar dances, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded, it had felt like more. So much more.

You found yourself at the edge of Prospect Park, the dark expanse of trees looming against the gray sky. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but you didn’t care. You sank onto a bench, the cold metal biting through your jeans, and stared at the ground, where raindrops pooled in the cracks of the pavement. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, probably a text from Bucky wondering where you were, but you ignored it, your hands trembling as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

How had you misread this so badly? You replayed every moment, every touch, searching for the signs you’d missed. The way he’d hesitated when you asked what you were to each other, the way he’d asked to “keep this good” without defining it. Had you been fooling yourself, seeing love where there was only comfort? A distraction from his past, a safe place to land until he was ready to move on?

The thought made your stomach twist, and you pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to stop the tears that threatened to spill. You weren’t even sure who you were crying for yourself, for believing in something that wasn’t there, or Bucky, for being so afraid to let it be real.

Your phone buzzed again, insistent, and you finally pulled it out. Three texts from Bucky, each one short and clipped, the way he got when he was worried but trying not to show it.

Bucky: Where are you? You’re late.

Bucky: You okay? Rain’s picking up.

Bucky: Call me. Please.

You stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the call button. Part of you wanted to hear his voice, to demand answers, to ask why he’d let you believe this was more. But another part was too raw, too afraid of what he might say. You turned the phone off and shoved it back into your pocket, the weight of it like a stone.

The drizzle turned to mist, and you stood, brushing the damp hair from your face. You couldn’t go back to the café, not tonight. Not with Steve and Sam’s teasing still ringing in your ears, not with Bucky’s dismissal cutting deeper than you’d thought possible. You started walking again, aimless, the city a blur of lights and shadows.

By the time you reached your apartment, your clothes were heavy with rain, and your fingers were numb. You fumbled with your keys, the familiar creak of the door sounding too loud in the quiet. The living room was still a mess from last night’s takeout session—empty cartons on the coffee table, a half-finished bottle of wine, the dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby you and Bucky had argued over. The candles you’d lit were burned down to stubs, their wax pooling on the table like frozen tears.

You kicked off your boots and sank onto the couch, pulling a throw blanket around your shoulders. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint drip of water from your coat onto the floor. You wanted to cry, to scream, but all you could do was sit there, the weight of heartbreak and love pressing down on you. One more night, you told yourself. One more night with him, and then you’d let go.

A knock at the door jolted you out of your thoughts, sharp and insistent. Your heart leapt, then sank. You knew who it was before you even stood up.

You opened the door to find Bucky, his hair damp and plastered to his forehead, his leather jacket glistening with rain. His eyes were wide, searching, a mix of worry and something you couldn’t quite name. “You didn’t show,” he said, his voice rough. “I’ve been calling you for hours. Where the hell were you?”

You crossed your arms, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “I got caught up at work,” you lied, your voice flat, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “Didn’t feel like coming out in the rain.”

His brow furrowed, and he took a step closer, the scent of rain and cedarwood following him. “Bullshit,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re soaked through, and your phone’s off. What’s going on?”

You shrugged, turning away to toss the blanket onto the couch, avoiding his gaze. “I’m fine, Bucky. Just tired.” The lie felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him the truth, couldn’t bear to hear him say those words again.

He followed you inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “You’re not fine,” he said, his voice softer now, but firm. “You don’t just disappear like that. Not with me.”

You wanted to snap at him, to let the hurt spill out, but the weight of your decision held you back. One more night. You turned to face him, forcing a small smile. “I’m okay, really. Just… a long day. Stay with me tonight?”

His eyes searched yours, like he was trying to find the lie, but he nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You stepped closer, your hands finding his damp jacket, and pulled him toward you. The air between you felt charged, heavy with everything you weren’t saying. You kissed him, harder than usual, a desperate edge to it, like you were trying to memorize the feel of him. He responded instantly, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you against him with a hunger that matched your own. The kiss was raw, urgent, a collision of need and unspoken pain.

You tugged at his jacket, and he shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor. Your hands moved to his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons, and he helped you, his movements quick, almost frantic. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as you shed your damp sweater, the chill of your skin meeting the warmth of his. His hands were everywhere, your waist, your hips, the curve of your back, his touch both familiar and electric, like it was the first time and the last.

“Bucky,” you whispered against his lips, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you felt, love, heartbreak, longing. He didn’t answer, just kissed you deeper, his metal hand cool against your skin as he lifted you, guiding you toward the bedroom.

The night unfolded in a haze of intimacy, more intense than any before. Every touch, every kiss, felt like a goodbye you couldn’t voice. His hands were gentle but desperate, like he was holding onto something he was afraid to lose, and you matched his intensity, pouring everything into this final night. The world outside your apartment ceased to exist, the rain a distant murmur against the windows, the only reality the press of his skin against yours, the way his breath hitched when you whispered his name.

Afterward, you lay tangled together in the dark, his arm around you, your head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, a rhythm you’d come to rely on, but tonight it felt like a countdown. You traced lazy patterns on his skin, memorizing the feel of him, the warmth of him, knowing this was the last time. The weight of your love for him was unbearable, tangled with the heartbreak of his words at the café, and you knew you couldn’t keep doing this—not when he could dismiss what you had so easily.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice heavy with sleep, his fingers brushing through your hair.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a smile he couldn’t see in the dark. “Yeah,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper. “Just… happy you’re here.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his arm tightening around you, and you closed your eyes, letting the moment stretch. You wanted to stay like this forever, but you’d made your choice. Tomorrow, you’d find a way to let him go, to protect your heart from the uncertainty that had already broken it once.

For now, though, you held onto him, letting the warmth of his embrace chase away the chill of the night, even as the rain continued to fall outside, a soft reminder of the storm you carried within.

See my other stories here >>> Masterlist <<<

[uunoia]

Romantic Feelings? Ehh Cringe

Summery: Technoblade tries cheering you up with a greek myth

The cabin was quiet.

Not peaceful. Not comfortable. Just quiet.

You sat at the wooden table, hands wrapped around a half-finished cup of tea that had long since gone cold. You weren’t drinking it. You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting here, staring at the knots in the wood grain, listening to the wind howl outside. It had been hours, probably. Maybe less. Maybe more.

It didn’t matter.

Somewhere behind you, Techno sat in his chair by the fire, pretending to read. You could feel his eyes on you—subtle, watchful. He wasn’t obvious about it, but you knew him well enough by now. He had noticed the way you barely spoke today, how you moved slower, how the usual sharpness in your eyes had dulled into something distant and hollow.

You took a slow breath, trying to push past the weight in your chest. It didn't work.

Your fingers trembled. You clenched them into fists. Your thoughts were spiraling and you knew they were. The war, you almost dying, all the good people who got hurt.

Then—before you could stop it—the first tear fell, hitting the table with a barely audible pat.

Shit.

You inhaled sharply, willing yourself to stop, to push it down, to not do this right now. But your body didn’t listen. Your breath hitched. Your shoulders tensed as another tear slipped free, then another.

Behind you, the sound of a page turning stopped.

Techno had noticed.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heel of your palm against them. You hated this. Hated crying like this—weak, quiet, with no control over it. You had been fine for so long. You needed to be fine.

You heard the chair creak as Techno shifted. Then, his voice—low, uncertain.

“You uhh…You want me to leave?”

You flinched slightly, shaking your head, voice hoarse.

“No—” A pause. Then, quieter, “No. Just… don’t say anything.”

A beat of silence.

“…Alright.”

And he didn’t.

For a while, there was nothing but the crackling of the fire, the muffled howl of wind against the windows, and the occasional sound of Techno shifting in his seat. He wasn’t reading anymore. Just there. Not saying anything. Not leaving, either.

You sniffled, rubbing at your eyes.

Then, out of nowhere—

“... Pygmalion and Galatea. Ever heard of them?” 

Your brow furrowed. You blinked, wiping your sleeve over your red and puffy face as you turned slightly toward him. “…What?”

As if this were the most natural segue in the world. His tone was casual, unaffected. "Some sculptor guy from ancient Greece— I've forgotten where exactly. He was kinda a loner. Didn't wanna deal with real people, especially women— Guy spent ages on this one statue. Carving, supposedly, the perfect woman out of ivory. Like, obsessed over it. Chiseled every little detail, made her perfect in his eyes. And then, uh—he kinda just…fell in love with her." He paused, shifting slightly in his chair. 

You blinked at him.

“It was like his life’s work or whatever…” He suddenly found it hard to look in your general direction. “Dude looked at real women and was like, ‘Nahhh, y’all suck, I’ll just make my own instead.’ So, yeah. He starts treating this statue like a real person. Talks to it, gives it gifts, probably took it on dates—I dunno, weird guy behavior. And then, get this—he begs Aphrodite to make her real.” Techno paused, shifting in his chair, gaze flickering away for half a second before he cleared his throat.

“She, uh…actually does it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “She what?”

“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Aphrodite, for some reason, sees all this and goes, ‘Wow, that’s so romantic,’ and just—bam—brings the statue to life. No questions asked. No ‘bro, you good?’ Just—instant dream girl. And then in some versions they have a kid or something, I’ve forgotten.” He suddenly found it hard to look into your general direction.

A beat of silence. Then, in a flat voice, you muttered, “He chose a statue over a real person?” You paused again, “That’s… the most depressing shit i've ever heard.”

Techno huffed a quiet chuckle. “I know right? Isn't it great?” His smile quirked upwards a little as his arms crossed, nudging you with his elbow.

Despite yourself, despite the exhaustion and the weight of everything pressing down on you, a small, tired laugh slipped from your lips. You shook your head, rubbing at your eyes again. “That’s your idea of cheering me up?”

“I mean, it’s a good story.” Techno shrugged, leaning back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Figured I’d tell it ‘cause… it kinda reminded me of uhh…” He trailed off, his voice tapering into silence. His gaze flickered away, almost like he had lost his train of thought.  He suddenly found his book a whole lot more interesting.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Of…?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear the color in his face deepened just a shade.

“...uhhh—” He cleared his throat, suddenly finding the fire very interesting. “I mean, y’know. It’s, uh… a classic tale! Dedication. Mastery in art. Real inspiring, all that.”

You stared at him. He was so full of shit.

“…Right.” You dragged out the word, tilting your head, a slow smirk creeping onto your lips. “That’s totally why you told it.” 

His ears twitched, his jaw tightening. “Hey, don't make fun of me.”

That only made you grin harder. You exhaled through your nose, something almost like amusement breaking through the sadness. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Another pause. You took a breath, deeper this time. The lump in your throat was still there, but… lighter. A little easier to bear.

Then, to your surprise, Techno stood. You expected him to walk away, to give you space, but instead, he grabbed something from the back of his chair—his red cloak.

Before you could question it, he stepped over and draped it over your shoulders.

The fabric was warm, heavy, smelling like smoke and steel and something distinctly him. Even if it was just the cloak, it held the weight, smell and looked as if he were giving you a hug. Your fingers curled around the edges instinctively. You blinked up at him.

Techno just crossed his arms. “Try not to cry on it. It’s my only one.”

You scoffed lightly, a breathy, half-hearted sound. “No promises.”

He hummed, stepping back toward his chair. Before he sat, he hesitated—then, reaching out, he gave your shoulder a firm squeeze. Just once. Just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then he plopped back down, flipping open his book.

The fire crackled. The storm raged outside.

You tugged his cloak tighter around yourself, eyes dropping to your cold, untouched tea.

“…Thanks,” you murmured after a long pause.

Techno didn’t look up.

“Don’t mention it.”

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Experiment: Omega | Bucky Barnes x Reader | Drabble - 788 words

You escape the HYDRA facility that created you just to be chased through the night. A mysterious Alpha finds you hiding but is he your salvation? Or your ruin?

Warnings: 18+ because HYDRA, reference to experimentation, omegaverse dynamics. If you think you've read this before, no you haven't (yes you probably have this is a repost)

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

The wind howled around you and the rain lashed against your face like a thousand pin pricks. Every branch you ran past seemed to grab and tear at you, your already ragged clothes shredding from your frame with each frightened stride into the darkness of the woods. 

Behind you, you could hear the baying of the dogs and the tell tale crack of trees and roots as the Jeeps mobilised. 

All you needed was a chance, a place to hide. You stopped. Taking in as much of the landscape as you could through the gloom of the trees and the water dripping into your eyes. Perhaps there was a fallen tree or hollow you could hide in? Either way you’d need to keep moving, the shouts of the guards calling your name grew ever closer.

Your heart thumped wildly in your ears, your vision blurred and then, suddenly. The rain stopped, the howling stopped, and you were being dragged backwards. Your bare feet slid in the mud and then hit dry rock, your toes barked against the rough surface and you yelped in pain until you came to a stop. A large palm covered your mouth, the thumb hooked over your nose, while your assailant’s left arm remained wrapped around your waist solid and cold.

“Be quiet.” He hissed behind you, his voice gravelly. 

You attempted to speak, to ask who he was, but he only pressed his hand down harder. 

“If you know what’s good for you — be quiet.” 

He was careful to keep his voice low, so that his words wouldn’t echo as they filtered into the back of the cave. He moved you both so that you were against the wall, away from any line of sight should your captors come looking, and you noticed that his left hand was nothing like the right. Instead of skin he had layers of silver metal, over laid like scales in some places, and shifting with his own movements like muscles beneath the skin. 

Outside of the cave voices rose and fell, trailing away until all you could hear was the rain and the wind and the sound of your heart beat. 

The man let you go, and you felt cold without his body heat behind you, but now you could spin and face him. He was tall, leaning slightly to one side with the weight of the metal plates that seemed to reach up under a thick, black leather jacket that stretched over his broad shoulders and chest. Dark tendrils of hair crept over his forehead and cheeks, and a black mask that covered the lower half of his face. Above it his eyes were strikingly blue, handsome even, despite his dishevelled appearance.

He wrapped his arm around your waist and cupped your face gently, rubbing his thumb over the delicate round of your cheek and with the other pulled down his mask to reveal stubbled cheeks and full pink lips. “I’m sorry that I had to be rough, they can’t catch us here.” He whispered.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be quiet, I don’t want to go back.” You said, firmly. 

But the man was distracted, bending down to rub his nose where your neck met your shoulder, “so they did it then.” His voice was a deep growl, “you’re an omega.” You felt his teeth graze your skin and a shudder of pleasure and pain rippled down your spine. 

“Yes, but I don’t know why. They’ve never brought anyone for me to be mated with.”

Something deep inside of you preened as the man kissed up your neck and nuzzled behind your ear, pressing himself against you, a feeling that you’d desired since they’d finished their last round of experiments on you. You should have pushed him away, but it felt so good, so right to be held like this and you’d been so cold and so alone in your cell. Your body called out to his, dipping and bending, allowing him to manhandle you. 

“What’s your name?” He asked, backing you against the cold wall of the cave. Outside the rain subsided slightly, electricity filling the air. 

“I don’t remember, they just call me, Omega.” A flash of lightning cut through the cave, casting the man into silhouette, the cut of his cheekbones and the breadth of his body in stark relief. 

He hummed in answer, both hands now feeling the dip of your waist and the fullness of your hips and thighs before lifting you with ease and holding you against the cave wall with his hips. 

“What should I call you?” You asked, thunder rumbling outside. 

The man pulled back slightly, an animalistic glint in his blue grey eyes. “You can call me, Alpha.” 

[loverangels]

hiii! could i please request paul atredies x fem!reader where they are arguing and he uses the voice on her?

PAUL USING THE VOICE ON YOU...

a/n: got a bit carried away with this ask and planned a whole series. I genuinely love this ask sooo much!! I also want to warn that I have yet to watch dune 2...i know I know! So it might be inaccurate in according to the movies but we'll just ignore that...

warnings: dark!paul, possessive, not proofread

You hear it before he even says your name.

Not in the words themselves — but in the way the air shifts.

In the hush that settles over the war tent like a storm holding its breath.

The way his eyes won’t meet yours.

You’re standing just inside the threshold, robes still creased from sleep, dust on your sleeves from the wind outside.

You had come looking for him — for a quiet moment, maybe, or just the comfort of his voice. But instead you walk into a ring of cold-faced commanders, a daughter of an empire gleaming like forged metal at his side, and Paul, standing at the center of it all like a man carved from stone.

Your heart folds before he even speaks.

The room feels too warm. Or maybe it’s you — heat rising up your neck like shame, like fear, like grief not yet formed.

You stand perfectly still, because you know if you move, something will shatter.

And then you hear it.

“I’ll marry Irulan.”

His voice is calm. Detached.

Like he’s stating strategy.

Like he’s not carving a hole into your chest with every syllable.

You don’t wait to hear the rest.

You don’t want to see if he glances at you when he says it.

You don’t want to know if he meant for you to hear.

You turn. You leave.

You slip out beneath the heavy flap of the tent and into the open night like a breath escaping a dying body.

And then—

You run.

The wind hits you first — sharp and angry, dragging sand across your skin like claws.

The air is dry and violent, howling against the rocks like it’s furious on your behalf.

You trip slightly on the edge of a dune, catching yourself on your hands, the sand biting into your palms. But you don’t stop. You don’t even wipe the tears from your cheeks. They’re mixing with dust now — hot and salt-heavy and blinding.

Your robe whips around your legs as you move, the fabric catching in the wind like it wants to drag you backward, like even the desert is trying to stop you from leaving him.

Your feet sink into the loose sand, stumbling over ridges and stones. The land here is endless. Barren. Beautiful in its cruelty.

And still — you run.

Behind you, there’s a sound.

The tent flap slaps against the wind.

Then — boots pounding the sand.

And his voice, cutting through the storm:

“Wait—please.”

But you don’t.

Not when your lungs are burning. Not when your whole body is screaming don’t you dare look back.

Still, he chases you. Of course he does.

He always comes when it’s too late.

He reaches you just as your knees threaten to give out —

just as the wind reaches a new pitch, shrieking across the dunes like it’s trying to tear the world apart.

“Stop,” he says, breathless.

You spin to face him, eyes wild and rimmed with sand-smeared tears.

“You’re marrying her.”

It doesn’t come out soft. It tears itself out of your mouth like it doesn’t want to be held in anymore.

He blinks, caught. His mouth parts like he wants to lie — to reframe it — but he doesn’t.

“I have to,” he says instead. Quiet. Measured.

Like that makes it better.

Your laugh is sharp and broken. “No. You want to.”

He flinches. And you don’t let him look away.

“You already have power, Paul. You already won. You have the empire, the prophecy, the people. You didn’t need to do this.”

he takes a step towards you, carefull, like you're something fragile.

“I did it for the future.”

“No.” Your voice rises, the wind rushing in behind it. “You did it for control. You did it because the throne wasn’t enough. You want her bloodline, her name, her legacy. You want to own everything.”

Something dark flickers in his eyes — not anger, not quite. Something worse. Justification.

That horrible, steady confidence that only comes from believing your own myth.

“I didn’t understand what this path would take from me,” he says.

You take a step back, your foot slipping in the sand.

“Oh,” you breathe. “So you were naive. You were foolish when you said you loved me.”

His jaw tightens. “No.”

“Then what?” Your voice breaks, finally. “What was I?”

He doesn’t answer right away. The wind gusts, hard enough to make you stagger.

Then—his voice again.

Not loud. Not cruel.

Just certain.

"stay."

And this time it isn’t just a plea.

It’s the Voice.

It sinks into your bones, stilling you.

Your breath catches. Your legs freeze. You hate how easily it happens — how quickly your body obeys.

He steps closer, looking ruined. “Please. Don’t go.”

But you don’t look at him. You’re staring out at the horizon, at the endless expanse of sand that could take you anywhere but here.

And still — you stay. Because he told you to.

Because he made you.

And that’s worse than anything else.

.

Time passes.

Not in days or months. Not in anything you can count.

It passes in moments you don’t remember choosing.

You live in the royal wing now — carved in white stone, where the ceilings echo with silence and the floors are too polished to feel real beneath your feet.

They dress you in silk now. Gold bracelets that you don’t remember asking for. Perfume that clings to your skin like a name you forgot how to say.

You never ask questions.

You don’t need to.

He tells you when to speak. When to smile. When to follow.

And you do.

Because when he uses the Voice — that impossible, low timbre threaded with command — your body obeys before your heart can catch up.

Because that’s what you are now: a creature of response, not desire.

He’s never cruel to you. Not really.

He still touches your cheek sometimes like you’re precious. Still looks at you like there’s some version of you he remembers.

But it’s a hollow thing now. A memory of love pretending it’s still alive.

You sit beside him at court, quiet and lovely and always one word away from motion.

The princess sits on his other side — radiant and cold, untouched.

The world sees a golden throne, a perfect empire.

No one sees the ghost sitting just beneath it.

At night, you lie in silk sheets, facing away from him.

Sometimes he speaks your name softly, as if it might still mean something.

Sometimes he doesn’t speak at all.

And on the worst nights — the ones where you almost remember how to want something — he uses the Voice again.

“Stay.”

“Come here.”

“Don’t cry.”

And you don’t.

Because he tells you not to.

And in the morning, you forget that you ever did.

[forsworned]

cw: noncon/dubcon, explicit smexual content, graphic imagery, cum, male masturbation, obsession/possessive behavior, psychological tension, military power imbalance, predatory thoughts

The biting wind has sculpted Simon's black balaclava into a frozen mask, the frost clinging to the knit like tiny, glittering thorn. Even his thick, blonde lashes were dusted with snow making his gaze all the more piercing as he watched you fumble with your gloves. Your fingers, clumsy with cold and a hint of lingering numbness, aimlessly handle the stiff leather. Every movement was a small shivering battle against the arctic air. You were miles from extraction, huddled in a small, almost derelict military outpost - more of a reinforced shack than a true base. The snow outside lay thick and unforgiving, a silent witness to the subtle shift of Simon's gaze. It wasn't quite fixed on your face, not directly. Instead, his dark eyes even in this dim light, roamed over the exposed sliver of your wrist, where the cuff of your glove didn't quite meet your sleeve, as if he were memorizing the delicate pattern of veins beneath your skin.

You shivered, a tremor ran through your lithe fingers as you attempted to unfasten the buttons of your fleece. It was a simple task, but your body felt oddly rebellious, demanding warmth that this paltry layering couldn't provide. If anyone else were present, it would've been glaringly obvious how deeply, overwhelmingly, Simon yearned for you. The almost imperceptible parting of his lips as he examined you - a tiny, involuntary breath - was like the opening of a dam. The way his gaze lingered on the delicate curve of your collarbones, usually hidden beneath the thermal, was a silent declaration of his desire for you. His knuckles clenched at his sides, turned white and smooth as polished marble, moved swiftly to audibly bite down on the metacarpal bone, a small, almost imperceptible sound lost in the wind's low howl outside.

His heart palpitates against his ribs, a wild rhythm against his chest as you continue to impart more of yourself to him, blissfully unaware of the effect you have on him. Each slight movement, each fleeting glimpse of skin was like cruel, tempting torture. The way your breath fogged into the cold are, the soft, almost hesitant way that you moved - it fueled the pyre burning in his lower belly.

"Enough." His voice was a low, abrupt grow that ripped through the soft quietude that settled between you both. He moved suddenly, his gloved hands surprisingly gentle as he zipped up your fleece, the metal teeth scraping against the nylon of your thermal. With a speed that bordered frantic, he then closed up the buttons of your parka, pulling the collar up so the fabric came right under your chin. Your eyes ream, startled by the sudden contact, but his eyes, dark and burning, remained locked on yours. There was something predatory in his gaze now. A look you've never seen on his face before—hunger.

You opened your mouth to speak, to ask what was wrong, to perhaps even taunt , but he turned away, removing himself from the biggest part of the tiny bunker. He couldn't bear to be near you, not in this state, not when the desperate craving was so close to the surface. He felt as though he was suffocating in the air you breathed. He had to escape before doing something rash.

The intoxicating scent of your hair and skin, a delicate, clean fragrance that somehow cut through the harsh, metallic tang of the air, made his mouth water. It was a primitive, animalistic response. He hurried to the only sanctuary he had, the small, dingy bathroom, the furthest spot from your presence. It was the only place he had any semblance of control, confining himself in four small walls, and shutting the door on the temptation that was you.

Being near you was a bewildering, intoxicating mix of heaven and hell. A push and pull between longing and self-preservation that felt like it was crumbling from right under his fingers. He could cope with this suppressed hunger for a few hours, maybe but the prospect of spending the night in the same space, under the same roof, felt like a death sentence. He may as well off himself now.

It wasn't simply enough to lust after you, not anymore. To hold you, caress you, touch you, to run his hands up your arms... no these small affections would not suffice. He wanted to devour you.

To consume you, to make you a part of him. He wanted to take his sweet time, to unravel you slowly, to explore every inch of your being, to exploit every soft space, every soft curve. To take apart piece by piece and put you back together.

The thought of spending the night in the same space left him restless and anxious, but there was no alternative. He would have to endure, maintain his control, and suppress the raging hunger that pulsated through him. He took a deep, steadying breath, and braced himself for the challenge that lay ahead. He surmised that the evening would indeed be long and grueling, but he had no choice. The mission relied on him and he couldn't afford to let this trivial matter compromise everything.

With a huff and determined expression, Simon begrudgingly stepped out of the bathroom, mentally preparing himself for the long, cold night that awaited him. For now, he kept his distance, but the hunger would not be ignored forever. He pushed that meandering thought to the concaves of his mind, forcing a distance between you two.

The evening stretched out before them, and he caught himself staring more often than he should have, lingering on the way your hair cause in the dim light of the bunker, the way your laughter broke through the cold silence like the first thaw of Spring. In those fleeting moments, the world outside felt like it was fading away and the hard-pressed task of your objective seemed more distant than it should. All that mattered was that you were blissfully unaware of the turmoil you stirred within him. It was ripping him apart from the inside out, teetering the edge of sanity and letting the animal within him out.

Finally, as the hours dragged on and the night crept up on them, Simon retreated once more to the bathroom. He sought refuge in the tiny, confined room. It was the only space he felt safe, as the raw craving and desire to consume you clawed at his chest.

Simon fumbles with his tactical pants in a poor to shrug them off, freeing his hardened length out of the death grip of his compressed shorts as he leans against the sink, pumping away. He imagines the soft, pillowy flesh your lips latching themselves to the oozing tip of his angry and swollen tip. One of many fantasies collaging in his mind that pushed the boundaries of his current reality. And with one final pump, he heaves out his orgasm, milking out spurts of cum that haphazardly coats the toilet bowl.

"What a waste." He heaves out, lifting his mask and wiping the sweat that collects at his temple before he flushes it down. For now, it subdues the hunger but it wasn't something that Simon could simply ignore. It would come back like a siren's song, beaconing back to the sea and mindlessly treading into the deep waters that would drown him in you.

As he fastened his pants, his taut fingers lifted to peel back the blinds, and the sweet rays of dawn breaking made his nimble heart rest easy. Oh to be saved by the sun!

Simon's heart should have eased at the sight of dawn breaking over the horizon, but as the golden rays filtered through the frost-lined window, casting their soft light over bulks of snowy evergreens, the tightness in his chest never faded. It was a momentary reprieve. A fragile victory. No matter how many nights like this passed, he knew it would only take one lapse of control. A singular moment between want and need blurred.

And when that moment came, he wouldn't stop.

He stood there for a moment longer, letting the sun's warmth touch his frozen skin. Then, with a steady breath, he turned away from the window, back to the tiny bunker that suddenly felt far too small, and then to you.

Figure splayed out on the couch, so vulnerable, so unaware of the hunger pangs prickling at his loins. He swallowed hard as he approached you, lips parted, drool teeming at the corner of your mouth, and for a split second he envisions himself shoving his tongue down your throat. But it's replaced with the steel-toed tip of his snow boots, gently nudging your foot awake.

You're instantly alert, eyes bright and twinkling in the sun and he has to hold back the sigh that brewing in his throat. A fuckin beauty you were.

"Let's go." He gruffs out.

You cock a brow at his more brusque than usual demeanor. "No 'good morning', Lt?"

He scoffed. It's like you knew.

Simon's dark eyes narrow slightly, his tone hoarse but controlled. "Good mornin' is for the weak." He steps back, boots scraping against the floor. "C'mon, let's get movin'."

[novaursa]

The Silent Pyre

- Summary: It was a rainy night when Blood and Cheese came to deliver you your half-sister’s message; a son for a son.

- Pairing: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N. Aegon and the reader have four children, the oldest son named Aeron, a daughter, Daena, and twin boys, Vaelon and Baelon. These events happen after Twin Fires and before The Fire That Binds Us. For full chronological order of these works visit my blog. The list is pinned on the top. Or, you can read it as a one-shot. Anonymous user inquired about these events, and I've decided to post it and share it with you all, it has been stashed away for too long in my file graveyard.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (no adult content, but there are graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore)

- Word count: 5 133

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The night is heavy with the scent of rain, the coolness of autumn seeping into the stones of the Red Keep. The fire in Helaena’s chamber casts long shadows across the walls, flickering as the wind howls faintly outside. You stand by the door, the weight of your crown pressing down upon you as you gaze at your younger sister. Her pale hair gleams like moonlight as she kneels by her children’s cradle, whispering a soft lullaby. Her voice is a quiet, fragile thing, a melody that seems almost too delicate for the world that surrounds you both.

“Helaena,” you murmur, stepping closer. She lifts her head, her violet eyes distant and unfocused, as though she is seeing something far beyond the chamber walls.

“Y/N,” she replies, a small, distracted smile gracing her lips. “Goodnight. May the Seven bless your dreams.”

“And yours, sister.” You reach out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sleep well.”

With one last glance at her serene face, you turn and leave the room, pulling the door shut softly behind you. The corridor outside is eerily silent, the usual clamor of the servants and guards muted, as if the Keep itself holds its breath.

As you walk through the darkened halls, a sense of unease begins to coil in your chest. The silence feels unnatural, like the calm before a storm. The rain patters against the windows, a steady rhythm that should be soothing, but instead heightens your anxiety. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself, the chill of the stone floors seeping through your slippers.

Your thoughts drift to Aegon, waiting for you in your shared bedchamber. You picture him sprawled across the large bed, his platinum blond hair tousled, perhaps with a goblet of wine in hand. There is comfort in the thought of him, of the warmth of his body against yours, but it does little to dispel the growing dread that gnaws at your insides.

As you approach the nursery, the unease sharpens into fear. You pause, your hand hovering over the door. The sound of something crashing softly from within reaches your ears—a faint, almost imperceptible noise, but enough to send your heart racing. The shadows behind the door shift, moving in ways that shadows should not.

You swallow, forcing down the rising panic. Your children are in there, your precious sons and daughter. Steeling yourself, you push the door open slowly, trying to remain as silent as possible.

The scene before you is one pulled from the darkest of nightmares. The warm, cozy nursery is cast in a pall of terror. Your eyes first find your mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, bound and gagged on the floor, her eyes wide with a terror that you have never seen before. She struggles against her bindings, her muffled cries like the wail of a ghost in the suffocating silence.

But it is the two men in the center of the room who capture your attention—the one holding your eldest son, Aeron, in his arms, a cruel knife pressed to his throat, while the other stands nearby, his presence looming and sinister. Your son is awake, tears streaking down his face, his small body trembling in fear.

“Do not scream,” the man holding your son whispers, his voice low and threatening. “Or the boy dies.”

Your breath catches in your throat, a wave of nausea rising within you as the reality of the situation crashes down. You force yourself to remain calm, to not give in to the terror clawing at your heart.

“What do you want?” you manage to say, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

“Vengeance,” the other man—Cheese, they will call him, from his size and the rat-like cunning in his eyes—replies coldly. “For son's blood has been spilled. Now, it is your blood that must pay.”

You take a step forward, and the knife digs deeper into Aeron’s tender skin, a small whimper escaping his lips. Your entire body tenses, every instinct screaming at you to protect your child, but you are powerless, bound by the threat that hangs over him like a blade.

“Let my son go,” you plead, your voice cracking. “Please. He is but a child.”

Cheese’s grin is twisted, devoid of mercy. “A choice, Your Grace. You must choose one of your sons. Two to live, and one to die.”

The words hit you like a blow, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your knees threaten to buckle beneath you, the world spinning as the horror of what they ask becomes clear. They want you to condemn one of your children to death. To choose between your sons.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I cannot.”

“You must,” the man holding Aeron insists, his voice a menacing growl. “Or we kill them all three.”

You look between your sons, your heart shattering into pieces. Aeron, your eldest, so brave despite his fear, his wide eyes pleading silently for you to save him. And twin boys, Vaelon and Baelon, still asleep in their cribs, blissfully unaware of the nightmare unfolding around them.

Tears blur your vision, the anguish of the choice tearing at your soul. You cannot do this. You cannot be the one to decide who lives and who dies. But their lives, three of them, hang in the balance, and the choice is yours to make.

“Please,” you beg once more, though you know it is futile. “Do not make me choose.”

Cheese steps closer, his breath foul as he leans in. “Choose, Queen Y/N. Or your precious children will all die, and it will be on your head.”

The weight of your crown feels like a curse as you stand there, trembling, the choice before you too terrible to comprehend. Your hands are shaking, your heart breaking, as the words begin to form on your lips, but they can't leave them.

The world narrows to the unbearable choice before you, every second stretching into an eternity. You stand frozen, the screams of your heart drowned out by the silence that has gripped your throat. Aeron, your firstborn, stares at you with wide, tear-filled eyes, pleading for a salvation you know you cannot grant him. And there, in their cribs, laid Vaelon and Baelon, so small, so unaware, their chest rising and falling peacefully with each breath.

It is the smaller and younger twin’s innocence, his lack of awareness, that seals your fate. If he must die, let it be without knowing fear. Let him slip from this world in the safety of his dreams.

Your decision comes not from cruelty, but from a twisted, desperate kind of mercy.

“Vaelon,” you whisper, your voice a broken thing. “Take him.”

The words taste like ash on your tongue, a confession of the darkest sin. The man holding Aeron grins, his eyes alight with a sadistic satisfaction. But even as the choice leaves your lips, a cold realization claws at the back of your mind—this was never meant to end well. They were never going to let Aeron live.

You see it happen almost in slow motion, the knife glinting in the dim light as it draws across your eldest son’s throat. The sound that escapes him is a choked gasp, eyes widening in pain and betrayal as the blood wells and spills down his neck.

“No!” The word tears from your throat as you lunge forward, but it is too late. The man has already sliced deeper, crimson blooming like a terrible flower. Yet, Aeron is not yet gone. The blade catches as the man’s hand slips, and in that moment of weakness, Alicent—your mother—finds her strength.

With a fury you have never seen, she throws herself against the man holding Aeron, her bound body knocking him off balance. He stumbles, the knife digging deeper but freeing your son from his grasp. Aeron falls to the floor, clutching at his bleeding throat, his small hands stained red.

A scream of pure, primal rage rips from your chest as you hurl yourself at the man, the world around you narrowing to a singular purpose: kill him. You grab for the knife, your hands slick with Aeron’s blood, and wrest it from his grasp. The man struggles against you, but your desperation lends you strength. With a wild, desperate thrust, you drive the blade into his side, feeling the give of flesh and bone as it sinks in.

He gasps, a wet, gurgling sound, eyes wide in shock as he stumbles backward, clutching at the wound. You pull the knife free and stab again, and again, each strike fueled by the agony that has consumed you. Blood splatters across your face, warm and sickening, but you do not stop until he falls, lifeless, to the floor.

In the chaos, you do not notice Cheese until it is too late. He has turned his attention to one of the twins, to Vaelon, your youngest, the one you had chosen to condemn. As your daughter, Daena, screams—a piercing, heart-rending sound that echoes through the nursery—Cheese moves swiftly, seizing the smaller boy from his crib.

“No! Please!” you cry out, scrambling to your feet, but your voice is drowned by the sheer panic that has overtaken you. You are too far, too slow. Vaelon’s eyes flutter open, confusion and fear flickering across his tiny face as the knife flashes once more.

And then it is done. The light fades from Vaelon’s eyes as his small body crumples to the floor, lifeless. 

A silence falls over the room, broken only by the sound of your daughter’s sobs, Baelon’s baby gurglings and the ragged breaths of Alicent, who is desperately pressing her hands against Aeron’s wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

“Aeron!” You rush to him, dropping to your knees beside him. His eyes are glazed with pain, his breathing shallow and labored. The wound is deep, but he is alive, clinging to life by the barest thread.

Cheese is panicking now, his eyes darting around the room as if realizing for the first time the gravity of what they have done. The plan, whatever it was, has gone horribly wrong. He looks at the bodies—the man you killed, Vaelon’s small, lifeless form—and he falters, unsure of his next move.

“You will die for this,” you hiss, every word trembling with a deadly promise. “You will not leave this room alive.”

Cheese takes a step back, fear flashing in his eyes, but before he can act, you move. Fueled by a mother’s wrath and the madness of grief, you surge forward, the bloodied knife still clutched in your hand. He tries to fend you off, but he is no match for the fury that drives you. With a wild, savage strike, you plunge the knife into his chest.

He gasps, a final breath escaping his lips as his eyes go wide, then glassy. He collapses to the floor, joining his fallen companion in death.

You stand there, panting, covered in the blood of your children’s murderers, and of your children themselves. Your hands shake as you drop the knife, the sound of it clattering to the floor barely registering in your mind.

“Y/N,” Alicent calls out, her voice trembling. “Aeron needs you.”

You blink, the fog of rage lifting just enough for you to focus on your son. You drop to your knees beside him, your hands finding his, trying to staunch the flow of blood with trembling fingers.

“Stay with me, my love,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “Stay with me. Please.”

Alicent is beside you, pressing her hands down on the wound with all her might. “He’s strong,” she says, though her voice wavers. “He will survive this.”

You nod, though your heart is breaking. You dare not look at Vaelon’s still form, his twin, Baelon, now wide awake in his crib, or at your daughter, Daena, who is now curled into a ball in the corner, sobbing for her brothers. You can only focus on Aeron, on keeping him alive, as the horror of what has happened sinks into your soul.

The night is no longer just cold and rainy; it has become a night of death and despair, one that will haunt you until your last breath. But you will not let it claim Aeron. Not him, too.

And as the dawn begins to break, casting pale light over the carnage, you hold your son close, praying to the Seven to spare him. To spare at least one of your children, as the taste of your own choice, the bitterness of it, poisons your every breath.

Aegon sits in the dim light of your shared bedchamber, his goblet of wine resting lazily in his hand. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls, but the warmth it offers does little to chase away the chill of the autumn night. He sighs, his thoughts drifting to you, knowing that you will join him soon. The bond you share, forged not only by blood but by a deep, consuming love, is one that neither of you can escape, nor would you wish to. Sleep eludes him without you by his side, as it always has since you were children. 

He takes another sip of the wine, waiting for the familiar sound of your footsteps approaching. The thought of the night ahead, of holding you close, offers a comfort that softens the weariness in his bones.

But then, a scream pierces the stillness of the night—a scream that he recognizes instantly as belonging to your daughter. It is followed by your voice, raw with anguish, echoing down the corridors.

The goblet slips from his hand, clattering to the floor as he leaps to his feet. The wine spills across the stone, forgotten as dread seizes him. He knows something is terribly wrong. Without a moment’s hesitation, he rushes to the door, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Your Grace!” one of the Kingsguard calls as they fall into step behind him, but Aegon doesn’t respond. The only thought in his mind is to reach you, to reach his children.

He tears down the hall, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone, until he reaches the nursery. The door is ajar, shadows flickering ominously in the light from the hallway. The scent of copper fills his nostrils before he even crosses the threshold, a scent that chills him to the core.

He bursts into the room, but in his haste, he doesn’t notice the slickness beneath his feet until it’s too late. His foot slips on the blood that pools on the floor, and he stumbles, barely catching himself on the doorframe before he can fall.

For a moment, everything seems to slow. He looks down at the blood smeared across the floor, the vivid red of it stark against the stone. And then he sees the scene before him, a tableau of horror that makes his breath catch in his throat.

Two men lie dead on the floor, their bodies twisted in death, blood oozing from fatal wounds. But it is not them that hold his attention; it is the small, lifeless form of Vaelon, his infant son, lying not far from them, his throat cruelly slit. Aegon’s heart seizes, his vision blurring with tears that he fights to hold back.

“No… no, no…” The words are barely a whisper as he staggers forward, his mind unable to fully comprehend the sight before him.

But there is more—your mother, Alicent, is on the floor, her hands pressed desperately against Aeron’s throat, trying to stem the flow of blood. And there you are, kneeling beside your eldest son, your hands covered in blood, your face a mask of desperation and despair as you try to keep him alive.

“Y/N!” Aegon chokes out your name as he rushes to you, his voice filled with fear and anguish. “What… what happened?”

You look up at him, your eyes red and swollen from crying, and the sight of you breaks something deep within him. “Aegon… they… they killed Vaelon,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “They tried to kill Aeron… we… I couldn’t stop them…”

Aegon falls to his knees beside you, his hands hovering uselessly over Aeron, unsure of what to do. He can see the life fading from his eldest son’s eyes, the pale skin, the way his breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps. Aegon feels a crushing sense of helplessness, something he has never experienced with such intensity before.

“Aeron, my boy… stay with us,” Aegon pleads, his voice thick with emotion as he brushes a trembling hand over Aeron’s hair. “Stay with us, please…”

Alicent looks up at her son, her own eyes filled with tears, though she fights to keep them at bay. “We need to stop the bleeding, Aegon. If we don’t… if we don’t…”

“I know,” Aegon says, though his voice is strangled. He tears a strip of cloth from his sleeve, pressing it to Aeron’s wound with a firm but gentle hand. “Stay with me, Aeron. You’re strong. You can fight this.”

But even as he says the words, he feels the cold dread settle in his chest, knowing that the wound is too deep, that his son’s life is slipping away with every passing moment. 

You lean into Aegon, your body shaking with sobs as you press your bloodstained hands over his, trying to help, trying to do something—anything—to save your child. But the blood keeps coming, seeping through your fingers, staining the floor beneath you.

“Please… please…” you whisper, over and over, your voice breaking with each word. “Don’t take him from us…”

Aegon pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you even as he continues to press down on Aeron’s wound. He can feel your pain, your sorrow, as if it were his own, and in that moment, he knows that this night will haunt both of you for the rest of your lives.

The Kingsguard finally arrive, swords drawn, their faces pale as they take in the scene before them. But there is nothing they can do; the threat is already gone, the deed already done. All they can do is stand there, silent and grim, as the horror of what has happened sinks in.

“Get a maester!” Aegon commands, his voice rising with desperate urgency. “Now!”

One of the guards rushes off without a word, the others standing watch as if expecting another attack, though it is clear that the danger has passed. Aegon looks down at Aeron, his heart breaking as he watches the light in his son’s eyes flicker and fade.

“Stay with us, Aeron,” he whispers again, but the words sound hollow, empty, even to his own ears.

Alicent, her hands still pressed against the wound, glances at you, her eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it seems to swallow the room whole. “Y/N,” she says softly, her voice thick with grief, “he’s… he’s still fighting. But we need to prepare ourselves… we need to…”

“No!” You cry out, shaking your head violently. “No, he’s going to survive. He has to. He’s strong. Please, Aegon, tell her… tell her he’s going to survive.”

Aegon swallows hard, trying to keep the tears at bay as he looks at you, seeing the hope in your eyes, fragile and desperate. “He’s strong,” he agrees, his voice trembling. “He’s a dragon. He’ll survive this.”

But even as he says the words, he knows that they are more for your sake than for his own. He knows the truth, as much as he hates it, as much as it tears at his very soul.

And then, as if in response to your pleas, Aeron’s breathing hitches, a faint, ragged sound that sends a jolt of hope through your heart. But Aegon sees the truth in the way his son’s eyes begin to flutter shut, the way his small body goes limp beneath your hands.

“No, no, stay with us, please…” you sob, your voice breaking completely as you try to shake him awake, as if you can keep him from slipping away just by sheer will alone.

Aegon pulls you closer, holding you tightly against him, his own tears falling freely now. “Y/N… he’s…”

But before he can finish, the maester arrives, pushing his way into the room with a satchel of supplies. He takes one look at Aeron and immediately sets to work, but Aegon can see it in his eyes—the resignation, the grim acceptance of what is to come.

Aegon watches as the maester tries to stem the bleeding, his hands moving quickly, efficiently, but it is clear that he is fighting a losing battle. You cling to Aegon, your tears soaking into his tunic as you watch, your breath catching in your throat every time Aeron’s breathing falters.

Minutes pass, each one stretching into an eternity, until finally, Orwyle pulls back, his face pale and drawn. He looks up at Aegon, then at you, and shakes his head, his expression filled with sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he says quietly. “There’s… there’s nothing more I can do.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and you cry out, your hands trembling as you reach for Aeron, as if you can somehow pull him back from the brink.

“No… no, please, no…” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you cradle your son’s head in your lap, your fingers brushing through his hair.

Aegon feels his heart shatter completely as he watches you, as he sees the light finally fade from Aeron’s eyes, his small body going still in your arms. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but hold you as you break down completely.

The days following the brutal attack on your family pass in a haze of grief and despair. The Red Keep is draped in a suffocating silence, its once lively halls now cold and empty, as though the life has been drained from its very walls. The horror of that night lingers in every corner, every shadow, a constant reminder of the blood that was spilled and the lives that were lost.

Your remaining children, Daena and Baelon, are kept under the strictest watch by the Kingsguard. No less than two knights are stationed outside their chambers at all times, and they are never left alone, not even for a moment. The memory of what happened to their brothers hangs over the nursery like a dark cloud, and every sound, every creak of the floorboards, sends a fresh wave of terror through the household.

But it is you, their mother, who is most affected. The grief has hollowed you out, leaving you a mere shadow of the woman you once were. You spend your days in a state of numbness, your heart shattered beyond repair. Nothing and no one can console you, not even Aegon, who tries desperately to reach you, to bring you back from the edge of the abyss into which you have fallen. But his attempts are in vain. You are inconsolable, broken beyond words.

Aegon himself is a man consumed by fury. The fire of his rage burns hotter with each passing day, fueled by the sheer injustice of what has happened. He holds a small council meeting in the dead of night, summoning only those he trusts—or at least, those whose loyalties he can control.

In the dimly lit council chamber, Aegon sits at the head of the table, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles are white. His eyes are bloodshot, his face drawn and pale from lack of sleep. The tension in the room is palpable, every man present feeling the weight of the King’s anger pressing down on them like a physical force.

Around the table sit Otto Hightower, his face a mask of stern concern; Ser Criston Cole, his expression grim and unyielding; Lord Larys Strong, who watches the proceedings with his usual calculating gaze; Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, his fingers tapping nervously on the table; Lord Tayland Lannister, the Master of Ships, who remains unusually quiet; and Grand Maester Orwyle, who sits with his hands folded, his eyes downcast.

Aegon’s voice breaks the silence, a low, seething growl that sends a shiver down the spine of everyone in the room. “How did this happen?” he demands, his eyes blazing with fury as he looks from one man to the next. “How did two men infiltrate the heart of the Red Keep, murder my sons, and nearly take the life of my other children without anyone knowing? Where were the guards? Where was the protection I was promised?”

Otto is the first to speak, his voice calm but firm. “Your Grace, we are all grieved by this tragedy, but rest assured, we are investigating every possible lead. The guards who were on duty that night have been questioned, and those found negligent will be dealt with severely.”

“Dealt with severely?” Aegon echoes, his voice rising with incredulity. “My sons are dead, and you speak of discipline as if that can undo what has been done! This was not just negligence—this was treason, betrayal of the highest order!”

Ser Criston Cole, ever the loyal sword, speaks next, his tone as hard as steel. “Your Grace, the Kingsguard were stationed as ordered, but the enemy was cunning. They knew exactly where to strike, and when. We are searching for any who might have aided them from within the Keep.”

Aegon glares at him, his anger still simmering. “You should have been there, Ser Criston. You should have been protecting my family, as you swore to do.”

Criston bows his head, accepting the rebuke without argument. “I failed you, my king, and I will bear that burden until the day I die.”

Larys Strong, who has remained silent until now, leans forward slightly, his voice smooth and unhurried as he speaks. “Your Grace, the men who did this were not acting alone. This attack was meticulously planned, designed to strike at the heart of your family and weaken your claim. There is but one who stands to gain the most from such an act of terror.”

Aegon’s eyes narrow as he fixes his gaze on Larys. “Speak plainly, Lord Strong. Who do you accuse?”

Larys meets Aegon’s gaze without flinching, his voice carrying a weight of certainty. “Rhaenyra Targaryen, and her husband, Daemon. They are the ones behind this atrocity. They seek to undermine your rule, to sow chaos and discord within the realm, so that Rhaenyra might usurp your throne.”

Aegon’s breath hitches at the mention of his half-sister’s name. His hatred for her is no secret, but to hear that she might be responsible for the deaths of his sons sends a fresh wave of fury coursing through him. “You have proof of this?” he demands, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

Larys inclines his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “The men who committed the murders—the butcher and the rat catcher—are known associates of Daemon Targaryen. They were hired by him to carry out this heinous act. The gold they were paid with was traced back to Rhaenyra’s supporters in King’s Landing. This was not just an act of violence—it was a message. Response to the death of Lucerys Velaryon by the hand of Prince Aemond.”

Aegon’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into the wood of the table. “A message? They dare to send me a message by murdering my sons? Two innocent boys?”

“Yes,” Larys replies, his voice as cold as ice. “They wish to show that you are vulnerable, that your rule can be challenged. They wish to provoke you into rash action, to draw you into a conflict that will weaken your position.”

“Rash action?” Aegon scoffs, his anger flaring anew. “They think they can provoke me? They think I will sit idly by while they murder my children?”

“Your Grace,” Otto interjects, his voice measured. “We must be careful. If we move too quickly, without proof, we risk turning the realm against us. Rhaenyra still has many supporters. We must gather our strength, consolidate our power, and then strike when the time is right.”

But Aegon is beyond reason, his grief and rage too great to be tempered by caution. “I will not wait!” he snarls, slamming his fist on the table. “They have taken from me what I hold most dear, and I will make them pay for it, tenfold! If Rhaenyra wants war, then war she shall have!”

The council members exchange uneasy glances, each man aware of the storm that is about to be unleashed. Aegon’s wrath is a dangerous thing, and they know that nothing they say will dissuade him from the course he has set.

Grand Maester Orwyle finally speaks, his voice soft but insistent. “Your Grace, the lives of your remaining children—Princess Daena and Prince Baelon—must be your foremost concern. They are the future of your house, and they must be protected at all costs.”

Aegon’s expression softens slightly at the mention of his children, the thought of them momentarily piercing through the fog of his anger. He knows that Orwyle is right, that the safety of Daena and Baelon is paramount. But even this knowledge cannot quell the burning desire for vengeance that has taken root in his heart.

“I will protect them,” he says, his voice hardening once more. “But I will not allow this attack to go unanswered. Rhaenyra and Daemon will know the price of crossing me.”

Otto inclines his head, understanding that there is no turning back now. “Then we must prepare for war, Your Grace. We must rally our banners, secure our allies, and strike swiftly and decisively.”

Aegon nods, his jaw set with determination. “Do it. Call the banners, prepare the dragons. We will bring fire and blood to those who dare to defy us.”

The council members rise from their seats, each man knowing that the decisions made this night will plunge the realm into chaos. As they leave the chamber, Aegon remains behind, staring at the bloodstained map of Westeros spread out before him. His thoughts drift to you, to the shattered look in your eyes, to the bodies of his sons lying cold in their graves.

He swears to himself, to the gods, and to the memory of his murdered children that he will not rest until Rhaenyra and Daemon are brought to justice. No matter the cost, no matter the blood that must be spilled, he will have his revenge.

And so, the storm begins to gather, the winds of war stirring in the darkness of the Red Keep.

[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 📼 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒏' 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔,

synopsis. jensen's been great since day one. you're co-stars. lovers on the screen. friends in real life. but how easy is it to blur the lines?

in this part... a storm traps everyone on set late. the power goes out and you and jensen end up getting cozy.

pairing. jensen ackles x actress!reader ﹢ just pure soft fluff and giggles

wordcount. 869

warnings. just the overall danger of having jensen ackles as a co-star and him doing his dean voice .ᐟ

The rain starts around 6 PM. A slow, lazy drizzle that taps against the studio windows like an afterthought. By 7, it's a full-on downpour, rattling the roof and flooding the parking lot until production reluctantly calls it a night. The problem? Half the crew is stuck, trailers wobbling under the wind, and your car—like everyone else’s—is trapped behind a rapidly growing lake where the lot used to be.

So here you are. Trapped in the dimly lit soundstage with a handful of other cast and crew, waiting out the worst of it.

And Jensen.

Which, objectively, is fine. You’ve been working with him for a couple of years now, playing opposite him on Supernatural. You’re professionals. Friends. Costars. It’s normal to sit next to him on the worn-out set couch, his presence warm beside you, his cologne lingering even after a long day.

It’s fine.

Until the power cuts out.

The studio plunges into darkness with a deep mechanical thunk, and for a moment, the only sounds are rain hammering the roof and a collective groan from the crew.

“Well, that’s just perfect,” Jensen mutters, somewhere to your left. There’s a rustling noise—probably him digging out his phone—before a small beam of light flicks on, illuminating his face from below.

“Great,” you deadpan. “Now you look like a campfire ghost story guy.”

Jensen wiggles his fingers ominously. “OooOOooOO.”

You snort, and he grins.

Someone a few feet away calls out, “Gotta conserve phone batteries! Anyone got a flashlight that’s not running on 20%?”

“Yeah, actually—” You fumble through your bag, pulling out the small, heavy-duty flashlight you always keep on hand for late-night script readings. Clicking it on, the beam slices through the dark, much brighter than any phone screen. A few crew members cheer.

Jensen nudges you with his knee. “Look at you, all prepared.”

You shrug. “What can I say? I’m a professional.”

The warmth of his chuckle settles in your stomach, cozy and dangerous all at once.

By the time someone finds an old stack of blankets from wardrobe, you and Jensen are firmly settled on the couch, the flashlight propped between you. Outside, the rain has softened to a gentle drumming, but the wind is still howling like something out of a horror movie.

“Alright,” Jensen announces, dramatically shaking out a blanket. “We’ve reached the ‘huddling for warmth’ portion of the evening.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can argue, he’s already draped half of it over you. The warmth is instant, his body heat seeping through the thick fabric.

Yeah. This is fine. Totally normal.

“Since we’re stuck here,” he muses, picking up a script from the table, “wanna run lines?”

Your stomach flips. You should say no. Should remind yourself that hearing him slip into Dean’s voice while you’re wrapped in the same damn blanket is dangerous territory.

Instead, you nod.

The flashlight casts just enough of a glow over the script as he skims it. His voice is casual at first—just Jensen, reading aloud—but then something shifts.

He’s acting now.

“You think this is funny?” Dean’s voice, low and edged with something sharp, fills the space between you. The weight of it presses against your ribs, as tangible as the storm outside.

Your throat goes dry. “I—”

Jensen looks up, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Right. Your line.

You swallow, refocusing, and force the words out. “I think you’re scared to feel anything real.”

The tension in the script bleeds into the air around you. Jensen holds your gaze, his jaw ticking like Dean’s does when he’s trying not to say too much.

You can’t breathe.

It’s ridiculous. This is your job. You do this every day. But sitting this close, under the blanket, your knee pressed against his, his voice curling around the words like they’re meant just for you—

Yeah. You’re not surviving this night unaffected.

Jensen leans back suddenly, breaking the spell with an easy grin. “Damn, we’re good.”

You laugh, too high-pitched. “Yeah. Totally.”

He shifts, just a little, and the blanket tugs tighter around your shoulders. The air between you feels charged, crackling like the storm outside.

Jensen clears his throat. “Y’know, you’re really good at this.”

Your heart stumbles. “At what?”

He gestures vaguely. “The whole… acting thing.” His voice is softer now, more him. “You make it easy to—” He stops, hesitates, then shrugs. “—get lost in it.”

You’re pretty sure he’s not just talking about the scene.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of the blanket. “Right back at you.”

There’s a moment—a moment—where it feels like something’s about to happen. Where the space between you is too small, and the weight of his attention is too heavy, and maybe, maybe—

A loud crash from the other side of the room makes you both jump. Someone yelps. The spell is broken.

Jensen huffs a laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus. Almost forgot we’re not the only ones here.”

You force yourself to smile. “Yeah. Wild night.”

The rain outside starts to slow, the power flickers back on, and just like that, the moment is gone.

But the way Jensen looks at you under the blanket glow?

Yeah. This night definitely changed something.

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