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peoniesnro · 1 day ago

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Perfect Partner | Sequel 2.1

Synopsis - You find you have no one to turn to except, Jeon Jungkook!!

Paring- Jeon Jungkook × Reader

Genre- Yandere | Dark Romance

Warnings- Yandere (Mentions of kidnapping/ Emotional manipulation/ Toxic and unhealthy love/ Obsessive Love/ Threats against loved once/ Forced Intimacy/ Abusive behavior/ Controlling behavior/ Power play/ Jeon is the same sweet asshole/ Unhealthy coping mechanisms/ Reader is broken/ Possesiveness/ Hope I haven't missed anything) SMUT (Making out/ Finger suckings (Palm too)/ Dry humping/ Humiliation/ Begging/ Groping/ Heavy degradation/ Dirty talking/ Unprotected sex/ Rough sex/ Multiple orgasms/ Begging for cum/ Chocking/ Creampie/ Shower sex/ Threats during sex/ Crying during sex/ Daddy kink!!/ Sex tapes/ Mentions of bondage, shoe ridings/ Again I hope I missed none) Please remember this is yandere!!!

Word count- 18.7K

a/n- Hello there babies!!!! My apologies for splitting the sequel into two parts but I had to considering this was getting too long (we have 18K words already). If I contniued to write untill the end, I'd have ended up writing 50K words and we all would've be in our sixties by the time I uploaded it. So,bear with me while I first upload this one and let's wait for the next one. Also, in this one I paid more attention to SMUT (like half of this is smut), so it might looks like nothing is happening. But I promise, the sereis will end with the next part. (Let's hope Daebi gets what she deserves!) Thank you so much for reading and the support you've shown. I love you all sosososososooo much ❤️.

RUNRUNRUN

This is the second sequel, read the first part here -

Perfect Partner

Coffee?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You open your heavy eyelids, feeling as if they are glued. Every inch of your body is sore. Head throbbing. Unmistakable signs of heavy crying in the previous night. You wince in pain as the bright sunlight leaking through the ashy curtains strikes your eyes. You groan softly as you try to move your body,only to realize you can’t. That’s when you realize that you’re not even in bed. In fact, you can see the empty spacious bed right across you.

You’re sitting upright. A soft gasp escapes you. Memories of the previous night slowly start to flood your mind.

The call.

Jungkook.

The video.

Daebi.

Hoseok.

And your little breakdown!

The last thing you can remember is you crying ugly into Jungkook’s oversized t-shirt. His words which didn’t quite reach your ears. His soft kisses on your hair. And his arms that were safely wrapped around your petite figure. The very same arms still wrapped around you.

You’re still in his lap.

Still in the same position where you sobbed like a grieving widow. Your head pressed against his chest. One of your hands is still clutching the fabric of his t-shirt tightly, curled up like a wounded puppy. Jungkook’s cheek is propped up on your head. And judging by the way his chest heaves ever so gently, you know he is asleep. He has fallen asleep while keeping you on his lap. For the entire night. The realization almost makes you feel bad. Almost though. Because no matter what, he is still your kidnapper and waking up in his arms it doesn’t bring comfort.

Absolutely not!

It sends a chill down your spine. You need to get away from him. It was a moment of weakness that you had the previous night. You were heartbroken. Devastated. It was unbearable pain that you endured. It pained you more than how it pained you the day Hoseok told you that he needs to break up. That he’s in love with someone else. Having your boyfriend cheated on you was another thing. But the woman who he cheated with to be your best friend? That’s a completely new territory of pain.

Then she helped this lunatic to get you into this situation? The thought alone makes you want to laugh aloud. How crazy is that? How pathetic is your life?

You ran to Daebi when Hoseok broke up with you. And she had you crying on her shoulder while she was the reason for your tears. She trashed Hoseok like she genuinely despised him with her guts. She got wasted with you on your hardest nights. Only for everything to turn into a lie. One blatant lie.

It’s humiliating when you think about those moments now. How oblivious you’ve been. Hell, you even ran to her when the AI Jungkook started to scare the shit out of you. AOnce again, you ran to the very person behind it all.

Will there be anything harsher that can happen in your life? You don’t think so. So, of course, you were hysterical last night. And this motherfucker, who thought he had the right to drag your already pitiful, pathetic life even lower- had taken advantage of the situation. You would’ve never allowed him to even lay a finger on you if it wasn’t the pain that numbed you of the other senses.

You wish you could just storm away from his hold. Scream at him. Let all your pain, anger and frustration out on him. The thing is though, despite everything, he is still the same Jungkook who managed to get you here. The same man who looks at you with a crazed look in his eyes whenever you act stubborn. And unfortunately, you are still the same person you were yesterday. Broken. Weak. Scared. Trapped. You are still afraid of this man. Very. Hence your weak attempt of stretching your body slowly. Trying to pry his arms away without waking him. You just want to get out of his hold.

It doesn’t work. Just as you try to move an arm, his grip tightens around you. A soft whimper escapes him as he rubs his cheek against your hair. “No..” He breathes. A quick kiss to the top of your head follows that. You freeze. “Five more minutes please…” He adds again. Voice soft and hoarse and his words are nothing but a quiet murmur. There was a time that the same hoarse voice in the morning had made you blush violently. Made you excited. Made your pussy clench around nothing. And you would like nothing more than to say that it doesn’t do anything like that to you anymore. Nothing even closer. Then why are you clutching his shirt like your life depends on it? Then why does your breath catch up in your throat, that way?

Well, it’s because you are scared. Right? Especially, after what you did yesterday, you have all the reasons to be scared. What if he decided to lock you up in a room? What if he decided to chain you to a wall? What if-

“You hungry?” JungKook brings a hand to push back your hair from your face. Doesn’t take his hand right away. He starts to gently massage your scalp. His voice is still sleepy. His movements are deliberate. “Hm? Pretty?” He questions again in your silence.

“How?” You don’t answer his question. Instead you throw another one at him.

“How, what?” He still doesn’t loosen his grip. Not even a little bit. Keeps you pressed against his body.

“How come you have that v-video?” You manage to get your words out without breaking down. A pang shoots across your chest. You’ll never get over that. No.

“I just happened to have it.” He answers vaguely, much for your displeasure. Yet you decide not to question further about the matter. You change the course instead.

“How lon-” This time your voice cracks up. New lump forming in your throat. It pains you. Even the memory of it pains you as if you’re physically bleeding. Even though hours have passed, the pain returns to you fresh. Just like how it was the first time you saw the video. “L-long?” You clutch Jungkook’s t-shirt even tighter, looking for strength from a piece of fabric. “Ho-how long have they-”

“Longer than you think.” JungKook answers you, saving you the misery of having to ask it aloud. “It doesn’t matter, princess. It’s all in the past now. You need to let that go, you know. They don’t deserve you. You deserve much better. They can fuck off.” He finally loosens his grip a little bit. Just enough for him to bring his hand which was in your hair to your chin, and lift your face up. You just let him. He gazes deeply into your eyes. His eyes glowing golden in the morning light. “They aren't worth your time.” Smiles at you softly.

Easy for him to say. It wasn’t him who had been madly in love with the same person half of his life. It wasn’t him who trusted someone so badly that the very obvious signs have become obscure. You bite into your bottom lip to stop the trembling. To stop the sting in your eyes. You are exhausted. Can’t survive another crying session.

“Hey, hey!” Jungkook sighs. “Don’t cry please. I swear, I didn’t want to hurt you, baby. But you weren’t trusting me enough to know that I’m not the bad guy. You were thinking that bitch of a friend of yours could do any good to you. I had to make you see things clearly. I’m so sorry that it hurts. But I’ll make it okay, yeah? I’ll make sure you’re okay. Don’t cry now. Hate seeing you cry.” He rests his forehead against you. You hate to be so close to him. You’re tired, however. So, you give up. Just focus on trying not to cry. Focus on pretending that his presence actually calms you down.

It’s all because you’re heart broken. Once you’re healed, you’ll never feel comfort in him again. Then, you don’t plan on living this life for that long anyway. It’s not like you got much to lose at this rate. And, besides getting out of this luxurious prison, now you have a confrontation to do. You have to meet Daebi and Hoseok. You have to slap Hoseok hard across his face.

You have to call Daebi a ‘bitch’ to her face.

…………………

You eye your breakfast wearily. Even the sight of the delicious- looking pancakes makes your stomach churn awfully. You have no appetite at all. Jungkook, however, never was a fan of you skipping meals. He’s annoying. Too freaking annoying. All you want is to fall deeper into the hole of misery. Just sulk. Be alone with the pain. Such a shame that you’re not allowed to make even simple decisions for yourself.

It’s ridiculous really. Jungkook hasn’t done anything bad. He’s been nothing but kind to you. Caring. Ever so gentle. Loving. Warm. But you’re still afraid. Maybe that fear is deeply rooted somewhere in your brain. With no way of escaping. Maybe it’s because you’ve experienced how much he can change when it’s needed. How he’s turned into a monster when things aren’t going in his way. He might not have done anything bad yet but deep down you know he will, if he wants that.

So, of course you slightly flinch in your seat when Jungkook suddenly sighs. You know exactly what is coming even before Jungkook opens his mouth. That’s why you instantly dig your fork into the soft pancakes. But then he surprises you with his words.

“You loved him that much? You loved him so bad that it still hurts you? After all this time? It’s been years, isn’t it?”

Yes!

That’s the simple and direct answer. You don’t say it aloud, however. See, the fear. Jungkook will not appreciate that answer.

“Why?” Jungkook asks again. You don’t look at him. Just keep picking at your food. Trying not to think too hard about his question because it’ll surely make you cry again.

Why? He asks. You can come up with a list. You know you can but you don’t want to. Jungkook grabs the stool next to you. It screeches against the floor, making you flinch.

“Tell me, baby? What does that motherfucker have that I don’t?” He bends down in an attempt to look at your eyes. You don’t avoid his eyes nor do you look at them. He won’t like the answers if you tell him. For a start, you would like to bring up the fact that Hoseok hadn’t kidnapped you. How he hadn’t created a damn app to traumatise you. But Jungkook won’t like those answers. Besides, it’s not like you’ve hurt completely because of love. No. You are hurt about many things. You loved Hoseok, yes. Maybe you still do. The thing is, though, you’ve come to the conclusion that he’s a cheater a long time ago. And you’ve been loving him less each day ever since. This is not about that. No. This is about trust and betrayal.

“I don’t love him anymore.” You simply mumble before stuffing your mouth with a forkful of pancakes. Jungkook scoffs.

“Yes, but you did.”

“People make mistakes. It’s just past.”

“Yeah? Then why are you sulking? Why is my pretty girl’s eyes all bloodshot and why does she look so tired?”

You put the stupid fork down. It looks like you will have no way of escaping this conversation. “I hate them,” You exhale. Close your eyes. “I hate them and I hate myself. I hate you. I hate how I trusted them ever so easily. I hate that I trusted you. I hate how much of a stupid, pathetic loser I am. I fucking hate my life.” You blurt out before you can even process. Just as the last word leaves your mouth you feel insanely calmed. As if you’ve put down a heavy burden you’ve been carrying around. Just for a minute, however. In the next minute, your face is caught between Jungkook’s rough fingers. He turns your face toward him. That strangely soft and warm look he had in his eyes all this morning has vanished. In its place now is that madness. The look you fear so much. It’s just like the time you told him that he’s sick and he didn’t love you. He’s staring you down just like he did that day. You gulp harshly. A shiver runs down your spine.

Jungkook brings his face closer to you. Close enough until you can feel the tip of his nose nudging against yours. “You,” he grits. “Can hate them all you want. That is what the bastards deserve. And baby,” he squeezes your cheeks hard. Hard that it hurts you. “You can hate me too. Because like I said, you will learn to love me one day. But,” he pauses for a moment. “Don’t ever fucking say you hate yourself. You hear me?” Questions. “Do you?” Shakes your head. “Do not ever fucking talk bad about you.”

All you can do is stare back at him. Wanting badly to glare. Wanting badly to scream. He controls everything in your life. From what you eat to what you wear. Now he wants to control your thoughts as well? You’re already physically trapped. He wants you to be mentally trapped as well?

“I can do whatever I want.” You spit back. God, you wanted to sound as how you feel. Angry. Spiteful. Powerful. But the way you say it is completely the opposite. You sound weaker than ever. Instead of a statement it sounds like a question. And all that it does is make your eyes well up. How helpless you are.

“No.” Jungkook shakes his head. “No you can’t, Pretty. Because, guess what? You are fucking mine and I don’t like when people talk bad about what’s mine. Even you yourself.” He lets go of your face. Just to pick up the fork. You stay motionless as he takes a piece of pancake in it and brings it to your mouth. “Now just eat like a good girl.”

You turn your gaze away. Oh, the way you want to throw a tantrum. The way you want to stand up for yourself. “I’m not hungry.” You use your palms to wipe away the unshed tears from your eyes. Jungkook exhales in frustration.

“If you want revenge, I can make that happen, you know. I can avenge you.” He drops the fork without any further fuss, which surprises you. Yet again. But that’s not what makes you snap your head toward him back. He’s controlling everything. And you’re too weak to change that. But… But this is something you’ll never want. You don’t know if you want revenge. Maybe. Maybe not. All you know is that you want a chance for a confrontation. You want to scream at Hoseok. Then above everything, you want Jungkook to stay away. He won’t rob you of your chance for salvation.

“No!” You gasp. “No Jungkook,” Finally, you manage to glare at him. “I’ll never forgive you if you lay a finger on one of them. I’ll hate you to my grave and I promise you, you’ll never see the day I’ll become yours.” You don’t say the part where you’ll never be his either way. Following your words a heavy silence falls. A deafening silence. Just the gentle sound of the heater filling the air. And Jungkook’s glare.

You expect him to get mad. Expect him to threaten you with something bad. Yet it seems, this day is full of surprises. He does nothing sort of that. Simply gets to his feet. Waste no time as he rounds the kitchen island and walks past you toward the doorway. Almost leaves you to be. That’s when you suddenly burst out another question. Or a request. You don’t know where it came from.

“I just want to meet them.” Your voice makes Jungkook halts in his track. A soft yet bitter chuckle escapes him.

“Not a fucking chance.” He informs you before leaving this time for real.

Of course. Who were you kidding?

………………….

You haven’t seen Jungkook all day. Mainly because you've been holed up inside your (his) room. Just after your little but not- so- civil chat in the morning, you stormed into your room. Have spent the entire day in bed. Just like you wanted. Morphing. Sulking. Reminiscing. Going through your memories, looking for signs and clues that you must’ve missed. Completely drowning in your misery.

And Jungkook hasn’t even poked his head in. Not even once, which is very unlike him. He never does that. Never allows you to be alone for more than five minutes unless it’s really necessary. Like when you are in the bathroom or he is. He would always breathe down your neck. Not giving you any chances to try anything funny. Or he just wants to be around you. Even though you don’t talk to him let alone entertain him.

Then there is the fact that he hasn’t been worried about your meals today. Sometimes, he acts like your father. Always making sure you eat well. Not today. You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday and there is no Jungkook to nag you about it.

You find that awfully weird. Odd. Even your insides churn. It’s nearing midnight now and the entire apartment is in eerie silence. You sit back on Jungkook’s bed, letting the dark grey silk sheets fall across your body.

When you first realized that Jungkook wasn't going to come and bother you, you were happy. Grateful. It was exactly what you wanted — a moment alone. You expected you’d feel better. At peace. Because you hate Jungkook’s ever- looming presence. This was the day you’ve been dreaming about ever since you woke up in this apartment next to Jungkook. The thing is, however, you feel neither. You feel worse to be honest. Feel anxious. So fucking restless. If you're being honest with yourself, all this time, you’ve been waiting for Jungkook to barge inside the room. You were expecting him. When he didn’t it had put you on edge. Now you can no longer just sit back and wait.

You remove the sheets as you place your trembling feet on the warm carpeted floor. This is truly maddening. How Jungkook is affecting you, even when he is not around. You don’t like this silence. It’s unsettling. You don’t want Jungkook, but at the same time you want him. At least you’ll know he’s not planning to kill you or something when you have eyes on him. Right? That’s why you feel like you’re losing your mind. That’s the only reason you step out of the room and walk toward the living room in silence. That’s exactly why a breath of relief escapes your lips when you spot the said man sprawled on the couch.

The TV is on. Muted. Luminous colors of the screen are flashing across Jungkook’s face. His eyes are deeply fixed on the screen. You can only see the side of his face. Chiseled jaw. Prominent nose. Glinting eyes. Pink pretty lips. His lip ring glistens in various colors. His hair has turned purple since the person on the screen is standing in a purple background. He is ethereal, isn’t he? Simply not human. Can’t be human. Oh, you hate him. Hate how good looking he is.

Jungkook turns his head slowly, obviously sensing your presence. Or he must’ve heard you approaching. His eyes meet yours. They are still not soft. Still angry. Still stiff. You stay that way for a long minute. Then you turn around. Fast. Making a beeline for the kitchen.

……………………….

Despite feeling very anxious and restless without your captor around, the other major reason that forced you out of the comfy bed sheets was hunger. It doesn’t matter how stubborn, rebellious, and alone you want to be, in the end, you’re just a human who needs fuel to function. An entire day without food isn’t serving you well. Your stomach is grumbling. And you feel weak.

You scan your eyes around the now familiar kitchen. Clean and tidy. Spotless. Jungkook is the tidiest person you’ve ever seen. Yet today it seems like no one has used the kitchen at all. It’s funny how you’ve never cooked anything in this kitchen. It was always Jungkook who cooked for you. Now, after all this time, it feels ridiculous to even think about making your own food. Besides, it's not as if you want to cook in this place anyway. It makes it oddly homey. When you start to cook in a place it means you are going to stay there for a long time. Not just a couple days like at a hotel. But in a place where you’d come back every evening. No. You don’t want that at all. You’ll never get used to living in this prison.

Your body, however, doesn’t care what you want or not. Another growl erupts from your tummy. It’s getting unbearable. Like you are starting to eat yourself from the inside out. Maybe you can eat cup noodles. That’s not similar to cooking, right? All you have to do is boil some water. You give yourself a tiny nod before turning toward the pantry where you know noodles are.

“Are you hungry?”

A loud scream leaves your throat as you turn back at light speed. Almost lose your balance at how startled you are. Jungkook just stands in the doorway, completely unphased at the fact that you lost your shit because of him. You clutch your chest with both your hands, scowling at the man in front of you. He and his damn sleazy movements.

“Want me to order something?” Instead of any apology for startling you, Jungkook fishes out his phone. “What do you want?” Asks again when he has the device on his hand. You take a minute, gaping at his face. Even the sound of that makes your mouth salivate. Yet you shake your head. You don’t want to look even weaker in his eyes. Someone who’s incapable of anything. How shameful that you have to seek him for every little thing.

“I’m not hung-” You start to refuse his offer just to get cut off when he suddenly closes the distance between you. Two long strides and your feet are touching.

“For fucks sake, (___), don’t fucking make me the bad guy.” He barks. “Don’t make me force things on you. I,” He pauses for a long breath. When he speaks next his voice drops an octave lower. “Really hate it when you’re freaking stupid to see things clearly. And I’ll hate it even more if I have to fucking knock some sense into you.” His eyes bore into yours without even blinking. You feel your heart skip a beat before starting to go mad. Even your stomach churns awfully. You wouldn’t have been able to hide the shaky breath you let out even if you tried to. Fear rises up in your throat in the form of bile, even when you haven’t had anything in your system. “Don’t make me do things that both of us will regret.” Jungkook adds lastly. Doesn’t step away from you. Just keeps his ground, clearly expecting you to answer. You don’t know what the answer he’s looking for. Yet you answer with another question. Your voice is quiet and meek.

“What are you going to do Jungkook? Hit me? Kill me?” You bite back the tremble in your voice with much struggle. Jungkook looks at you for a second like he’s surprised, then he shakes his head.

“You? Never. But I can certainly make everyone else in this world suffer. You don’t even have a single idea about what I'll do for you baby. Even for simple things. You refuse to eat? Lemme just make you want to eat.” He finally steps back. Scrolls through his phone and then turns it around to show you the screen. A picture. Photo. Of someone who’s dearly familiar to you. Hair dyed in silver and an earring on one ear. Smiling to someone hidden from the camera.

Park Jimin!

You gasp aloud. That picture looks new. Last time you saw him, he had black hair. Park Jimin is someone who’d dye his hair a new color every month but you haven’t seen him with silver hair before. You know it’s a new picture.

Did Jungkook take it?

Does he know Jimin as well?

Did someone else take the picture and send it to Jungkook?

Why is he showing you this now? Is he threatening you?

Your eyes dart between the screen and Jungkook’s face. Jungkook smiles softly. “You won’t want me to just make any of your loved ones hurt now, will you?” He locks the device. You watch as your friend’s image disappears. “Because, I will, pretty. I fucking will.” He pockets the device back again. You feel nauseous. There’s a sickening joy in Jungkook’s voice.

“Y-you- you wouldn’t.” You stare at him. That smile on his lips never even falters.

“Oh, but I will.”

“I told you, if-if you ever lay a finger on anyoneー”

“Do you think I’d just listen to you threaten me? Pretty…” Jungkook clicks his tongue in displeasure. “You are already here, aren’t you? You are already mine. You might not want to acknowledge it yet but you. Are. mine. And I know you’ll come to admit it sooner or later andー” He taps the pocket where he just put his phone. “Meanwhile, we can play it easy or hard.”

“But why- why Jimin? He never did anything wrong to you.” You hastily take a step forward. To be honest, you have no idea of what this man is capable of doing. Not all of it at least. He kidnapped you, yes. He’s sick in the head, yes. But that might not be all he has. He can be even more ruthless. He can be capable of murder even. You need to make sure that isn’t the case.

“But he did.” Jungkook smirks. “He fucking did. If I have to make him suffer, I have all the reasons to do so. Just because I haven’t done anything, that doesn’t mean I can’t, baby. The only reason why I haven’t done anything to anyone, yet,” He brings a hand up. Grabs a loose strand of your hair between his fingers. Plays with it. “is because you are too precious to me. I mean it when I said I don’t want to hurt you, Pretty. But don’t test my patience too much.” His eyes go from that stiffness to softer like a flicker of a switch. So does his daunting smirk. Instead, he smiles at you gently again as he pushes that strand of hair behind your ear. Gently. His fingers grazing over your ear and face ever so lightly. Then he drags those fingers over the side of your neck. And a shiver runs down your spine electrocuting your whole body. You tremble visibly, your breath tangling in your throat.

It’s fear, right? It’s just fear.

“Now, you're a big girl. It’s ridiculous that I have to threaten to take away your toys to make you eat.” Jungkook takes his hand back. Just as his touch disappears you feel insanely cold. Hollow. A longing stirs your insides.

It’s just the fear. You’re awfully scared of him. That’s it.

He just threatened you with your friends’ life after all. You don’t know what Jimin ever did to Jungkook. Jungkook sure does hate Hoseok because he is your ex. Then you know Jungkook hates him because he hurt you as well. Just like he hates Daebi despite her role in getting you in his hold. Then maybe… Could it be the same reason he hates Jimin? Can it be that Jimin knew too. He knew about Daebi and Hoseok. What if he knew about your kidnapping as well? What about Nina? Did they all know about what was going to happen to you and turn a blind eye?

You feel your heart clenches painfully at the thought. There’s a huge chance that it might be the case. Yet still, you don’t think any of their misery would bring you any satisfaction. No. Revenge is a strange word for you. All you want is a chance for a confrontation, which you know you might not have. Unless you work for it, of course. And after everything, you want all of them to be in a position where you can talk to them. So, you fear Jungkook without a doubt. Yes. This is all about that.

“I’m ordering Samgyeopsal.” Jungkook informs you, voice sharp.

You just nod.

…………………..

The midnight dinner had passed in utter silence where you watched a crappy late-night reality show. It was a very uncomfortable hour where you sat idly next to Jungkook, your mind screaming with unasked questions. You wanted to know. Wanted to ask. How did he know Jimin? Was it just like you thought? How did he know Daebi? When did they meet? Lots and lots of things. In the end, however, you asked nothing. Simply because you feared the answers. And after that hour, you decided it was enough. That it was time to crawl inside your room back again.

See now, while you spent an entire day starving yourself, you at least hoped to come up with a plan. A plan that is meticulous enough to free you from this shithole. But you managed nothing close to that. All you did was cry, being depressed, then anxious. Now, just as you close the door behind you and stand in the darkness, you know you’re about to do the same thing all over again. This time, however, you feel it ten times harder. New suspicions about your other friends’ participation in your misery has made it worse.

The lonely feeling freezes you to your marrow. The pain splits your heart in two. The restless feeling makes it hard for you to breathe. It all hits you like a freight train.

Oh, you shouldn’t have been this quick to return here. Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt an extra hour watching that crap show.

Fuck, it’s hard.

You actually can’t breathe.

You turn around to stare at the closed door. The room is in pitch darkness since you’ve not bothered to switch on the lights and the curtains are drawn. Still you can see the outlines of the closed barrier that isolates you in this room. You close your eyes for a second, letting the pain engulf you whole again.

Memories.

Memories of shared laughter and tears.

Moments spent together.

Drunken nights and awful jokes.

Friends. Lovers. Betrayal!

A tangled sob leaves your throat. You reopen your eyes, allowing tears to roll down your cheeks. The cruel reality of how alone and helpless you are once again registering in your mind. If what you think was true, if Jimin and Nina knew this from the beginning, then you’ve been alone all your life. No one has been on your side. Ever. You are all you have. No one has ever cared or will care about you. You bet that they’ve already forgotten about you. They probably have. You will never have someone to wipe down your tears when you cry. Offer you a shoulder to rest your head when you’re tired. You have no one. No one…

Except….

You don’t even wait a second to think what you’re doing or to consider the consequences. Simply can’t afford one more minute of this loneliness. Of this pain. You yank open the door and run out. Tears streaming down without a break. Heart violently pounding against your ribcage. Your hurried footsteps muffled against the marble floor.

No one has been on your side ever. You have no one to turn to. Except this one man, who’ll hold you tight when you cry. And all you want is that. Someone to tell you that it’s going to be okay. That nothing was your fault and they are there for you. You don’t care for the fact that the man you’re running into is another one who caused your demise. It’s fine. You just need comfort. A bandage to cover your wound. It’s fine that it’s not a permanent solution and you’ll regret ever doing this in the morning. You’ll worry about that later. For now, you need someone to be on your side.

So, you don’t stop until you barge into the living room again. You don’t stop until you’re met with the man you were looking for. Just about to leave the room himself. You only give him time to just turn around when you stand in front of him. Jungkook’s innocent- looking, doe eyes, which don’t suit a person like him, go wide at your unexpected sight. You disregard his surprise. Instead you wipe your tears away with both your palms. Drop your hands down. You have no idea what you wanted from him or from just barging in here.

“I- just- ca-can you- uh-” Hence your pathetic stuttering. Your hands clenched around your cozy shorts to gain a strength that you didn’t know you needed. But for your luck or not, you don’t have to elaborate any further. Jungkook’s eyes soften as you watch. A kind of hurt flashing across them before he closes the distance between you in a flash. And you find yourself crushed between his strong arms. One arm wraps around your waist, the other cradles the back of your head.

“Of course I will, Pretty. Of course I will…”

…………………

Whatever you expected when you ran to Jungkook, it certainly wasn’t this. Sharing the bed? Maybe. You fell asleep on his lap last night for the sake of fuck. Maybe you wanted to have someone to lie next to you, filling the empty side of the bed. But this isn’t just sharing a bed. The way one of his arms is curled under your head isn’t just sharing a bed. The way his other hand is thrown across your waist and holding your hand isn’t just sharing a bed. Nor is the firm press of your back against his broad chest or the tingling sensation of his breath against your neck.

But the problematic part of this situation isn’t just how he’s holding you close. The problem is that you're not completely opposed to it. You’re enjoying it to be honest. You blame it on the emptiness inside you. On the craving for a caring presence. Not an AI this time but a real person because the way Jungkook’s heart is beating is real. How his chest is heaving when he breathes is real. How his thumb is gently rubbing your palm is real. That’s the reason for you to like this.

Then why does your heart pound in your poor ribcage?

Why does your breath hitch with every rub of his thumb against your palm?

Why does your whole arm feel numb—in a good way?

Above everything else, why do you want him to keep doing it? No. That’s not the case after all. You want him to just do something more.

You close your eyes for the hundredth time, hoping you would actually be able to fall asleep this time. To act like your stomach isn’t doing weird turns. You fail. Miserably so. All you manage is a blink before you reopen your eyes when Jungkook pushes you back more into his body. His thumb keeps rubbing your palm.

It feels good. So damn good that even a moan nearly slips through your lips. You have to bite your bottom lip so hard not to let that happen. You can’t risk it now. Can’t let him know that he’s affecting you. Because you don’t want to get affected. No. You can’t. You are not feeling a fire travelling across your veins. Starting from the spot where he’s touching you. He’s touching your palm for God’s sake and you’re doing your best not to moan?

What is fucking wrong with you?

Jungkook sighs dreamily behind you, pressing his body more and more into you. He changes the pattern he is rubbing your palm. Instead of circles, he starts to rub back and forth, making you squeeze your thighs desperately.

No. No. No….

This can’t be happening. You are most definitely not getting wet. Not because of this psychopath. Not because of a simple touch.

“Why aren’t you sleeping, Pretty?” Jungkook suddenly questions. His voice is raspy and thick. Even his voice sends a tingle between your legs.

What the actual fuck?

“Not sleepy.” You answer him with your own hushed voice. Or is it hoarse too? Thick?

“Why not? It’s late.” Jungkook raises his head a bit. As if he wants a look at your face. His thumb is still playing with your palm. “This doesn’t help?” He questions as he lifts your hand up. “I’m trying to help you relax.” Explains though you don’t ask. Well, you don’t know ‘relax’ is the right word to use in this context. Jungkook doesn’t let you question it. He lifts your hand up and up then back, behind you and over your shoulder. “Gentle touches help people relax, you know,” He keeps explaining while you wait with bated breath. Clueless but also excited about what he is doing. Then you feel the cold touch of his nose nudging against your palm. “Doesn’t it work for you?” Gently questions. That’s all he does before his nose replaces his lips. He kisses your palm softly. Hesitantly. Carefully. As if you’d break if he presses a little hard.

He waits for a minute while keeping his lips on your palm. Then when he gets no reluctance from your frozen body, he does it again. Another kiss follows. Once then twice. Three times and four times. Slowly. Sensually. His lips brush over your palm like a feather. And you shiver. Eyes fluttering close at the heavenly feeling.

“Huh, Pretty? It doesn’t help?” Jungkook repeats his earlier question in between his soft kisses. You don’t know how to answer that. So you keep quiet, letting Jungkook kiss your hand. Over and over. And with every kiss it turns a bit tender. His lips linger on your palm a little more than before. As if he’s losing his mind and getting caught in the moment. As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing. “Damn it! Why’s your hands so soft?” A soft groan accompanies his words. Words that go straight to your lower belly, igniting a fire there.

And you fail to keep your reactions neutral. A heavy, shaky sigh escapes you even without your knowledge. Jungkook takes that as a good sign. His kisses grow more deliberate.But what truly breaks you is when you feel the tip of his tongue grazing over your hand. Gently and lightly. Circling across your skin, just like how he did with his thumb.

“Jungkook…” You mumble which comes out as a desperate moan. You swear that you don’t intend to do that. Jungkook, however, groans. Applies more pressure into his action. His other hand curls even more under your neck, dragging you insanely closer to him. Practically starts to make out with your palm, shifting between open mouthed kisses and licks. You feel your whole body go weak. Blood pumping across your veins extra fast. “Y-you- you can’t.” You weakly whimper once again, half turning toward him despite your words.

“Yeah?” Jungkook relents. Pushes your hand away from his mouth. You find it amazing how he’s breathless. Cold air replaces the warmth where his tongue had just been, making you already miss the warmth, the tingling sensation. “Then ask me to stop.” He pants. Gives you time to do as he says.

And isn’t that easy? Just ask him to stop. You know that he’d listen.

Ask him to stop.

All you do is whimper.

You can’t let this happen.

You press your palm into his mouth.

Fuck, you need to stop.

“Oh, Jungkook….” You finally moan aloud at the same time he kisses your palm again.

“You don’t want me to stop, Pretty?” Jungkook shifts his attention from your palm to your fingers. Wraps his lips around your thumb and starts suckling gently, almost making you cry. “Answer me, baby. You don’t want me to stop? Want me to keep going?” Even during your filthiest sex calls, Jungkook’s voice hadn’t sounded this thick with lust. It gets your head spinning. Rest of the world and everything else disappears from your mind.

You don’t know how you responded to him. If you said yes or just nodded. But in the next moment you find your back pressed against his chest once again. This time, however, instead of just keeping you close, Jungkook is rocking his hips against your plump ass. You can unmistakably feel the hardness that is being ground against your flesh, creating an insatiable desire inside you.

All you can manage to do is whimper. Stay still and let him grind against you. His cock rubbing against your ass firmly with every thrust of his hips. He stopped playing with your hands sometime ago, for much of your dismay. Not that you can complain about the change, however. This is better. Even though you know it shouldn’t feel great, you’re slowly slipping into a blissful numbness.

You would blame this on not having any actions in your life lately. True that with Jungkook- when you thought he was a mere AI- you brought yourself into mind shattering orgasms more than one time. That somehow doesn’t match the sensation you’re feeling now. That fire was nowhere near the wildfire rapidly spreading through your nerves right now.

Well, if Jungkook managed to make you cum hard just by his voice, why would you be surprised of him being able to get you drooling just with his cock grazing over your ass.

Of course, he knows what he’s doing. One hand splayed across your waist to keep you in place. Face hidden in your neck. Lips occasionally touching your skin. His soft grunts a beautiful melody in your ear. His hard cock a sin in your body.

This is wrong.

But you need more.

Otherwise you’ll explode from the pressure inside your tummy. You’ll die from neediness. It’s crazy how desperately your pussy has been clenching over nothing. Embarrassing how much you’ve soaked your panties.

“Jungkook…” You moan out his name once again. Jungkook doesn’t stop his firm grinding as he answers you.

“Yes, pretty?” He plants a kiss under your ear. “What is it?” Asks through clenched teeth.

You don’t know how to ask him what you want. It’s humiliating. You swore you hate him, didn’t you? You swore you will never be his. Technically, this is nothing like that. Just because you’re horny, it doesn’t mean you’ve entered a truce with this guy. Still you feel like crawling into a little hole at the prospect of being this needy for him. Being at the peak of begging for more.

“What do you want, baby?” Jungkook questions again. You don’t answer. Still not knowing how to phrase your words. Jungkook doesn’t have much patience, though. “Nothing?” He slows down his movements, making you nearly panic. You don’t want him to stop. No. “If you don’t ask, I can’t give it to you.” He stops rocking his hips against you altogether. “Do you want to go to sleep—”

“No!” This time you actually panic, turning your head around to look at him at light speed. “No, no, please..” Words leave your mouth before you can process it. Jungkook raises head again to take a proper look at you.

“No?” He arches a brow. You freeze, suddenly realizing that you had said that. But it’s out anyway and you really don’t want him to stop. It’s too late for that now. “Then what do you need, pretty? Use your words, huh?” As if to give you what you’d miss, he presses his hardness a little more into your ass. Or it is to show you how hard he is. Either way it forces the words out of your mouth that he, oh so badly needs.

“Y-you..” You manage breathlessly.

“Me?” Jungkook tilts his head. “You have me here, don’t you, pretty?” You nearly cry in frustration.

Why would he want to make you say it aloud?

“W-want you to to-touch me.” You stutter around again, growing impatient and more needy with every passing second. It’s funny how the day has turned into this. Haven’t you hated him with a passion until now? Well, you still hate him. Maybe even more because he has this much influence on you. To make you say things that you don’t want to say that easily. Of course, you hate him. But that hate drowns in a lake of desire. Deeper and deeper. Disappears somewhere in the murky depths as soon as Jungkook suddenly grabs one of your boobs, making you gasp aloud.

“Yeah? Like this?” He makes sure with his hand already starting to mold the soft flesh beneath his palms. You shudder, eyes fluttering close. You answer him in a gentle hum and for your pleasure Jungkook takes that as enough an answer. Just for a minute, however. Then in the next, he is questioning you again. “Is that all you need baby? Just this? Want me to touch your tits?” He begins his slow grinding back, massaging your breast with just the right pressure.

You’re almost drooling. Just with this. His hands and his cock grazing over your body through all the clothing. Pathetic. But you can’t care. Too horny for your own good. You would hate yourself at the way you shake your head. Not Jungkook though. The guy loves it judging by the way he kisses your cheek with appreciation.

“No? You need more? What do you need, pretty?”

You’re pushing back on his cock, not knowing exactly what’s happening. It sure feels like a dream when this time you open your mouth without much persuasion.

“To-touch me pro-properly… please… god, Jungkook…” You complete the rest of your sentence with pulling your t-shirt up. Initiating what you want.

And Jungkook laughs. Fucking laughs!

Rich sound of his laughter vibrates across your body. It’s sinister. Cruel. Taunting. He’s letting you know how pathetic you’re being and how it amuses him. You should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. And you do. Of course, you do. Your face reddened at the sound. A strong urge to hide your face somewhere getting to you. But with shame, you get that familiar stirring on your lower stomach.

Desire. Burn.

Burn for Jeon Jungkook.

Jungkook knows how to play you. He had played you even before he got to lay a single finger on you. He played you like you were a guitar. And now he’s slowly dragging you into that same headspace.

Making you his little play thing.

Someone who’s completely lost their senses.

“Pathetic, princess. So fucking pathetic. You have no shame!” Jungkook grunts before giving into what you asked him to do. His hand snakes under your t-shirt, finding your bare breasts. “See? Have no shame at all. You came to bed with me, without wearing a bra?” Mocks. His voice is contemptuous. He instantly starts to mould, his thumb flicking over your nippels occasionally. Pays equal attention to both of your tits. Pinches your perky pebbles. “Such a slut!”

In your defense, you didn’t expect this to happen. You expected to go to sleep alone. It’s not fair to assume that. But who would care? Certainly not you because every demeaning word of him is making your body shudder. Your pussy aches. Your empty hole clenches around nothing. And all you want is that emptiness to go. Want that to change. Desperately want to be filled. Especially, since Jungkook is back to grinding.

“Oh, god… Oh, fuck!” You moan aloud, throwing all the remaining sanity and care into the wind.

“Yeah? Does this feel good, pretty?”

You nod violently.

“How good? Are you dripping already? Are you making a mess for me?”

You nod again, followed by another needy moan. Jungkook curses before he stops playing with your tits. You try to protest which just dies in your throat when he drags his hand down through your stomach. Down and down, and stops just below your waistband.

You wait patiently with a bated breath. Completely still despite your heavy breathing. It feels like your skin is burning where his fingers are drawing lewd patterns. But he doesn’t take it further. No matter how long you wait, the next step doesn’t come. Not even when you start to whimper. So, you decide you have no other option but to become even lower.

“Oh, please… Jungkook…” You beg, all the while spreading your legs as much as you can.

“Holy fuck!... You want me to touch you? Want me to touch your filthy cunt?” Jungkook squeezes you in his hold, finally starting to lose it.

“Yes, p-pl-please, yes. Touch me.”

“Touch you where?”

“M-my… fuck.. Jungkook please…” You trail off, burning with shame. How degrading it is to say that. You feel like words are turning into dust in your mouth. Jungkook, though, isn't letting you off the hook that easily.

“Touch you where you filthy whore?” He barks, practically crushing you into his body. You inhale a sharp breath in a fruitless attempt to find the courage. Despite everything, despite the shame, you want him to touch you.

“M-my c-cunt…” You manage to push the bitter words out of your mouth, pleasing Jungkook immensely that he doesn’t even waste a second. His hands go inside your cozy shorts within a beat of a heart. He cups your pussy without further ado. Then his middle finger is sliding along your slit, poking at your entrance and gathering up the wetness. It all happens so fast. The next thing you know is he’s relentlessly rubbing your clit. Occasionally shifts between slightly pressing at your hole. His hard cock still scouring against your ass. And you’re dangerously nearing that peak. Every flick against your clit makes your head spin.

Only if Jungkook allows it, though. He doesn’t. Each time you start to tense he slows down. Changes his rhythm. Then stops altogether, just to start the same thing all over again. Gets you literally drooling. Leaving only him and pleasure in your mind. Nothing else. Absolutely nothing that you don’t even realize when you start to cry for his cock.

“Please, please, please…”

“God damn it, pretty.. You need my cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes… Want you… please…”

“But I thought you didn’t want me to even touch you?”

“Bu-but I wa-want you to… n-now.”

Another laugh. “Do you even know how miserable you sound?” Jungkook pinches your clit, making your thighs shake. “But it’s okay baby, you’re being such a good girl for me. Maybe, you deserve my cock.” He rasps in your ear. You almost fall into a false allusion that he’s finally going to give it to you when he pushes the next words out. “But I’m sure, you said you hate me. You said you never will be mine. You fucking flinched away when I was just trying to touch your hand. Now you want my cock?” Flickering of his finger over your clit comes to an abrupt stop. Before you can even comprehend it, he pulls his hand out of your pants. “I don’t think you truly want it.”

It’s ridiculous the way you panicked. Undignified, how you grab his hand, not letting him take it away.

“No, no, please, no, Jungkook. I want you.. I promise.. I really need you.” Mortifying, when you open your mouth.

“You need me? Yeah?” Jungkook leans into you again, closing the short distance he created. Mumbles in your ear. “Then prove it, princess. Beg!”

This time it doesn’t take much more persuading or convincing for you to actually do it. Words start to flow out of your mouth like a broken damn. Even out of your control. Yet, no matter how much you plead and beg, all he gives you is more teasing. His hand back inside your pants and melting your brain and soaking your thighs. And just as he edges you for what must be the hundredth time you snap, falling into the lowest you can go.

“Oh, god pl-please.. Something… Gi-give me something Kook. At least the tip. I need just so-something…”

And with that you break Jungkook as well.

“Holy fuck! You little slut!” He curses aloud. But he finally relents. You don’t even get to comprehend what’s happening before he is yanking your pants down and doing the same to his as well. All you can do is inhale a shaky breath before you feel the tip of his hardened cock at your sloppy entrance.

Finally! Fucking finally!

You almost sigh in relief when he pushes inside you. Slowly. Agonizingly so. An inch by pleasurable inch he stretches your entrance. You moan lowly at the pleasure, waiting for him to keep going and bury himself deep inside you. Only for that to never come. He stops yet again. You turn your head around, catching his face properly for the first time this night. And the sight that treats you is nothing less than you expected.

Divine.

Godly.

Sin.

His entire face is flushed and eyes all pupils. Brows pulled together and eyes closed shut. Bottom lip trapped between his teeth.

He is the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. Jeon Jungkook is impractical. Unreal. Maybe he is an illusion. Just as the thought crosses your head he opens his eyes, catching your gaze. And you clench around his tip tightly, completely unconsciously, eliciting a beautiful moan from his throat. He rewards you with a shallow thrust. Then another. Just with only his tip inside you and driving you crazy. You question him with your confused expression. Luckily for you he reads it.

“Why baby? You asked just for the tip… I’m only giving you what you asked for.” He smirks through his haze.

A whimper of frustration tangles in your throat. Yet you clench around him even harder. Every demeaning word from him is fueling your fire. That’s exactly what makes you clutch onto his hand tightly before pushing back on his half sheathed cock inside you. Changing the fact from half sheathed to fully sheathed. He slides inside you swiftly. Just one push and he’s safely buried inside you, knocking the wind out of your lungs.

You both stilled, reveling in the feeling. Just for a moment, however. Next moment, Jungkook is gripping your face, roughly, fingers digging into your cheeks painfully. He turns your face around and leans forward until the tips of your noses touch.

“You need to learn how to listen and be fucking patient, baby. You don’t want to be a good girl? You want to act like a needy slut? Can’t wait to get this pussy ruined?” He presses a barely there, feathery kiss to your lips. Stark contrasts the way he’s touching you and his filthy words. “Okay then, I’ll give that to you. I’ll fuck you until you beg me to stop.” He drawls. That’s the only warning you get before he drags his hips back and rams into you, making you scream his name. He does it again, again, and again. Lets your face go so he can hold your leg up. And as if you’ve not humiliated and embarrassed yourself enough, all it takes is just a few hard thrusts for your prolonged orgasm to crash over you.

“God, fuck yes, sult! Ah fuck, squeeze my cock…” Jungkook hides his face in your neck, inhaling your scent , getting drunk on you. “Fuck, pretty you feel even better than I imagined.” Growls as his hips keep thrusting forward without a mercy. Not even slowing down to let you catch your lost breath. “You have—” He gasps in between his harsh thrusts. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to have you, pretty…” His teeth sink into the sensitive skin of your neck, arousing you more and more. “I dreamt of this fucking day… you have no fucking idea how much this means to me…” He drags his hand across your body, from your breasts to your stomach. “God damn it, princess…. You know what? I need more… c’mon, on your back—” He withdraws from you fast, making you flinch at the sensitivity. “And I need you naked.”

He doesn’t give you much time to comply with his commands. As soon as he pulls his cock out, he’s pushing you into your back. Even before you can register the movement your remaining clothes are practically ripped away from your body, his clothes following closely.

See now, Jungkook has ridden you into your lowest level already. Has made you say things you wouldn't have said in any other occasions. Had made you beg and plead. But now, as you are laid beneath him, looking at him with your glossy eyes, squirming and impatient, legs already spread without anybody forcing you to do so, it feels worse. It’s one thing if he’s forcing this on you. Leaving you without any options. But to be the one who’s asking for it.

It makes your stomach churn. But the case is, even that doesn’t stop you from humping the air waiting for him to get back inside you.

What’s wrong with you!

It’s all Jungkook’s fault.

You hate him. You hate everything about him. You swear you do. Still, you exhale softly as your hands move across his chiseled abs and chest the moment he gets rid of his t-shirt. Still, you curl your hands around his neck and press your lips to his, turning it into a messy kiss of tongue and saliva without an ounce of hesitance. Still, you keep him as close to you as possible when he pushes inside you again with a powerful, breathtaking thrust. Still, you beg him for more when he starts picking up his pace again.

“H-harder please…”

“More Jungkook…”

“Please don’t stop… keep going…”

You keep screaming.

“I won’t baby. I’ll not fucking stop. Take this cock, yeah? Like that… yes… fuck!”

He keeps promising.

And he keeps his promise. He doesn’t stop. He fucks orgrasm out of orgasm from you.

He makes love to you while hovering over your shaking figure, kissing and biting your lips, mumbling sweet nothings in your ear.

He fucks you while holding your writsts above your head and scattering purple marks across your chest and neck.

He worships you by kissing every inch of skin he can reach.

So does he pound you with your legs pushed over his shoulders.

You have no idea how much time has passed or how many times you actually came. Only thing you’re aware of is the pleasure and Jungkook as now he’s slams into you from behind. Your head pressed into the pillow. He’s clutching both of your hands behind you, taking extra leverage. And all you can do is drool all over you and bite onto the soft pillow. You’re getting tired now. But despite all that, you want Jungkook to cum as well.

That shouldn’t be your concern at all. At least you can turn this whole thing about you. You are receiving pleasure. You are using him. Not the other way around. That’s not what’s happening, however. You’re battling your sensitivity, and exhaustion because you want him to cum. Judging by the way his thrusts are turning sloppy and his ragged breaths you know that’s about to happen. Even the thought is making your tummy clench. Despite how wearried out you are, you feel like about to reach another orgasm, just at the thought.

Then just as the thought passes, Jungkook’s voice breaks your stupor.

“Gonna cum, pretty. Gonna cum inside you, yeah? Fucking make you mine…”

You think you just die at the spot. It’s not possible to feel more aroused. But you do. Even a cry leaves your parched throat.

“Please… yes…” You try in vain to turn your head and look at his divine face but he steals your moment when his hand leaves yours just to grab your hair. You let out a surprised squeal when you’re being yanked back. Your back collides with his chest. His hand immediately snakes around your throat. Squeezes. Not enough to hurt you but enough to cut your air flow.

“You want that, pretty? Want me to cum inside you?” Jungkook growls, his thrusts turning sloppy and sloppier.

You nod, feeling your head getting dizzy. It’s his hold on your neck that's keeping you upright. Your legs are buckling under your weight.

“Say it aloud, princess. Say you want me to cum inside you. Fucking beg for my cum.” Jungkook presses his fingers around your throat a little more, like an unspoken threat.

“P-please c-cum inside me… Pl-please…”

“Again.”

“Oh god, please… pl-please… fill me up, Jungkook. W-ant your cum. I need your cum…” You choke out, struggling to breathe.

“Again, whore. Beg like you really want it. That’s notー” A powerful, harsh thrust. And his grip tightens a little more. “Enough.”

“Please… Jungkook… Want to be so full of your cum. I- Iー” Fortunately for you, those next words do the trick. Just as the words leave your mouth Jungkook stills, his cock twitching inside you. You feel the warmth engulf your insides. Thick ropes of cum painting your walls and putting you into a delirious state. His grip on your throat loosens.

You stay that way, pressed into each other for another long second before Jungkook lowers both of you into the mattress. A deep sigh of satisfaction which lets out by you mixes into the heavy breathing of Jungkook.

You feel light. As if you’ve put all your weight down. You feel like there’s nothing wrong in your life. Even the pain has dissipated somewhere. And you close your eyes into a pure bliss of silence. No pressure, no pain, no problem there to bother you anymore.

……………………………

You can’t believe you did that!

You scrub your chest hard.

How could you?

You scrub your stomach even harder.

How did you do that?

You feel sick. Nauseous.

It was with an unpleasantly twisting stomach that you ran into the bathroom a few minutes ago. Just after you woke up, next to Jungkook- the very same man who dragged you across hell. Then to make matters worse, you were tangled up with himー comfortably.

Comfortably!

And naked!

You sprang out of bed, even not caring for the fact that you might wake Jungkook up. Nor did you wait to see if that was the case. You’ve wanted to throw up. You’ve felt like that but no matter how long you’ve waited kneeling in front of the toilet, nothing came out. So, you’ve opted for a shower. Which is what you’re doing now.

Tears uncontrollably flooding through your eyes. Muffled sobs escaping past your lips. Steaming hot water cascading across your body.

You have no idea how long it’s been since you entered the shower box. Maybe it’s just a few minutes or maybe it’s been hours. And you’ve been scrubbing your body like crazy ever sinceー to no avail. It doesn’t matter how hard and long you rub your skin, you feel like it’s not going away. The imprints of his calloused hands. Imprints of his soft lips and the coldness of that damn lip ring. The wetness of his hot tongue and the tingle of his breath. Then the fullness you’ve felt when he was inside you.

You feel like he's still inside you. You can still feel the harsh thrusts. Can feel his skin slapping against yours.

How did you let yourself do that?

Now, you can’t get rid of him.

You put extra pressure on your skin, scrubbing even harder. You lather on more and more shower gel, then go back to scrub. At this rate, you might end up actually hurting yourself, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You need him gone.

You bring your hand down between your thighs, starting to scrub your inner thighs. This is the part you’ve paid the most attention to. You woke up with his cum dried on your thighs. Another, louder sob erupts as you try to get rid of the unseen evidence of the previous night. You wish you could wash your memory and soul as well. Wipe off everything. You want the previous night to be一

The sound of the bathroom door banging against the wall makes you jump on your spot. Yet you don’t get to let out much of a reaction before Jungkook barges inside the shower box. He wastes no time as he roughly snatches the scrubbing towel you’ve been using to scrub your body. You flinch and stumble a step back as Jungkook throws the towel away, blindly.

“Fucking stop that!” He yells as he closes the distance between you, forcing you to take a few more shaky yet hurried steps back and cover your head with both your hands. You don’t even care for the fact that you’re stark naked. In all your time with him, you’ve never heard him raise his voice like this. “Fucking stop you little…” This time he grits through his clenched teeth. You cower behind your hands even more, which Jungkook finds to be more irritating. He yanks your hands away. Holds them apart and gives you a rough shake. “Don’t be a fucking bitch, (___).” He pulls you forward.

All you manage is a tremble and a whimper.

You’ve seen Jungkook mad. Or not. You’ve thought you’ve seen him mad. Him going berserk over the phone was nothing similar to this. Him raising his voice across a phone was nothing like seeing his face right now. He looks like a beast, almost inhuman. All of his beautiful features masked with pure fury. Eyes wild and bloodshot, jaw slack. A vein throbs at his temple.

Jungkook looks crazy.

Jungkook looks capable of murdering.

Jungkook, the man who treated you oh so softly despite being a monster, looks like he’s about to snap you in half.

“You said you wanted it” He shakes you again, this time even harder, pulling out more and more whimpers and cries. You find yourself even incapable of replying to him. Your heart pounding in your throat. Your vision dims.

Maybe this is how you’ll die. He’ll strangle you to the death.

“You asked me to touch you, (___).” Jungkook’s voice lowered an octave this time. “You asked me to fuck you. You said you wanted it. D-don’t一” His voice cracks a bit and you think a flash of hurt breaks the fury in his eyes. And something inside you turns. Blinding fear subsides a little. He heaves a heavy sigh before speaking again. “Don’t act like I forced that on you.” He chokes out. The feeling inside you intensifies. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. Your head throbs with the rhythm. You gather courage to peer into his eyes. That beast is there but you see the pain. “Don’t be aー” He starts again.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you. Maybe it’s fear. You wanted to distract him. Partially. You absolutely do not wish to die here. But then there was a guilt. Regret. A hurt that stirs your insides. Whatever the reason could be, you surprise yourself when you lunge forward, silencing Jungkook’s words when you press your lips to him. Initially, it’s just a press of the lips where you both do nothing, but then he pushes you back at the same time he starts kissing you desperately, madly, furiously. You return it to the best.

Your back hits the cold wall behind you. Jungkook kisses you with the same fervor for a few more intense minutes before he pulls away. That’s only when you realize that the shower is still running. That Jungkook is half naked as well and is only wearing his boxers. That he’s getting drenched.

You peer at his face for a moment. The way the fury is still there but now laced with lust. You watch the way the droplets slid over his face. Over his chiseled cheekbones. Over his pink lips and the damn lip ring. A shudder ripple through you before you capture his bottom lip between your teeth, bite gently, soon falling into another kiss. Jungkook moans in appreciation. His hands leave yours so he can skim across your curves instead. Your back, waist, ass, stops under your thighs. Then in one swift moment he picks you up from the floor. You wrap your legs around his waist on instincts.

Jungkook is the one who pulls away again. This time he does it with a harsh bite on your lower lip. Harsh enough that you mewl in pain before he sucks on the spot and soothes the sting. He lets your lip go before resting his forehead against you. Panting.

“You wanted to get rid of me?” He questions, with that dangerous tilt in his voice, sharing one breath with you. You don’t answer him. Just try to fill your lungs with enough oxygen. “You wanted to escape me?” He repeats to which he doesn’t get an answer again. He presses another kiss to your lips, then drags those kisses toward your jaw. From there to your neck. Biting and sucking gently. Adding more marks into your already bruised skin. Mumbles his next words into your throat. “Guess what baby? You’ll never escape me.” With that he raises his face back to peer into your eyes. “I’ll fucking taint your memmories with me,” he growls. “I’ll fucking live inside your head, I’ll fucking burn myself into you. You. Are. Never. Going to escape me.”

You tremble once again. Partially from a fire inside your stomach but partially from an unexplainable fear. Jungkook holds you with one arm for a bit as he shuffles with his boxers, pushing them down. Even the prospect makes your breath hitch and pussy clench. He holds you in his hold securely. “You are mine, baby.” He plunges inside you, ripping out a cry from you at the unexpectedness of his movements. Luckily you are already wet enough that he slides in easily. He stops once he’s buried to the hilt inside you. “You’ll be mine.” Gives you an experimental thrust. Your head falls back, hitting the tile and you clench around him violently. “And don’t try to deny that because trust me, princess, I’m gonna make you mine one way or another. I’ll rip your heart out of you and keep it inside a box if that’s what it takes. Soー” A harsh thrust interrupts his threat. “It’s time you should accept that you’re meant to be mine, pretty.” He picks up his speed and starts pounding into you. Calling you his over and over again.

“Mine. Mine. Mine…”

………………………..

Jungkook never wanted to do something that you wouldn’t like. Never wanted to scare you. Even if he had, unintentionally, a few times. But the thing is, you’re not entirely blameless. You are a little stubborn witch in disguise. A brat. How hard it has been for him to keep you at bay.

Jungkook found himself questioning often, why you were so reluctant to accept him. Be his. Understand that you two were always meant to be together. That you’ve always been tied to him with a red string. But then he believed you would come to accept that one day. He knew you would actually return his feelings. Give him what he’s been craving so badly for years.

Years!

It has taken more time than he had expected, however. From the day he got a hold of you again through his meticulous plan to the day he finally brought you into this place that was supposed to be your safe haven. It has taken longer to make you see things even if it’s not fully yet.

But god, the trouble he had to go through!

First, it was making sure you wouldn’t do something that’s stupid and hurt yourself. Then there was the problem of controlling himself. It was as if holding his breath forever. You were a walking, talking ball of temptation. Jungkook had the hardest time having you around, in your cute shorts and comfy t-shirts which he picked out for you. You were the most adorable yet the hottest thing he’s ever seen. He’s been watching you from afar for so long. Can anyone blame him for nearly losing it when he finally had you in a close proximity. Close enough he could touch you, hold you, and hear you.

The temptation was like a demon on his shoulder. He found himself in moments where he was a hair’s breadth away from kissing you until you were breathless. Bending you over and fucking the senses into you. But, thanks to all the high spirits above, he managed to control the urges. Because, in the end, Jungkook never wanted to do something that you didn’t want him to.

Not because it was hard. It was easy in fact. But Jungkook always wanted you to want him. You never wanted him. Not back in your college years. Not even when you were chatting with him. True, you texted him every and each day but you truly didn’t know who he was now, did you?

Then, suddenly all of his hard work paid off that way.

Suddenly, you were seeking him. You were asking for him. You were willingly being with him.

Just like now.

It’s been a few days since your first night. Since Jungkook finally bent your stubborn will enough to see him. See his love. Yet still, Jungkook can’t help but gasp quietly in surprise when you straddle his lap, emerging out of nowhere. He can’t help but feel like pinching him to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

You get comfortable in his lap. He is sitting on his gaming chair, not particularly playing games but he’s stressing over this one client. Some people are just morons who can’t understand simple things. Jungkook had leaked a very important piece of information to the public on this said client's request. It was the deal they made and the fucker should not be contacting Jungkook again. But here he is, asking for another deal. This time to revise what he already did. See now, Jungkook might be very good at his job. Sneaking into any database and leaking anything for the right amount of money. The thing is, however, he isn’t God and therefore the power of undoing something isn’t on his hand. Life, unfortunately, has no control plus z. His idiot of a client isn’t understanding that.

And Jungkook was at the verge of finding the man and choking him to death himself when you appeared, now hiding your face in his neck. You plant a soft kiss on his neck making him shudder. A moan almost slips past his lips. He aligns his neck to give you more access. You haven’t said much since you straddled his lap, your legs placed either side of him. You pick up on his cue and strat peppering soft kisses over and over. Jungkook unconsciously wraps an arm around your body.

“What are you doing, baby?” He questions as you move toward his throat.

“You seemed tense.” You answer him, softly.

Fuck!

Jungkook finds this to be a huge victory. Despite all the time he had you lying beneath him and moaning his name, you mostly didn’t talk with him. And to think you care about him.

Did he die?

Is this heaven?

“Yeah? And you want to help me.” He starts rubbing your back soothingly. You nod into his throat. “Fuck!” Jungkook curses at the sensation of your lips on him and your admission. “God, pretty, you gonna kill me,” he gives a gentle smack on your perfect ass, marveling at the way you whimper in return. “What do you want to do, baby? How are you gonna help me?”

You pull away from worshipping his neck at his words, facing him and peering at his eyes with your glinting eyes. A little bit hooded and glossy. You exhale a shaky breath. “I wanna- I- uh- can I suck you off, please?” Whisper oh so softly that Jungkook almost doesn’t hear you. He does somehow and the way his heart flutters must be risky to his health. Maybe he’s about to have a heart attack.

He never wants anything more. This. You are on his hold and begging to please him. Jungkook has finally won. The flutter in his heart soon travels south creating a stir in his lower stomach and groin. He was becoming hard slowly since the moment you sat on his lap but now at your words, he goes rock hard in a blink.

“Fuck! God, yes… You don’t have to ask, pretty. You get whatever you want.” He kisses your lips softly. “You want to suck daddy’s cock?” Asks against your mouth, making you tremble. You nod hurriedly. If he’s to push his hand inside your pants, he knows he’d find you already dripping wet. See, it is fate. You’re even this compatible in bed. He knows which button to play to get you high without any drugs. And you know which strings to pull to get him drunk without alcohol. “Go on then, on your knees, princess.” He commands, flipping that switch inside his brain to become the man you want him to be. You instantly start to shuffle down when he stops you once again. “Get rid of the clothes first, want you naked, kneeling in front of me and choking on my cock.”

You comply with him without a second request. Don’t even wait until Jungkook pushes down his sweats completely before you hungrily wrap your hand around his shaft and lips around his tip, pushing him into a blissful haze. From there it’s just a mess of drool, tears, and the sound of gagging. You don’t disappoint him the slightest. You prove him right again and again. With your tongue swirling around his tip. With him hitting the back of your throat. You prove that you’re just where you should be. And Jungkook’s head is spinning. He’s sure that he’s going to explode. Yet within few minutes of fucking your throat, he had to drag you into his lap again.

This time, however, your back facing him, your legs spread widely, and his cock buried inside you. Jungkook would’ve been more than happy to make you swallow his cum but he couldn't help but being a bit greedy and wanting the warm confines of your pussy. You clench around him every time his middle finger garzes over your clit and like clockwork, Jungkook feels his cock twitching.

“You feel so good, slut. So fucking good… You love daddy’s cock?” He asks in your ear. You moan out an inaudible ‘yes’. Jungkook rewards you with a slow thrust. You look so blissful. So lost in him. So fucked up. Makes him want to see and try how much he can push you. How farther you’ll bend for him. “You look pretty, baby, so beautiful,” He kisses your shoulder. “Would you like to see how beautiful you are?” He asks to which he doesn’t get an answer in return. He doesn’t mind that, simply knows you’re so far gone to be able to perform coherent thoughts let alone words. “Would you like to record this baby? So, we can watch it again, andー” Rest of his words die on his tongue when you squeeze his length so hard. “Holy fuck! You like that? You want that?” You answer him with another nod but this time he wants your words. “Words baby…”

“Yes. Yes Jungkook… I…”

That’s enough for him. He drags the chair forward keeping you on him safely, fumbling with his phone with one hand. He places it on the desk, propped against his monitor, front cam opened, and facing you both. Capturing a beautiful view of you filled with him. And he hits the record button. Pulls the chair back to adjust into the best position.

“There you go, slut. C’mon now, ride me!”

…………………………….

You are lying on your side, curled up on the couch and back pressed against Jungkook. His arms are wrapped around you protectively. Titanic is playing on the TV and you’re doing your best to pay attention with Jungkook’s mindless nibbling on your ear.

Lately, you’ve grown accustomed to being close and intimate with him even when sex isn’t on the table. You’ve learnt to accept all the pampering, cuddles, and innocent kisses. You’re not sure when exactly that happened.

First, it was all about sex. After the time he fucked you in the shower and swore that you’ll never escape him, you promised yourself that you’ll never allow him another chance to even lay a finger on you. That was going well until he sneaked into the bed that night. Each and every time you swore that it was going to be the last just to fail miserably. You couldn’t bring yourself to say no, every time his lips pressed against yours, his hands roamed across your body, his breathy voice whispered against your ears. Jungkook had it all easy and one day you’ve decided to let it happen without any resistance from your mind. Because, in the end, your body was going to betray you anyway.

Ever since, your life has been one haze of pleasure. There was no space for pain. Even the memories of your life before thisーthe life full of misery and bitchy people has faded into the past. Jungkook has been keeping you busy all the time. Busy enough that nothing could disturb your blissful peace.

Through endless sex and mind shattering orgasms, time has slipped through your fingers like a passing breeze. You think there is no space in this entire apartment where Jungkook hasn’t had you in. Kitchen. Couch. Balcony. Pressed against a window. Even on top of the washer. And every way he can. Tied up to his bed post. Blindfolded. Even had made you ride his shoe. Had made you masturbate while he watched and recorded. Had you plugged in with his cum inside. Every kind of kink he can think of.

You have started to lose sense of the time. Every day feels the same. You’ve fallen into the same routine. And despite all the pleasure, you’re growing tired of it. Maybe you need something new to focus on.

“Jungkook?” You call out softly. He stops nibbling on your ear immediately and pays attention to you.

“Yes, pretty?”

“Can you- uh- buy me a book maybe… please, I’m getting kinda bored…”

A soft gasp treats you, forcing you to turn around and look at him in confusion. He’s regarding you with a wide grin. You raise a brow in question.

“Of course, I can, baby. I can buy you anything you want. You don’t have to ask like that. Tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you right away.” A gentle kiss to your cheek. “So, a book, huh? You’re not a reader?” He teases.

You almost open your mouth to question how he would know before it hits you. He knows. He knows every damn thing. What’s your favorite food to, now your favorite position. Then there is you, knowing nothing except his name. You turn around completely, facing him properly.

“I am not but I can start reading.” You tilt your head up to peer at his eyes. He opens his mouth to reply but you beat him into it. “How come you have so much money?” You question without letting yourself weigh the consequences of questioning. Jungkook’s face falls.

“I don’t have a lot of money.” He answers gently.

“You do,” you gesture around the lavish apartment. “This apartment is the most luxurious place I’ve ever been to. And,” you clutch his shirt. “It’s like you’re never stepping outside this house. You’re earning all this money by working from home? What kind of job pays so much?”

Jungkook sighs. “I’m good at developing. Apps and stuff,” He looks carefully at you, as though he’s expecting a harsh reaction from you. You almost do before you catch yourself in time. It’s all past anyway. “I-uh- let’s say I work in I.T, yeah?” That’s the clue for you to let the topic go.

“Where’s your family?” So you change it.

“I don’t have one.” He answers that more easily than the previous one.

“Oh! You’re orphー”

“They’re both alive but I refuse to have any contact with them. They’ve made my life a living hell.”

“Sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” You apologize quickly. A heaviness engulfing your chest at his words. Jungkook chuckles and brushes stray hair away from your face.

“It’s fine, pretty. Why all the questions, though?”

“Just because. I just realized I don’t know much about you.”

“Yeah? Why do you want to know about me?”

“I- I don’t know. I just want to know.” You shrug nonchalantly. Yet as you watch, Jungkook’s face lights up. Eyes glinting and lips spreading into a wide grin. Wide enough that he has to bite down on his lip to contain it. In a matter of seconds, he turns into a boy who's ten years younger than him. And you think you see a faint redness in his cheeks as well.

…………………………..

Jungkook knows that you have no idea how much it means to him to know you’re getting closer and closer every day. First sex, then all the shared casual moments, and you were interested in knowing him. And then you asked him for something?

Isn’t that what lovers do?

Aren’t you acting like a cute girlfriend?

Oh, the fluttering of his heart and stomach you’re causing. Jungkook doesn't think he’s been happier than this in his entire life. He’s riding a high just by watching how shocked and excited you are kneeling in front of the books he brought for you.

“What the hell, Jungkook?” You look up at him, mouth hanging open and eyes wide.

“You asked for books.” He gestures at the box before you.

“No…” you groan. “I asked for a book. Not for a whole damn library?” Start to rummage through the box, pulling out a book. “What am I gonna do with so many books, Jungkook?”

“Read them.” Jungkook kneels beside you, stealing a kiss into your hair while he does.

“I’m a slow reader, I’ll fucking die before I ever finish reading these.” You sigh exasperatedly, being a little dramatic. To be honest, it’s not even that many.

“Hey, it’s okay, pretty. I told you I’m gonna buy you anything. It’s fine if you can’t read them all or you start to get bored at it. Find a new hobby and tell me what you want.” He takes your hand in his. Kisses your soft hands delicately. You look at him with sparkling eyes.

Fuck!

You’re turning to your normal self slowly. You’re getting your color back. Putting on weight. You smile more and talk to him more. Few more days and you’ll be the happiest you’ve ever been.

See, Jungkook knew exactly what you needed. He was right all along.

Just a few more days and he’ll be able to let his guard down. Stop watching your every move like a hawk. Rescheduling and canceling his plans because he can’t leave you alone in here. He managed a good enough security system including cameras but he’ll never know. He had to keep a close eye—for now. But soon you’ll never think about leaving him.

Because he can see the way you slowly understand that you belong to him.

“You’re crazy.” You grumble as you get to your feet. Jungkook follows your actions. You take a step toward him, and bide your time for a minute before standing on your tiptoes and kiss him. Hard and deep.

“Whoa is that a thank you?” He pants once you pull away.

You nod. “There’s more.” Say as you throw your arms around his neck and jump. He catches you up by your thighs with the practice ease.

“Yeah? Another video?”

“Yes, please…”

………………………….

You stay still, unsure of what to do as Jungkook gently cups your face in his hands.

“Are you sure you're going to be okay?” He asks for what must be the millionth time. You nod again, trying to appear confident and nonchalant. But the thing is, you’re nervous. Every nerve ending in your body is ablaze.

Jeon Jungkook is about to leave you alone in this house for the first time. Something about an unavoidable meeting with a client.

You don’t know if he’s ever done it without your knowledge before. Maybe he had. But at this moment, he’s doing it with your full acknowledgement. He’s stopped locking you in that damn room every time. Mainly because you’ve been attached to him by the hip lately. You’ve started sharing a bed and a shower. He had no reason to be worried about you trying anything funny, anymore. This, however, is his first time giving you this kind of freedom. And you’re unsure what to do with it.

“Pretty?” Jungkook furrows his eyebrows in concern.

You clear your throat quickly. “I can Jungkook, I’m a grown woman.” State as you free your face from his hold. You both know that he isn’t referring to your capabilities of staying home alone. You both know he’s asking if you’d not betray his trust. That you’ll not try something that would make both of you regret.

He smiles softly at your admission. “Well then, I won’t be more than an hour.” He finally takes a step away. You return his smile, staying rooted in your place. He takes another and another, walking backward. Just as he’s about to turn around, you snap out of your stupor. You rush forward, five quick steps, and press a kiss to his lips.

Creases between Jungkook’s brows finally ease up as you pull away.

“Be quick.” You mumble, turning him around and you give him a gentle push forward. This time he doesn’t stop you. You walk with him to the front door, wait till he walks out and disappears before releasing a shaky breath.

For the first time, you’re completely alone here.

………………………..

You don’t know what you should do.

All these times, you’ve never even thought about an escape. Jungkook has kept you busy. Busy enough that you’ve forgotten you’re a prisoner here. That he’s your captor. Not someone who you can trust or your lover. But the thing is, you don’t know what to do?

Do you try to run away? To where? To your old house? To the police station?

Then what? Do you still want to confront Hoseok? Do you still want to meet your best friend? Yes, probably. Maybe…

But, do you have the courage to escape?

You don’t even know what kind of security he has. In your first few days you were so keen to know every minuscule detail about this place, planning your grand escape. Now you know nothing.

You stand up from the couch after staring into the empty black screen of the TV for the past twenty minutes. Nothing is going to happen by wasting your time. You make your way slowly to Jungkook’s guest room where he has kept his computer, without any purpose. You don’t know what you’re doing.

It’s just that you’re too restless to stay put. There’s a clock ticking and if you want to do something, you need to be fast about it. No, there’s no ifs, you should do something. This is your chance.

But the problem is that you don’t really feel like doing anything.

An inaudible groan of frustration leaves your throat. This can’t be happening? You can’t be serious. After everything, after the hell he put you through, you can’t simply want to stay with him.

Sex was good, sure. He was treating you well, sure. Still, he’s the same person who guided you into a trap. You’ve been stuck in that trap for a while now.

Yet even the thought of escaping. Running away from Jungkook gives you another level of fear. As if the safe bubble you’ve been living in is about to burst. It’s scary. To think that you’ll be back in the world, wandering around. Facing Daebi and Hoseok who have a fair share in your misfortune. Maybe others do too. Maybe they don’t want you back in their life at all. Jungkook does, though. Your parents must’ve accepted that you were long gone and moved on. There is no one out there who is waiting for you. Jungkook is here for you.

But is this the life you want?

What about walking among people on busy nights? You didn’t love your job but you loved earning your own money. What about living your life of your own accord and not having to rely on someone else? What about travelling the world? What about late night clubbing? Meeting new people? Worrying about buying new expensive clothes? What about life?

You can’t live your whole life this way. Stuck in an apartment while your entire world revolves around one man. You don’t want it to be like that. It’s not like you’ve fallen in love with him anyway. Right? Of course, not. You’re not a victim of Stockholm syndrome.

No. No. No…

You have to do something!

You take a few rushed steps toward Jungkook’s working table, without knowing what you’re actually doing. Maybe you should just risk it and try to open the front door. Or maybe you can turn on his computer and send a message- not to Daebi or any of your friends- but maybe to someone else. Police. Or anyone you could reach. You can check the drawers for a second phone. You couldー

“Fuck!” A loud curse leaves your mouth as an unexpected pain erupts from your left foot. You’ve hit it on the leg of the table. You come to an abrupt halt, mewling in pain, and bend down to rub your foot and ease the pain. You stay in that position and rub your poor toes for another long second before finally straightening up, ready to continue your aimless mission. Only to mewl again when the top of your head hits something. Luckily for you, it was just a pile of books that dropped down to the floor at the impact, with a loud thud.

“For fucks sake!” Irritation bubbles inside you. You bring your hand up to rub your head this time, eyeing the fallen pile of books. You’ve no time to reorganize it. You already wasted enough time. That’s what you almost do.

Almost, though.

Just before you turn around again, your heart beating in your throat, you notice the photo on the floor. Probably was inside a book and slipped out when they dropped down. You would’ve ignored it if it wasn’t for the person in the photo. You can mistake anyone else for someone else. But yourself?

A sharp inhale fills your lungs to the brim before you let that breath out.

It’s you who’s in the photo. Undoubtedly and unmistakably. So what? It’s not that much of a surprise to Jungkook to have a photo of you when you know he’s been stalking you. But what gets you frozen in mid motion is the fact that the you in the photo was from ages ago.

College?

You kneel before the scattered books and papers, feeling your legs buckle. Something uneasy gathers and swirls inside you, twisting your guts unpleasantly. You know this feeling well. You’ve been getting such kind of feelings all of your damned life and everytime you weren’t wrong to suspect something bad. Because every time you felt this way, something bad happened.

You pick up the photo with trembling hands to take a closer look. You might be mistaken about the time frame.

A young, carefree girl smiled back at you. You’re not mistaken. No. Definitely not. This photo was taken years ago. This photo was from another world. A world you’ve left behind and forgotten for the good.

It’s from your college days!

You feel your head start to spin. Memories of blood plague your mind. Screams of agony echo inside your skull. Touch of warm hands tingles your skin. Wetness of a sweet pair of lips brushed across your lips.

You close your eyes to shake away the unwanted memories. You can’t let this happen now. No. Yet all you can see is the blurred lights and silhouette of people. All you can smell is the cigarettes and alcohol.

The cursed night!

This- Jungkook and his stupid app, and his kidnapping- wasn’t the first time you’ve been through hell. You’ve been through worse back then. But after so much effort- including countless therapy, changing universities, starting your degree all over, moving into a different city and years of pain and nightmares, you left that life behind. You were living a normal, good life until Hoseok broke up with you.

Now, a single image is bringing all the buried memories up. The things you don’t want to remember. You swallow down a sob, forcing yourself to pull it together.

It’s going to be fine…

You reopen your eyes and stare at the photo again. Fighting, battling. Trying hard not to break down on the spot.

You can do this…

Just put the damn photo away and focus on your task…

It’s past. It’s past. It’s past.

It was all over.

But how does Jungkook have it?

You freeze again, brows furrowed in confusion. Did he stalk you so hard he found your old photos as well? Did he know about the past that you hate? Did he know about the pain you went through but still decided to traumatize you more?

You clutch the photo even tighter. You’re fighting. There’s a war going inside your head. So many things happening at the same time. And you’re afraid you’re losing.

Let the photo go…

You blankly stare at the photo for another second before, reluctantly dragging your gaze away, to the scattered books. That’s when you notice a second photo peeking out from one of the books.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

Your hand works in autopilot mode when you grab the book and turn it over, dropping at least twenty photos inside it to your lap. You let the photo of you go as you start picking up one by one. Slowly first. Eyes carefully scanning over every single one of them.

You, with Daebi, at the university café.

You, with Hoseok, inside his car.

You, with Jimin….

With Nina….

With some other people, you don’t recognize…

You. You. You.

At your classes.

At your apartment.

At your job.

Library.

You go through the photos as fast as the wind. Your speed builds up with every photo, until one makes you freeze.

It is not you.

A person stands in front of a building you don’t recognize. He is wearing black, head to toe. Even his face is covered in a hoodie. The memories return. Blood. Screams. Light… and a guy. His hands wrapped around you, mumbling sweet nothing in your ear. His hands were covered in blood. His face was covered in a hoodie.

Suddenly, you are sitting in the back of that business class. A meek, nerdy guy next to you. His face hidden, all you can see is a part of his cheek and set of pretty pink lips. Even with the time and all your efforts to drown those memories, you remember him like you’re staring at him.

Lips.

Pretty pink lips.

You even remember the taste of those lips. The warmth of them.

Those lips should’ve faded into memory. The memories should be jumbled. You should only remember the faded bits. But strangely you don’t. Instead, you feel like you’ve seen the same lips yesterday. You feel like those lips were pressed against yours a moment ago.

Pretty pink lips…

Out of nowhere Jungkook’s smile flashes across your mind. The way his lips stretch, making the lip ring glint. The way he bites onto his bottom lip to contain his goofy smile. That adorable, boyish smile.

Haven’t you seen that smile before as well?

The guy who wore that hoodie, that guy who never told you his name, kept his face hidden from you, drugged you, almost killed a person in front of you. Hasn’t he smiled the same way? It was such a rare thing but you’ve seen him smile. And you’ve seen his lips. Is it possible to recognize someone with their lips?

No…. That can’t be. No fucking way.

You gasp for air even though there is nothing keeping you from inhaling. That familiar fear you’ve not experienced for a long time now, shoots across your body, wrapping around your bones, flesh, and skin.

No….

Out of all the fucked up and twisted things in your life, this can’t be one.

You hurriedly throw away the image and pick up the last one. And with that the last threads of hope you hold onto are shredded into million pieces.

It’s an exact similar second image of the previous one. The same person is standing in the same posture in front of the same building. Yet the hood that covered his face had fallen back, revealing his face.

The same face that had greeted you every morning for the past couple months. The face that you always found to be astonishingly handsome. The face that lured you into this trap through that AI app.

It’s the same person. Just far, far younger.

Jeon Jungkook!

Right then, you lose the battle. The sobs and cries you are trying so hard not to let out, escapes you as one loud gasp, followed by uncontrollable tears. Yet before that gasp can turn into loud sobs a familiar voice distracts you.

“Pretty?”

You turn around faster than a bolt of lightning. Your eyes meet with Jungkook who stands in the doorway, scowling, confused. In another time you would’ve been scared for your life. So startled that you start to stutter. This moment, however, you don’t feel anything remotely close to fear. Instead, a rage builds up inside you. A rage that is born from a hurt.

Ridiculous. Why would you be hurt? You should only be angry.

“You motherfucker!” You rush into your feet. Storm toward Jungkook within a blink of an eye. “You fucking lied to me! It was you! It was you all along! You were the prick who ruined my life back then and now….” You screech through your lungs, tears mixing with your enraged words and making your voice crack. “And you lied to me! Every, fucking, person in my life…” You curl your fists into tiny balls, the photo still clutched between your fingers, as you hit Jungkook’s chest. “Everyone… lied to me…” You hit him over and over. Clenching your teeth and pouring all your anger as tears. “I trusted you… And you lied to me too… You fuckingー”

“Pretty, hey, hey…” Jungkook grabs your fists, preventing you from attacking him like a mad cat. You struggle against him the best you can but he holds you tight. “Het, pretty… fuck! Listen to me!”

“I fucking hate you Jeon Jungkook! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I hateー” You scream. Jungkook muffles your screams by pulling you into his chest. “I hate you so much.” So, you mumble into his chest, giving up trying to free yourself from his hold. He’s too strong for you.

You should be mad, but what you feel is hurt.

Did you really trust your captor?

“I didn’t lie to you… No, baby, I didn’t.” He mutters into your hair. You don’t give him a reply. Just break into his chest. “I was just a kid, I didn’t know what I was doing.” He continues. “I just wanted a chance to show you that I- I- uh- loved you,” His hold on you tightens. “I’ve always loved you. So damn much. But you were so gone about your pathetic ex, you didn’t even notice me. I had to do something.”

You don’t even know what he’s saying anymore. Your head is spinning and your ears are ringing. Yet at the back of your mind, the pieces finally fall into place.

“I won’t accept the defeat this time…”

“You never saw how I always loved you…”

You never paid that much of an attention to those words. Now they make sense.

“Y-you fucking- drugged me… y-you almost let someone toー” You stutter out weakly, only to get cut off.

“I didn’t, did I? I’d never let anyone lay a fucking finger on you.”

You ignore what he’s saying. “Y-you let me wa-watch a-as you killed a person.”

“He didn’t die.”

As if that would change anything.

“Oh god, why Jungkook? Why me? What did I ever do to you?”

“Don’t say that, pretty. Don’t fucking say that,” Jungkook hides his face in your hair. “You have no idea how much I love you… I was just trying. I was a kid,” his voice cracks painfully, and even without looking at him, you get the suspicion that he’s joined you with the crying. “I was trying to win you over and that was a mistake. I’m so sorry, princess, don’t say you hate me. C’mon I deserve a chance. I- I- was trying while your boyfriend was getting his cock sucked by your best friend.”

Your sobs deepen. Jungkook presses kiss after kiss into your hair.

“I’m so sorry baby, but give me a chance… You know I’ll never hurt you. Let me tell you the full story.”

You don’t want to listen to any story. No. You don’t want this pain.

You pull away from his chest despite his reluctance. For a second you peer into his glossy eyes. Then in the next, you pull him into a hungry kiss.

Fuck this!

Fuck your life!

Jungkook is fucking sick. But still, you know he’s painfully in love with you.

If you can’t escape this hell, then you might get used to it.

………………………

At Hoseok’s place

“Are you guys fucking kidding me?” Jimin practically throws the tablet away. Luckily it doesn’t hit anything but just drops into the couch.

“What do you want us to do, Jimin?” Deabi shouts across from the living room, hands dramatically thrown in the air.

Hoseok watches wearily as his girlfriend and best friend fight over a matter that’s worth all the fighting.

“Is that even a question, Daebi? That’s your fucking best friend. You give her up that easily?” Jimin says, with a rage Hoseok has only seen once — on that cursed night.

“I’m tired, for God’s sake! I’m tired and I can’t do this anymore.” Daebi slumps her shoulders.

“You’re a fucking coward!” Jimin points a finger at her. Then turns his glare to Hoseok. “You too. You both are fucking cowards. First, you went behind her back and then when she needed you, you just give up?”

“We- we’re not—” Hoseok tries to argue when Jimin stops him.

“Save the fucking excuses, man. I can’t believe you dragged us into this shit as well? I can’t believe you did that to her.” Jimin scoffs. “But guess what? I’m better than you. I’m not fucking giving up.”

“Then what the hell are you going to do?” Hoseok yells for the first time as well. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t want to give up. No. But things have turned to a point where there is no answer for anything. After exactly four months of continuous searching, and no clue, everyone has accepted that you are dead. The case isn’t officially closed yet but the fire it had caused has died down.

One of their good friends who was actively working on the case has informed Hoseok that there might be no hope. And after a year, the case would be officially closing and the court would declare you dead, citing your mental instability. He had asked Hoseok to give up on hope.

Apparently, Jimin isn’t ready to do so. Which is good. Hoseok would be happy to be a part of that. But the question remains. What are they going to do? An unwavering determination without a plan is stupid, which describes Jimin at this moment.

Hoseok knows where Jimin comes from. Jimin used to be a good friend of yours. He met you because of Hoseok and therefore you were always out of reach for him. But maybe if Hoseok never was a part of that equation Jimin should’ve taken your friendship into other levels. Yet life had different plans. And Jimin settled into being that good friend who would travel impossible distances to make sure his friends are okay.

That’s exactly what Jimin is trying to do. You grew apart after your nasty breakup with Hoseok. Hoseok knows that. Mainly because Jimin is Hoseok’s friend and Jimin was ashamed to face you. Then before you could actually become friends again you’ve disappeared.

Then there must be the guilt. Guilt of finally knowing Hoseok and Daebi’s story. They decided to come clean to at least Jimin and Nina after you disappeared. They wanted a way to ease their consciousness, even when they knew it wasn’t going to go well. Just as expected, Jimin was ready to murder them both. Disappointed. So was Nina. Jimin even stopped talking to Hoseok, until he sent the text on the group chat today.

The very reason why Jimin barged in.

“I don’t know… maybe trying to convince your detective friend not to give up so easily. It’s just fucking four months.” Jimin grits.

Technically, it’s turning five in a week. And Hoseok can’t do such a thing. He is friends with a detective who was happy to take over your case. Friends. That’s the word. He is not a boss.

“Jimin-ah…” Hoseok sighs, not knowing exactly how to explain to his friend that this is out of his control.

Jimin lets out a bitter chuckle. “What? You can’t? Of course, you can’t.” He takes a threatening step toward Hoseok. “Well, you know what Hoseok? It’s not that you can’t, it’s that you don’t. I fucking bet you two,” he gestures between Hoseok and Daebi. “Are actually fucking happy that she went missing.” Jimin spits out making Hoseok’s eyes widen.

What now?

And making it worse Jimin adds more to his nonsense with a low voice. “Maybe, you’re the reason why she—”

Jimin doesn’t get to finish the sentence when Hoseok practically jumps at him, grabbing from his shirt with both hands.

“What the fuck did you say?” Hoseok screeches. Jimin doesn’t even flinch at the sudden impact.

“Oh god, will you guys stop… we’re friends.” Before Jimin can answer Hoseok, Daebi meddles, trying to part the two friends who are about to strangle each other.

“Friends?” Jimin shakes Hoseok’s hands off him, scoffing. “I don’t see any friends here. In fact, I’m not your friend Daebi.” With that he throws a final glare at Hoseok. Turns around. “Enjoy. Get engaged. Hell, get married so we can throw a party.” Says before walking away and disappears through the front door.

A heavy silence falls over.

“I’m so disappointed in you guys.” After a minute, Nina, who’s been so quiet and pale, mumbles weakly.

Then she too walks slowly over to the front door.

……………………………………..

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Taglist- @yunhoswrldddd @rjooniesdimples @ttanniett @targaryenluvs @winchesterkenzie @miniesjams32 @bookstoread199 @smokinghotstargirl @likemeforme @sunshinenmidnight @whiteoakoak @joulekanitz @annafarrr @felicityroth @angellekookie @futuristicenemychaos @bhonbhon @stutixmaru @mangify @ssbb-22 @lailac13 @skittleswitmnms @whoa-jo @vantelover1306 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @gyeomibearr @noturresponsibility @pigunny2426 @sophlizzy @mf-ire @cannotalwaysbenight @yikes-ukiyo @eegyo @llallaaa @lostinneocity @saymilang @serendippindots @jsprien213

(I'm so sorry if I have missed on tagging anyone 😭. This is mess!)

#perfect partner #bts yandere #yandere bts #jungkook yandere #yandere #bts smut #smut bts #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook smut #bts angst #bts mini series

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orimuraa · 14 hours ago

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• My lips don’t lie - 西村力 ↳ ┊: lips - ive

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆starting your new job wasn’t easy whatsoever, however, there was one person who made it so much worse…or better? ⨾

۶ৎ choreographer!ni-ki x fem makeup artist!reader┆fluff, angst, crack┆slight age gap? (2 years), enemies to lovers, ni-ki tries to be nonchalant about his feelings┆teasing, petnames, reader has a panic attack, kissing, crying┆wc 2.4k

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: thank you to the anon who requested! i hope it’s okay >//<

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

you got insanely lucky for your first real job. you had secured a spot on the styling team of a k-pop group at the age of 18. it paid pretty good and it wasn’t something you would ever get bored of.

traveling the world, doing makeup and hair, it was all you could ever ask for.

the only bad thing about this job was a singular co-worker. nishimura riki.

he was a dancer from japan and he had been hired a couple years before you to be the choreographer for the group.

for some reason, this man could not stand you. you had no idea what you did to deserve his snarly remarks or his relentless teasing, but it happened. maybe it was because you were new and an easy target for picking on. or maybe it was because he was just a jerk.

“i don’t know what i did,” you whine to your fellow makeup artist, jiyeon. you had come to befriend all of the makeup artist team and you had all gotten very close, many if them treating you like their baby.

“it’s so weird! he was never like this with anyone else?” jiyeon ponders, scrunching her eyebrows.

you continued cleaning your makeup brushes while just thinking to yourself, letting the conversation of your co-workers blend into the background.

“hey! you’re gonna ruin those brushes, aren’t you?” him. his obnoxiously deep voice that never failed to send shivers down your spine.

turning around, you’re met with a 6 foot giant, smirking down at you as he tell you how to do your job. ridiculous!

“no, i’m not,” you bite back, losing your patience with him. you let out a sigh, setting down the brushes and trying to control yourself.

“woahh, chill, i’m just trynna help,” he laughs, putting his hands up in surrender. to be quite honest, ni-ki had no idea why he treated you like this either.

the first day you walked in, clad in your little white dress over your patched jeans, your hair styled too perfectly, and a smile too pretty adorning your lips. he didn’t like the way it made his heart race. he didn’t like the way it made him smile.

so, for some reason, he resulted in pushing you out, not letting you get too close. he was scared of letting his guard down around people. he was scared because of the past.

even still, every time he steps a little too close to you, his breath will hitch slightly and his heart starts to beat a little too fast.

your eyes said it all. you were pissed and you were not putting up with his behavior right now.

“ni-ki, i am trying to do my job and it’d be very nice for you to just leave me alone right now,” you grit through your teeth.

“alright alright, i’m leaving princess,” he chuckles lowly.

“don’t call me that!” you snarl, your patience hanging on for dear life. but ni-ki just smirks once again before leaving the room.

“oh my gosh he totally likes you,” yusu, another co-worker, gasps.

“yusu!!! don’t encourage it! besides, he literally hates my guts! i haven’t done anything wrong to him and he treats me like this!” you whine, pouting at the pink haired girl.

she just laughs and pats your head, saying: “you’ll be fine!! he’ll most likely come around eventually!”

you roll your eyes at that. like that would ever happen.

a big comeback was coming up for the group, meaning that lots of preparations needed to be made.

unfortunately, you didn’t expect this much stress as it was a full album instead of a mini album—which was what you were used to.

“y/n ssi! i’m going to put you in charge of all the eye makeup for filming today, okay? i want them to look similar and you’re the best at it!” the director smiles, making you feel both proud and anxious.

not even seconds later, another directer ran up to you: “oh! y/n ssi! can you please do the hair styles for the members? i know you’re pretty good at that and i think this concept is your strong suit,” she asked, rushing away before you could even agree.

great. now you had eye makeup and hairstyles for all the members. totally manageable.

there was quite a bit of chaos in the prep room. the members were quietly chatting with each other, some filming some behind the scenes, some practicing the dance, and some locking in to get ready for filming.

you kinda lost track of what was going on as you started to feel your head spin a bit, losing a bit of your balance.

“oh- y/n? are you alright? do you need to sit down?” one of the members asked you, concern written all over his face. these boys were always so sweet and they always cared for their staff, making you appreciate them even more.

but right now, it was hard to even focus as there was a searing pain that hit your head. suddenly, the room started to feel a bit too crowded, spots appearing in your vision and your breathing becoming a bit too labored.

“sit her down!”

“no! get her out! she needs air!”

there was a bunch of shouting around you and you weren’t sure who was talking anymore. that was until a voice caught your attention.

“y/n? hey? you here? look at me, yeah?” his voice. the deep concern his voice echoed as he tried to speak as softly as possible to you.

you looked at the boy, eyes staring straight into his. since when were nishimura riki’s eyes so pretty? and since when did he have that mole under his eye?

“hey! there you are, let’s get you outside okay?” he smiles softly. he laces his hands with yours and gently pulls you up, securing you as you stumbled a bit.

you didn’t notice the way the members were smiling at you, glad that their choreographer knew how to take care of you.

once you made it outside, you took a deep breath before collapsing into ni-ki’s embrace.

“thank you,” you mumble softly, enjoying his comfort. you never thought he would be this kind to you, and it kinda caught you off guard. but you had desperately needed a hug and he was inviting you to take it.

“it’s the least i could do,” he replies, his voice calming your nerves. he gave you a couple minuted of silence to collect yourself, assuming you probably had a panic attack.

“stress?” was all he asked, his eyes still staring at the cars passing by. you look at him, tilting you head slightly.

“yeah i guess so…just…overwhelming. i guess i’m not used to it just yet,” you try to laugh it off.

“hey? it’s okay to be overwhelmed, okay? this job is stressful and you’re handling it amazingly. you got this,” he reassured, looking you in the eye.

you were a but stunned by his words as this was the first time he had ever been so nice to you.

“thanks ni-ki…that meant a lot,” you smile back, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“anytime,” he replies, standing up and signaling to go back inside. “i’ll let them know you can’t do it all without some help. you shouldn’t be doing all this as the newest addition to the team.”

and maybe it made your heart flutter. and maybe it made you hate nishimura riki a little less.

that’s what was so weird. he wasn’t mean anymore, he was nice. you didn’t even think that was in his vocabulary for goodness sake’s! he started bringing you coffee the next morning, knowing you were up at an ungodly hour just to start preparing the boys for mv shooting.

he stopped bugging you about not doing your job correctly and started admiring the way you worked instead. you weren’t sure if you liked it, or it freaked you out because maybe ni-ki was replaced by an alien.

“how come you’ve been so nice lately? i didn’t know you had it in you,” you laugh, nudging ni-ki’s shoulder one break.

“yah! i can be nice! i just…needed to warm up i guess,” he muttered, rubbing the bag of his neck and looking away so you didn’t see the blush that coated his cheeks.

“uh huh…sureee,” you snort, taking a bite of your lunch. “whatever, i like you better like this.”

“you..you like me?” ni-ki coughed, his eyebrows furrowed.

“y-yeah! you actually seem to be a pretty decent co-worker,” you cover up, not sure if you were ready to confess your full feelings.

you weren’t sure why that made your heart sink and ni-ki didn’t either.

“right. co-workers,” he nodded, though his tone didn’t match his eyes. you both sat there in an awkward silence before ni-ki cleared his throat, excusing himself and saying he had to run over the choreo with some of the members again.

you were so lost in thought, you didn’t hear yusu walk in and sit herself down next to you.

“soo…are you falling?” she asks, her tone skeptical.

“i don’t even know,” you sigh. “i think i like him but do you think he likes me?” you pout, everything feeling so complicated.

“ynnie, he’s so in love with you. he always has these little heart eyes when you walk in and he’s so sweet to you now! i think he’s just unsure about how to handle his feelings. he had a nasty breakup a couple years back and it was awful..his choreo was sloppy and he was horrible at teaching at that time. it was bad…” yusu recalls, touching a finger to her chin as she thought.

“well that just means he’s not ready, right?” you sigh for the millionth time.

“no! what it means is that you make him feel different and he’s scared that he’s gonna get broken again and doesn’t know how to approach his feelings!” yusu exclaims, not enjoying your obliviousness.

oh.

“so what am i supposed to do??” you whine, ready to go dig a hole and cry in it.

“you slowly get him to trust you—which i think he already does. but he needs to open up and let you in,” she smiles, packing up her stuff for the day.

so now you had to gain ni-ki’s trust. got it..

things were bad..you were struggling with your bills and you were on the verge of losing it. not to mention, ni-ki had been super cold to you these past few days, making things even more unpleasant.

he would ignore you in the hallways and barely look at you when you were in the same room.

he was back to his teasing—except this time it came in forms of harsh criticism.

“y/n can you work faster? the boys need to be on stage in 5!” he scoffed, venom laced in his voice. you had no idea what you had done to make him cold again but you hated it.

maybe he found out that you liked him and now he hates you for it? or maybe he realized you’re just really unpleasant to be around and now hates you.

one day, you were at music bank super early to get the boys ready for their comeback special. your taxes were filing in and it was hard to keep track of it all. your mom had needed a bunch of money to stay in her assisted living care and it was really eating at your salary.

and today was the icing on the cake.

“y/n! they need the makeup done in 3! jesus, what are you even doing?!” he snapped, making many of the staff and members uncomfortable, including you.

you felt everything crash down and all of your problems come flooding out. tears pricked at your eyes but you wouldn’t cry. not in front of him.

“excuse me,” you managed to squeak out before running out of the room.

you found an empty green room and quickly shuffled into it. you sat on the couch, head in your hands and tears rolling down your nose, cheeks, and chin.

everything was going wrong and the world hated you. at some point, your muffled cries made their ways out of your hand and soon echoed in the room.

a shuffle at the door made you whip up to see who was there, instinctively wiping your eyes to attempt the tears to stop.

there, stood ni-ki in the door frame, a different look adorning his face. something mixed either concern and regret.

“what do you want?” you sniffle, wiping your nose.

ni-ki locks eyes with you before letting out a sigh and walking over to the sofa you were on.

“i’m sorry…i don’t know why i’ve been so cruel to you these past few days..i think i got scared because i felt something a little too real and i got scared..i didn’t want it to end up like last time,” he said, looking you straight in the eye. “i guess i thought that if i pushed you out, the feelings would stop.”

“ni-ki…i want you to know that i still like you even after all this..i would wait as ling as it takes for you to recover just so i could be with you. that past week made me realize that i really like you and you make me happy—like, really happy,” you mumble the last part, your cheeks flushing red.

“i had a horrible breakup a couple years ago and i guess it just made me scared to feel things..i just didn’t want to be hurt anymore,” ni-ki says. “but i want to try with you. i feel like i can be myself around you and i would do anything to make up for my awful behavior.”

suddenly, the room felt like it was just you two in the space and nothing else. ni-ki’s hand found your waist while the other one cupped your cheek gently.

“can i kiss you?” he whispered. you nod and that’s all he needs to lean in.

his lips fit perfectly against yours and it feels like the final piece of a puzzle.

the kiss is soft yet passionate, tender with his apology.

when you pull away, his eyes are twinkling and you suddenly feel the butterflies again. you lean your forehead against his and stay like that for a bit.

“let me be yours,” ni-ki says against your lips, his own brushing against yours as he spoke.

“i’d like that. very much so,” you giggle, closing the gap with another kiss.

yeah, maybe it was a cliché office enemies to lovers, but it gave you a happy ending, making it all okay.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic, @woniefication, @melodiessvy, @soona-huh, @kiwicup, @yuuuraaa

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aimasup · 1 day ago

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Is your cat bill gonna be put down

Susan: "the pound tried to put him down before :D so he got them"

Stan and Ford: ah, understood.

Before officially setting sail, the Stans thought maybe they could bring Bill onto the boat, just to get him acclimated

First their new engine became rusted junk overnight. Then their sails got torn out in the water. Then the walls started bleeding. So this wasn't sustainable

Right that moment, Wendy called. Turns out she heard of the creature from Dipper and was like oh free cat fr? sweet

She visited them for more info. When she had to go back to college for a new semester, she took him with her. He's been running rampant there ever since

Bill has tried to kill her before. Like the Mystery Twins and the Grunkles, she's pretty good at surviving attempted murder. Though she's more annoyed than anything else at it.

She is a major procrastinator when it comes to assignments. It's her curse

Wendy is actually taking her studies seriously now because she's the first Corduroy to go to college, and she's mostly left her rebellious teen days behind. She does care about this opportunity!

That doesn't mean she doesn't appreciate a good dose of domestic terrorism.

Bill's hauntings only spice up the students' lives <3 improvise adapt overcome

The trees are blinking and chanting? Class is cancelled yippee. Wildlife is acting hostile? The drunk partygoers were already pissing them off way before Bill arrived. School equipment getting mouldy or broken - they were already pretty bad before. No one really noticed that one.

And Bill has no specific attachment to anyone there so no more dead body 'gifts'

No one is even able to confirm that Wendy is the one who brought this plague upon their land. In the very least they can't get that information out of her or anyone who knows her 🤭

He does favours for Wendy, provided she do something for him in turn. They've communicated this wordlessly through nods and glances and expressions.

Bill's just a guy she knows at this point, they don't live together, she's not directly responsible for his food and bed situation, he's a campus cat now

Students are spending money on fresh meat to feed Bill by hand. Wendy informed them that he likes Bolognese sauce

There's shrines to Bill in corners of the school praying to him for good grades

The college had no choice but to make him the new mascot, after multiple linked cases of violent mascot costume maulings and reports of nightmares over several weeks

Staff took down the shrines once and bad things happened. So the Bill shrines went back up

All in good fun of course (?)

Now that Bill has a whole campus worth of humans who both fear and adore him, speaking of him in rumour and giving him offerings, he's...chilled out??

He only bites people gently. He purrs and flirts and crashes lectures. He raises his hackles and hisses at empty spaces regularly.

In other words he behaves almost like a regular cat of average intellect.

Nobody has died yet, that's all we need to hear 👍

He is going to outlive this school and Wendy tolerates him

#my art #gravity falls #wendy corduroy #cat bill #bill cipher #stanford pines #stanley pines #queued post

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lovecoatedwords · 2 days ago

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“Promised Vows, Pt. 3”

featuring: poly marauders x reader (arranged marriage au) angsty but also fluff (later on)

Series master list

previous chapter

next chapter

The morning is cold, silver-gray light leaking through the estate windows as you’re summoned to the foyer.

James doesn’t look up from the papers in his hand as he explains the change in plans. “Remus is tied up with the delegates from the northern house, and I’ll be handling the venue security this afternoon.”

You nod, unsure what that means for you.

Then Sirius walks in, tugging on his gloves, coat already half-buttoned. His eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second—cold, unreadable—before flicking away.

“You’ll be going into the city,” James says. “You need something appropriate for the political summit. Sirius will take you.”

The silence that follows is loud. Sirius exhales through his nose like he’s already regretting this.

“Try not to take all day,” he mutters, brushing past you without pausing. “I’m not your maid.”

You say nothing. Just follow.

He doesn’t slow his pace as you trail behind him down the drive. Doesn’t open the car door. Doesn’t speak during the ride into the city.

You sit quietly in the passenger seat, watching the trees blur into gray as the estate vanishes behind you. It’s the first time you’ve left since the wedding.

He doesn’t ask you what you like. Doesn’t offer opinions when you pass storefronts. He parks the car and walks ahead, and you have to catch up—his long strides forcing you to hurry, just to keep him in sight.

And still, you feel invisible.

Inside the boutique, the world is rich with color and fabric and warmth. None of it touches you. You drift through it, unsure of where to start, unsure if you’re allowed to want anything.

Sirius leans against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes on his phone. When the shopkeeper greets you, you barely get the words out.

“A dress,” you say quietly. “For a political gathering.”

The woman nods, warm and professional. She leads you through options. You glance back at Sirius once—he doesn’t look up. You stop trying after that.

Eventually, you find something. Simple. Elegant. Not too bold. You step out of the dressing room quietly, fingers twisting in the fabric.

Still, he doesn’t look.

“Will this work?” you ask, almost whispering.

He lifts his head, barely. Gives you one glance. Shrugs.

“It’s fine.”

Outside the shop, the city has grown busier.

Sirius says nothing as he steps onto the sidewalk, turning down the boulevard without checking to see if you’re following. His coat billows slightly in the wind, the only part of him that waits.

You hurry to catch up, dress box tucked carefully under one arm.

The street is a living thing—horses clatter past, voices rise and fall in sharp laughter, and somewhere a street performer plays something haunting on a bowed instrument. Everything moves too fast. Too bright. Too loud.

You try not to fall behind again.

But then—something catches your eye.

A bookshop window. Small. Tucked between two taller buildings like a secret. The glass is fogged slightly with the chill, but the display is careful: first editions, weathered spines, a journal with gold foiling that glints just enough to feel like memory.

There’s a copy of a poetry collection you recognize. Your mother had it. Wrote in the margins with delicate ink. You’d forgotten that.

You stop. Just for a second.

Your fingers twitch toward the window. A quiet ache unfurls in your chest—not longing exactly, but recognition. A life that once felt soft.

You don’t mean to linger.

It’s just that no one’s ever told you what’s allowed to matter.

When you finally turn back toward the street—

He’s gone.

No black coat. No lean figure in the crowd. No hint of where he turned.

Your breath catches.

You take two steps forward, heart starting to thud.

Still nothing.

You scan the sidewalk. Try to follow the direction he’d been walking. But there’s too many people. Too many streets. Too many ways to disappear.

You don’t call his name.

You just start walking.

One turn becomes another.

The stone underfoot changes texture. The noise sharpens. The city smells different here—less perfume, more smoke.

And that’s when it hits you.

You’re lost.

Really lost.

And Sirius Black has no idea where you are

Your feet move faster now. Left. Then right. Another street. Another wrong turn.

The sky’s begun to dim—not dark, not yet, but the light has thinned, stretched into a color that doesn’t feel safe.

You pass a bakery. A florist shuttering for the day. The scent of warm sugar and crushed petals lingers in the air, but none of it feels familiar. None of it feels like anything you can hold on to.

You press forward anyway.

Try to remember the storefront. The cobbled corner. The bookshop.

But it’s all blurred now, smudged at the edges like something seen through tears you haven’t cried yet.

Panic starts quietly.Just a shallow breath. . The way your fingers tighten on the box in your arms like it could anchor you.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You’ll find the shop again. You’ll find him.

But the street curves the wrong way, and now there’s music drifting from somewhere behind you, and the people around you are laughing too loud, too close. A man brushes your shoulder. Doesn’t look back.

Your steps falter.Your throat tightens

You veer down a narrow side path without thinking—something quieter, something smaller—stone walls pressing in on either side as the sounds of the street dull behind you.

It’s not an alley, not really. More of a courtyard—walled in on three sides, a rusted gate hanging open at the fourth. There’s an old fountain in the center, long dry. Ivy crawls across brick in fading green.

You stop beside the fountain.

Set the box down.

Breathe.

The silence here is different. Not peaceful. Just empty.

You sit on the edge of the stone, hands braced at your sides, chest heaving. The cold finds your fingertips first, then seeps in deeper. You don’t cry. You don’t call for help. But your legs have started to shake, and you feel like the whole world has narrowed to this one courtyard where no one knows your name.

You don’t say it out loud, but you know what it is.

It’s abandonment.

In a different shape. A different street. A different silence.

Still the same ache.

And just as the first real fear starts to settle behind your ribs—

You hear footsteps.

Boots.Deliberate.Close

You freeze.

The footsteps don’t rush. They stroll. Measured. Casual.

That’s what makes them worse.

You rise slowly, the stone of the fountain cold against your palms as you steady yourself. The box lies forgotten at your feet.

A figure appears at the far end of the courtyard. Then another. Then a third.

They don’t speak.

Not at first.

The one in front steps forward, boots crunching softly over old gravel. His coat is dark, but not official. Not uniform. This isn’t someone from the city guard. Not even a delegate. His face is familiar, though. Not because you know him—but because you’ve seen that shape before. The sharp angles of your father’s enemies.

One of the old families.

Their sons.

Their knives.

“Didn’t think we’d see one of you walking alone,” the lead man says, voice smooth as oil and just as slick. “They must be getting careless.”

Your heart pounds, but you don’t move.

The second one circles wide, to the right. The third lingers near the rusted gate. They’re triangulating—positioning like they’ve done this before.

“Wasn’t she the one from the East House?” the one on the right murmurs, as if you’re not standing right there. “The quiet one. The one they married off.”

A laugh. Bitter. Dry.

“I’d heard she was pretty,” the leader says, cocking his head as if to inspect you. “Can’t say I don’t see the appeal.”

You still haven’t spoken.

Your silence is a thin armor. You’re afraid your voice will shake if you try to use it.

The third man moves now—toward the gate, toward the exit. He’s locking it.

Not with keys. Just his body. Just his presence.

“She’s shivering,” one of them says softly, voice almost kind. “Isn’t that something?”

The air turns colder—not from the wind, but from the realization sinking into your bones.

This isn’t chance.

They saw you.

They followed.

And they waited.

“We could send a message,” the leader murmurs, turning toward you fully now. “Something small. A cut. A mark. Just enough to remind them what happens when blood like yours marries into houses like theirs.”

He takes another step.

You take one back—and hit the lip of the fountain.

There’s nowhere to go.

The courtyard presses in on all sides.

Your hand curls around the edge of the stone, gripping hard.

The second one is closer now. His eyes flick to your dress, the box, the exposed wrist where the old bandage peeks from your sleeve.

“Still healing?” he asks softly, mockingly. “That’s sweet.”

You hate how they say nothing loudly. How their presence swallows sound. How the city feels miles away.

You tell yourself to run.

But your body doesn’t listen.

Because somewhere inside, you know: even if you screamed, no one would come.

They take one more step.

And then—one of them reaches out.

Fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve. That’s when the quiet breaks.

You barely have time to process the movement before a loud, sharp voice cuts through the courtyard.

"Touch her, and you’ll lose your hands."

The words slice through the thick air like a blade. Your breath catches. The men freeze. Their heads snap toward the source.

Sirius is standing at the far side of the courtyard, framed by the flickering lamplight. His presence fills the space with a sharp, cold edge, like the air just dropped twenty degrees. The way he stands—legs slightly apart, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on the trio with a dangerous calm—sends a chill through your spine.

His voice doesn’t waver.

“I said, don’t touch her,” he repeats, each word deliberate, menacing.

The leader laughs, but it’s hollow. Forced. A little too loud. “And what, you’ll stop us? You’re outnumbered.”

Sirius doesn’t blink. His eyes lock on the man who had moved toward you, who had just brushed your sleeve. “Last warning. Take another step, and I will make sure you regret it.”

The courtyard feels smaller, the distance between Sirius and the men closing with every heartbeat. The tension is unbearable, thick enough to suffocate you. The men shift, calculating, but Sirius is already in motion. His movements are fluid, controlled—no hesitation.

He steps forward, and suddenly, the man nearest to you stumbles back, eyes wide with surprise. A flick of Sirius’s wrist, a soft sound of leather meeting flesh, and the man falls against the fountain, a hiss of pain escaping his lips.

The second man, now fully alert, lunges toward Sirius. But Sirius is faster—too fast. He catches the man’s wrist in a firm grip, twists it behind his back with a practiced motion. The man grunts, knees buckling.

The leader watches, calculating, before he pulls a knife from his coat. The blade gleams in the dim light as he flicks it toward Sirius, his face twisted in amusement.

“You think you’re some sort of knight?” the leader taunts, his voice dripping with scorn. “You’ll get us all riled up, and then what? We’ll see how your family reacts to blood spilled on their streets.”

Sirius steps aside as the knife sails past him, narrowly missing his side. His expression remains unreadable, a predator toying with its prey. “You should’ve stayed hidden in your rat hole,” he says, voice cold as ice. “I gave you a chance to walk away.”

But the leader lunges again, faster this time, his knife aimed straight for Sirius’s abdomen.

This time, Sirius is ready. He catches the wrist mid-air, twisting violently, and the man drops the knife with a sharp cry. Before he can regain his balance, Sirius shoves him hard—forcing him to stumble backward, crashing into the side of the fountain with a sickening thud.

The last man, the one who had been near the gate, hesitates for a moment longer, glancing at his fallen companions. The air is thick with tension. He looks between Sirius and you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

For a split second, you think he might back down. But instead, he sneers and turns to run, darting for the exit.

But Sirius is already in motion. His hand shoots out, catching the man by the collar and yanking him back, pulling him into the hard stone wall of the courtyard with a brutal thud.

“Not so fast,” Sirius growls, his voice low and lethal.

The man’s breath hitches as he scrambles to get free, but Sirius holds him firm, his grip like iron.

“You don’t get to run,” Sirius says, his voice a harsh whisper. “You don’t get to hurt her, and you don’t get to leave without a reminder of who you messed with.”

The man’s eyes widen in fear. He’s trembling now, realizing too late how far he’s gone.

Sirius draws in a breath, and with a sharp twist of his hand, the man drops to his knees, defeated. His body slumps against the wall, gasping for air.

Sirius steps back, his gaze never leaving the group, as if daring them to try again. “Leave. Now.”

The leader, dazed and furious, stumbles to his feet, one last defiant glare thrown in your direction before they finally retreat—limping, bruised, humiliated. They move quickly, slipping back into the shadows, away from Sirius’s unforgiving gaze.

You remain frozen, your chest heaving, the reality of what just happened sinking in. The silence that follows is deafening, as though the world has held its breath.

Sirius doesn’t move toward you immediately. Instead, he watches the men vanish into the distance, ensuring they’re gone for good.

And then, finally, he turns toward you.

“You alright?” His voice is softer now, but there’s a lingering coldness to it, a sharp edge that only comes from moments like this.

You nod, but it feels inadequate, small. You don’t trust your voice to answer him. You’re still too shaken.

He steps forward, his eyes scanning you with quiet intensity. Then, without another word, he holds out his hand, as if offering some kind of anchor in the chaos.

It’s a silent gesture, but the meaning is clear. There’s no judgment, no scolding.

You take his hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. The tremors in your body don’t stop immediately, but they’re less frantic, less desperate now. His fingers curl around yours, firm but gentle, as if offering a quiet reassurance.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Sirius’s eyes scan over you, sharp and careful, but there’s something softer in them now. He’s not the same man who’d stood cold and distant just moments before, the one who had barely acknowledged your presence back at the boutique. No, this man is different—protective, aware, raw with something unspoken that you can’t quite put a name to.

He leans in just slightly, close enough for his breath to brush against your cheek. “You’re safe now.”

The words settle over you, a blanket of safety that feels almost unreal. You nod, too afraid to speak, but the relief that washes over you is almost too much to bear.

He doesn't rush you. He doesn’t pull you into some forced comfort. Instead, he stands there, his hand still holding yours, waiting for you to find your balance again. You can feel his presence like a wall between you and the remnants of fear that still threaten to close in on you.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he says finally, his voice rough but not unkind. His gaze flicks toward the gate, then back to you, as though waiting for any sign that you’re ready to move.

You don’t respond right away. For the first time, you let yourself lean into him—just a little. You lean into his steadiness, his unspoken promise that, for now, you don’t have to face this alone.

Your steps are slow at first, hesitant, but with each one you feel the pressure on your chest lift just a bit more. The weight of the evening still clings to you like a second skin, but with Sirius beside you, it feels easier to breathe.

He guides you through the courtyard, his hand still holding yours, and as you pass through the rusted gate, you glance back one last time. The shadows are deep, the courtyard empty once more, but the fear that had held you captive there is already starting to fade. Not completely—but enough that you can see the world again, see the streetlights flickering in the distance, hear the muffled sounds of the city.

Sirius doesn’t let go of your hand, not as you walk down the narrow street, not as you finally reach the car. There’s no hurry in his movements, no sense of urgency. He simply walks beside you, his pace steady, like the night hadn’t just been filled with danger. Like nothing had just nearly shattered the fragile quiet you’d been clinging to.

When you get into the car, he’s silent for a long moment, staring out the window, lost in his thoughts. You want to speak, to thank him, but the words are caught somewhere deep inside you, tangled with the mess of everything that just happened.

Instead, you sit there, letting the stillness between you speak for itself.

You feel the weight of everything—your silence, his distance, the way your chest still tightens every time you think about the courtyard. The gate. The voices. The way they looked at you like you were prey.

And SSirius who hadn’t spoken a word since leading you from the alley. Sirius who had grabbed your hand like he wasn’t even thinking about it. Like he just had to know you were there.

You steal a glance at him now.

He’s tense. One hand on the wheel, the other braced near the gearshift. His jaw tight. His eyes forward. But there’s a tremor in the way he exhales. Barely noticeable. Controlled. Except not.

You shift in your seat. Not enough to break the silence. Just enough to breathe.

The gates of the estate come into view.

And still, he says nothing.

The car rolls to a stop beneath the wide arch of the main drive. The cold stone of the manor looms tall against the dying sky, windows glowing with faint, expensive warmth. A place that never quite feels like yours.

Sirius cuts the engine.

The silence stretches.

You don’t move to get out. Neither does he.

Then, finally—

“I didn’t mean to leave you.”

It’s quiet. Rough. Like it scrapes something raw on its way out.

You turn to him slowly.

He still isn’t looking at you. His eyes are fixed on the dash. His hands grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. “I turned around, and you weren’t there. I thought you were right behind me.”

Your breath catches.

You’re not sure what you expected. Anger, maybe. A cold dismissal. Another shrug.

But not this.

“I’m not used to—” he stops. Clenches his jaw again. “I don’t usually… have to worry if someone’s keeping up.”

The words aren’t exactly kind.

But they’re closer than anything he’s given you before.

You hesitate. Then: “I wasn’t trying to disappear.”

“I know.”

The admission is softer. Realer.

Then a beat. And something darker: “Those men. They weren’t random. They knew what they were doing.”

You nod. You’re not ready to talk about it. But you need him to know you understand.

Sirius finally looks at you.

His eyes are dark in the dim light. Too sharp. Too haunted. “You can’t wander like that. Not here. Not in this city. Not with who you are.”

You swallow.

It’s not a scolding. Not exactly.

It’s fear, pressed flat into words.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you murmur. “I stopped for a second. The bookshop reminded me of something. And then…”

You trail off. He doesn’t need the rest.

His gaze holds yours. Longer than it ever has before.

And for once, it feels like he sees you. Not just the alliance. Not just the marriage.

You.

“You should’ve called for me,” he says, voice tight.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Silence.

And then: “I always come.”

Your breath stutters.

The door opens. Sirius steps out first. Crosses around to your side. Opens the passenger door—too quickly, like the habit isn’t natural yet.

You blink up at him.

“I can carry it,” you whisper, nodding to the box.

“I know.” He doesn’t move to take it. “I’ll walk you in.”

You rise slowly. The cold bites at your skin again, the shock of air after the insulated warmth of the car. You fall into step beside him.

The drive is silent, but different now. Not heavy. Just quiet.

He doesn’t rush ahead this time. Doesn’t leave you to catch up.

When you reach the steps of the manor, he pauses.

You turn to face him.

There’s something like hesitation in his eyes. Like he’s trying to say something and doesn’t know how.

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he says finally. “That’s on me.”

You want to say thank you.

You want to say it wasn’t.

But all that comes out is: “I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.”

Sirius flinches—just a little.

Then, softer than you expect: “I noticed.”

The light from the doorway spills over his face, cutting sharp shadows across his cheekbones. He looks like a statue carved from something too proud to break. And yet—

His voice is barely a breath when he says it:

“I notice more than you think.”

And then he’s turning away, back down the steps, coat billowing behind him in the cold.

You don’t follow.

You just stand there, dress box in your arms, watching him vanish into the night.But this time, you’re not invisible.This time, he looked.

a/n: I hope this was worth the wait!! Tho next time I will post more quickly (had lots of writer block) ! <3

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tennessoui · 2 days ago

Note

35 from the list of prompts either in a sexy way or a hurt/comfort way? alternatively 3 or 16! congrats on finishing the essay 🥳

oh im so late on this, but i need to do a writing warm up so thank god i didn't delete any of the prompt requests <3

[from this list of prompts]

[1. 'come over here and make me' (LATEST) - 2. ’have you lost your damn mind?’ - 4. ‘do you…well, i mean…i could give you a massage?’ - 5. ’are you jealous’ - 6. 'is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?’ - 13. 'kiss me.’ - 14. 'hey, i’m with you, okay? always.’ - 18. ’this is the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. of course i’m in.’ - 19. 'the paint is supposed to go where?’ - 22. 'i’ve seen the way you look at me when you think i don’t notice’ - 24. ’you’re the only one i trust to do this’ - 25. 'i can’t believe you talked me into this’ - 27. ’i’m pregnant’ - 28. 'marry me?’ - 29. ’i thought you were dead’ - 32. ’i think i’m in love with you and i’m terrified’ - 37. 'wanna dance?’ - 38. ’you fainted straight into my arms…if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to got to such extremes.’ - 44. 'if you die, i’m gonna kill you’ - 41. 'you did all of this for me?’ - 46. ’hey, have you seen…? oh’]

16. "it could be worse."

Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut against the dazzling firefight playing out in the air before him. From his vantage point crouched low behind a tall stack of crates they'd planned to use to smuggle the Republic sympathizers to safety, he can see the precise moment that a rebel fighter is hit in the chest with Imperial blasterfire. The woman goes down immediately, weapon dropping to the ground next to her body.

"The tunnels," Kara murmurs from his shoulder, and Obi-Wan nods, turning from the dead rebel to look around at the rest of them, the ones who are not fighters, mostly citizens, some engineers, politicians who have never picked up a blaster in their lives. These are the factions of rebels that Rebel General Obi-Wan Kenobi is supposed to protect.

"The tunnels," he agrees, and opens his mouth to give Kara, his second in command further instruction, when a chill descends in the air around them. No, not the air.

In the Force.

Obi-Wan's mouth runs dry and he inhales sharply as the newcomer's Force presence expands outward, a powerful torrent of pure dark rage.

"Vader," he says, and Kara's eyes widen before she lets out a curse.

It is not common for the Emperor to let his most ferocious guard dog off his leash for something as inconsequential as their small rebellion. After all, sending his apprentice to quash the uprising runs the risk of legitimizing it. Obi-Wan can count on one hand the amount of times he has heard of Vader pursuing rebel forces in the ten years since the fall of the Republic.

And each time, there have been no survivors.

Obi-Wan's eyes fall away from Kara's face, push past the surrounding faces--all scared, all dirty and bloodless with their fear--back to the corner of the small room. Luke looks back at him, eyebrows furrowed and small screwdriver clutched tightly in one hand. The other hand is wrapped around his sister's wrist, though they don't know that.

There's so much they don't know, so much Obi-Wan had never wanted to tell them.

"It could be worse," Obi-Wan murmurs, running a hand over the edges of his beard. There's a shout from behind him, the familiar cadence of a clone trooper that used to mean ally and now means enemy.

Kara scoffs, rubbing her hands over her thighs in a nervous gesture. "How?" she asks. "If you're right, if that's Vader--we're dead. How could it be worse?"

"Ah," Obi-Wan says, almost apologetically. "Well, you could be facing him without me."

"What?" Kara's eyes narrow, mind running fast, but they don't have that sort of time. Luke and Leia must survive. He'd promised Bail that he would find Leia; that she'd be returned safe to her parents.

And Luke--he'd had him for ten years, raised him as his own despite Yoda's wishes and his own agreement. He'd been unable to give him to his uncle and aunt in the end--just like he'd been unable to kill Anakin on Mustafar, just like he'd been unable to resist joining the Rebellion when Bail had approached him with the first seeds of it.

Time after time, he'd made the weak choice--the selfish one. And finally, it has come time to pay his dues.

"I need you to take Luke and Leia to Alderaan," he tells Kara. "Bail will understand what has happened. He will know what to do."

Luke was raised in the rebellion. It was no place for a child, but he knew no other way to live. He'd acclimatize to life in the palace. He'd be alright. They'd have to pretend he was a servant, or a distant cousin. They'd have to change his name. In a few years, when he's old enough, they will tell him the truth. Leia too.

"He will not want to go," Obi-Wan says, turning his head and lowering his voice to speak directly to Kara. Both the twins' senses are incredibly heightened by the Force. Best to not risk it. "Tell him I will join you momentarily. Tell him that until you are airborne if you must."

Kara's eyes are wet, but they do not have time for silly arguments. "General, you have no chance against Vader."

There's a louder, closer spray of blaster fire. That Force signature, so darling once, crushes down around them. They have no time, but: "Have a little faith, Commander," he says, dredging up a smile and clapping Cody on the shoulder the way he's done a hundred times--a thousand. "Go."

This time he is obeyed, though he does not stay and watch. He does not stay to hear Luke call after him. It disgusts him, the magnitude of his own selfishness. The truth of how much this will hurt Luke. He should never have joined the Rebellion; he should never have brought Anakin's son so close to this war.

He flicks his saber on and pours himself into battle.

It will take the contingent of Rebels at least thirty minutes to make it through the tunnels and aboard the small ships they've docked on the other side of the mountain range. He only needs to give them that time. He only needs to give them enough time to escape.

Escape Vader.

Vader, who hardly ever flies out to crush rebel forces.

But it was only a few days ago that Obi-Wan was caught on security holo in the lower levels of the city on the planet's oceanside.

Of course Vader who come.

Obi-Wan is banking on being the reason for Vader's presence.

Perhaps this too is a sort of selfishness.

It is not enough to have stolen Anakin's son and raised him as his own; it is not enough to have fought Darth Vader in his nascency, knocked him unconscious and then been unable to strike the killing blow.

Perhaps Obi-Wan is as he was ten years ago, just desperate to see that beloved face once again. Desperate to still mean something to him, even though they are changed men now. A monster and a Jedi. Or what's left of a Jedi.

He deflects a blastershot to a rebel soldier's head and pushes him towards the entrance to the tunnels. Anyone he can save. Anything to make this sacrifice worth it.

He cuts through a stormtrooper's arm and then into the muscle of his armored thigh. There is little material that can protect against a lightsaber. Only beskar.

Beskar and--

A line of red meets and clashes against Obi-Wan's blue saber, holding it at bay.

Beskar and other lightsabers.

Vader's expressionless mask meets Obi-Wan's eyes at the same time that his Force signature slams into him like a full frontal speeder wreck.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan whispers. He doesn't mean to--it's just--it's impossible to ignore, impossible still to understand even after all these years. Anakin. This is Anakin, this is his Anakin, dressed in the costume of Darth Vader, swinging a red lightsaber and serving the master of the Dark side of the Force.

"Master," Vader purrs out through his vocodor.

It is immediately clear how much more powerful Anakin has grown since Mustafar. He is thirty-two now, has had ten years to train and learn.

Obi-Wan is forty-eight and only ever reaches for the Force during training sessions with Luke. He is out of practice and weakened by his grief.

He never stood a chance. But he had not come here to stand.

There is very little faith left in his soul, but he throws what he has into the Force for the first time in years.

Then he flicks off his saber and falls to his knees, casting the weapon out of his hand.

This weapon is your life, he'd told Anakin on the eve of his first trip to Illum. He remembers the words, the way they'd felt wrong in his mouth, but the way he'd said them anyway because he needed Anakin to believe them. He'd needed Anakin to never lose his weapon, to never give it away because it was the best chance of his survival and somewhere between Qui-Gon's death and that first trip to Illum, his survival had become tangled up with Obi-Wan's.

"Will you kill an unarmed man, Anakin?" Obi-Wan asks, tilting his chin up. His mouth is dry. He hopes Luke understands with time. "I did not."

It would have been so easy. It would have been the hardest thing Obi-Wan had ever done. That entire day--the memories of it are hazy, each second lasting an hour as new horrors and betrayals and deaths had run him through, but he remembers every moment of that battle on Mustafar. Trying to reason with Anakin before having no choice but to attack.

Fighting on the lava rivers, through the old mining architecture, fighting for his life but tearing himself apart at the same moment as he fought against his life, against his purpose, his padawan--

It had felt like a miracle, like a blessing from the Force when he'd struck Anakin's temple with the hilt of his saber and the boy's head had hit the corner of the transporter pad they'd been fighting on. He'd collapsed, unconscious.

And Obi-Wan--Obi-Wan could not bring himself to kill an unarmed man. He had too much honor for that.

No--he just could not bring himself to kill Anakin Skywalker. He was too selfish for that.

He'd carried his body to the shore instead. Then he'd gathered Anakin's wife into his arms, though all he'd wanted to do was hold Anakin instead, and he'd left him there.

And now, ten years later, here he is. Unarmed and on his knees before the man he couldn't kill.

Vader stares at him, light saber held at his side and still lit.

"No," Vader finally intones, reaching up and unclipping his helmet. Obi-Wan starts automatically, pushing himself back from the sight though stormtroopers latch onto his arms to restrain him. He hadn't--he can't see Anakin's face. He is not strong enough to survive it. Vader always wears the mask, the armor, he has not seen Anakin's face in ten years, he hadn't thought he'd see it now, and he can't---

That beloved golden hair is shorn short, curls perhaps long gone. The lines on Anakin's face are deep, making him appear so much older than thirty-two. His eyes are flint hard and a burning yellow and he is so beautiful and familiar and dear, despite it--despite everything.

And--on his temple, on the left, the black ink of a tattoo. A jagged circle with harsh lines running across his forehead and down the side of his cheek.

Obi-Wan knows it intimately. He'd struck him there ten years ago.

And Anakin had gotten the wound immortalized.

"No, Master," Vader says in Anakin's voice, made deeper and more mature over the last ten years. His gloved fingers ghost over Obi-Wan's cheek before gripping his chin. "But I will not leave him as you did."

Obi-Wan flinches. The stormtroopers' grips tighten on his arms.

Anakin turns away from him. "Strip him of any weapons and bring him to my ship," he barks out. "We depart immediately."

"But sir, the rebels--"

"They are of no import," Anakin says. "Not when I have Kenobi."

Obi-Wan closes his eyes and sends a prayer to the Force in the moment before a suppression collar is fastened around his neck.

He is incredibly selfish, really. When Anakin says I have Kenobi, a part of Obi-Wan thinks immediately: you never lost him.

#asks #prompt fill #obikin #vaderwan #you just know that palpatine had a whole big plan where anakin was going to be suitless vader #the only true non traitor jedi #but NOOOO then the stupid boy has to go and get a break up tattoo on his fucking face #sidious takes one look and is like. get in the fucking murder suit #i can't stand to see your face

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theosang3ls · 2 days ago

Text

Tell me what you need

inspired by “Champagne Coast” by Blood Orange

pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Female Reader

summary: Mattheo loves to tease you for being a “bookworm,” but beneath the smirks and your quiet deflections, something far more dangerous simmers—something neither of you can ignore the moment you find yourselves alone, just beyond the noise of the party.

warnings: smoking, mentions of weed, reader is under the influence of alcohol, suggestive implications (very slight though)

!all characters are over the age of 18!

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You were perched on the cold concrete floor of the balcony, tucked tightly into the corner where the stone wall met the railing. The chill from the castle’s ancient stone seeped through your clothes, but you didn’t mind it—it grounded you. Anchored you. The night air kissed your flushed cheeks and threaded through your hair, easing the alcohol in your system just enough to help you breathe again. You weren’t a heavy drinker, not usually. But when you did let loose, you made sure to drink enough to feel it—the warmth spreading through your veins, the pleasant fuzziness in your thoughts, the slight stumble in your step.

Tonight had been fun—more fun than you’d expected. You’d laughed too loudly, danced with abandon, and let yourself exist for a while outside the strict routine of your daily life. But eventually, the dizziness crept in. That nauseating kind of drunk that made the floor feel like it was shifting beneath your feet. Before you embarrassed yourself on the dance floor, you’d made a quick exit, murmuring something to your friends before slipping out to the balcony. The beat of the music still pulsed through the castle walls, muffled now, like a distant heartbeat.

The cigarette pack in your coat pocket was wrinkled, half-forgotten. You only ever touched it when you were drunk, and tonight was no exception. Instead of a cigarette, your fingers brushed against a joint—leftover from a previous night like this one. You pressed it to your lips, cupped your hand around the flame as you lit it, and took a long drag. Smoke filled your lungs, warm and heavy, mixing with the alcohol already pulsing through you. The combination grounded you. Slowed your racing thoughts. For a moment, you let yourself exist in stillness.

“Didn’t know you smoked, angel.”

The voice sliced through the silence, rough and familiar. You didn’t even have to look. That nickname alone told you exactly who it was.

Mattheo.

Of course it was him. It was always him.

He was the only person who dared to call you that—“angel”—with that infuriating mixture of amusement and mockery. It wasn’t even subtle. He said it like it was a joke only he was in on, like your existence in this world of chaos and rebellion was something precious, something too pure to touch. It drove you insane. Not only because it wasn’t true—you weren’t the angel he said—but because there was something in the way he said it that made you want it to be true, or false, or anything, as long as he kept noticing you, talking to you, even tease you. And god help you, he was so hot when he made fun of you—that playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips and that challenging glint in his eyes— it made your knees buckle. You hated it, because no one made you feel weak and you couldn’t admit that Mattheo was your weakness, even if it was true.

He teased you endlessly, like it was his favorite pastime. Snide remarks about your glasses. Your tidy handwriting. Your constant studying. The way you always tied your hair up, out of your face. He made fun of you like it was a game—but one he played too well, too often. And you? as attractive as found it, you pretended not to care. You never took the bait. You clung tighter to your books when he passed by. You rolled your eyes. You muttered a dry retort under your breath. But you never talked. Never gave him the satisfaction of a reaction. And that—he later admitted—only made it worse. Because there was something addictive about the dynamic you two had built.

A tension just under the surface.

A spark neither of you would light, but both of you felt.

You took another drag and exhaled slowly, lips curved into a small smirk. “Life’s full of surprises,” you murmured, finally tilting your head to look at him.

Mattheo stood in the doorway, his figure half-lit by the flickering party lights from behind him. His silhouette was sharp—shoulders relaxed, cigarette dangling between his fingers, that familiar look of mischief dancing in his eyes. When your eyes met his, something shifted. Just slightly. A flicker of surprise, maybe. Curiosity. Interest.

He moved closer, not saying a word, and lowered himself beside you. He sat just far enough to avoid touching, but close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. Close enough to breathe in the scent of smoke, cologne, and something uniquely his. He held the cigarette between his lips, but didn’t light it. Instead, he just… looked at you.

You, in your drunk-and-high daze, hair down, glasses gone, makeup smudged and lipstick staining the joint like a signature. You weren’t the girl he saw in the library, scribbling notes and chewing on pen caps. You weren’t the one who muttered quick answers to professors and disappeared when the bell rang. Not tonight.

Tonight, you were someone else.

And Mattheo couldn’t stop staring.

That realization hit him like a punch to the chest, so he averted his gaze and lit his cigarette with a practiced flick.

The silence between you crackled with tension—comfortable, yet sharp. Like something electric lingered in the air, waiting to be ignited.

“You know I’m not a nerd, right?” you said suddenly, voice low, but steady. The alcohol gave you just enough courage to speak. To confront the label he’d playfully wrapped around you like a ribbon.

You didn’t look at him. Just kept your eyes fixed on the sky, where the stars blinked lazily above the castle towers. “I just wear glasses and put my hair up. Only when I’m studying. It gets in the way.”

Your laugh was soft, self-deprecating. “Guess that makes me a nerd by your standards.”

Mattheo glanced at you, brow raised, intrigued by the shift in your usual silence. This version of you—the one talking back—was unexpected. Different. And yet, he was drawn to it in the same way he’d always been drawn to the mystery of your quiet.

“No way that’s the only reason,” he said, smirking again. “You wear your hair up like you’re hiding something.”

Your laugh deepened, smoky and genuine. “Fine. I wear it up for… special occasions, too.” There was a flicker of something behind your voice. Something suggestive. And though it was subtle, Mattheo caught it. He felt it. But instead of reacting, he leaned into the smirk, playing it cool.

“So tonight’s not a special occasion?” You turned to look at him fully, your eyes glassy but sharp beneath the intoxication. You smiled—small, knowing, tired. “Not that kind of special,” you murmured and he just laughed, amused.

For several moments silence lingered in the night sky, the only sound you could hear was the inhaling and exhaling of smoke.

You didn’t say anything at first. You let the moment stretch thin and electric between you like a taut string—vibrating with something unspoken, something far more fragile than either of you were ready to name. It settled over you both like dust caught in moonlight: soft, silent, impossible to ignore.

Behind you, the party had all but disappeared into insignificance. The muted thump of the bass had faded into a low, irrelevant pulse, like a heartbeat you’d stopped syncing with. Laughter echoed faintly from behind the stone walls of the common room, but it was distant—like the memory of a world that didn’t quite belong to this version of the night. Out here, under the cold breath of the night air, time felt slow. Heavier. Like it belonged only to the two of you.

Mattheo took another drag from his cigarette, head tilted toward the stars, but his body betrayed him. His posture was too tense, too alert. Like his thoughts were turned inward, circling around something just beneath the surface of his skin—and whatever it was, it pointed straight at you. You could feel his restraint as something physical. A wall—not tall, but dense, built brick by brick from sarcasm, deflections, and half-hearted insults. You both had learned to lean against it instead of trying to climb it.

But tonight, that wall was beginning to crack.

You shifted, just slightly, your head resting back against the castle wall as you turned to glance at him—his profile shadowed, cigarette ember glowing like a dying star between his fingers. “You really thought I was that innocent?” you asked, voice light, curious. Almost teasing—but not quite. Mattheo didn’t look at you right away. He flicked ash from the edge of his cigarette, jaw tight, eyes still fixed somewhere up in the velvet sky. And when he did answer, it wasn’t with the smug tone he usually wielded like armor. “You are,” he said simply. Quietly. Like it was an objective fact. Like gravity. You scoffed under your breath, half-amused. “Because I read books and don’t make out in the common room?”

“No,” he said, and finally, finally turned his gaze to meet yours. “Because you don’t let people see you. Not really. Not the parts that matter.” That silenced you. Not because it was wrong—but because it was so unnervingly, uncomfortably right.

His eyes were darker now, less guarded, stripped of that teasing gleam he usually wore like a smirk stretched too wide. There was a quiet intensity in them that made your pulse flutter. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. Because somewhere beneath all the sarcasm and sharp comments, he saw you. And that was terrifying. Because you saw him too.

He looked at you like he wanted to say more. Like he wanted to lay it all down in the space between you—every messed-up thought, every too-soft feeling he didn’t know how to name. But the second the silence thickened into something dangerous, he veered away from it.

Like always.

“I mean,” he added, forcing his voice back into a drawl, “you did spend a whole semester blushing every time I said ‘wand.’”

You exhaled a sharp breath of disbelief, but the laugh escaped you anyway—soft, unwilling, real. “That’s because you always said it like it meant something else.”

“It did mean something else,” he said smugly.

And you laughed again, this time quieter. Something in your chest loosened with the sound. The tension didn’t vanish—but it changed shape. It folded itself into something more vulnerable, more intimate.

He watched you with a subtle kind of fascination—like he didn’t mean to be caught staring, but couldn’t stop himself. And it wasn’t the way he usually looked at you, not laced with flirtation or challenge. It was curious. Gentle. Like he was trying to memorize something he didn’t know he’d need later.

You turned your body towards him slightly, shoulder brushing his, your thigh close enough to his that the warmth bled through. He didn’t shift away. And that in itself said more than words.

“Why do you always do that?” you asked quietly. Mattheo blinked. “Do what?”“Push, tease, then pull away like it’s all a game.”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. His smirk didn’t reappear. He didn’t deflect.

He just looked at you—long enough for you to start counting the beats between your heart and his breath. Long enough for you to start wondering if this was the moment where everything unraveled.

“It’s exhausting,” you added, voice softer now. “Wanting to punch you or kiss you every time you open your mouth.”

He froze. Like the words had landed in a part of him that hadn’t been touched in a long time.bThe cigarette stilled between his fingers. He swallowed, hard.

“You don’t mean that,” he said finally—but it wasn’t said with confidence. It was spoken like a dare he didn’t want you to take.

You didn’t look away. “Don’t I?” That silence again. But this one was deeper. This was the silence that falls before a storm, before a kiss, before something irreversible.

Mattheo stared at you like you were a puzzle he’d already tried to solve too many times—and hated that he never could. Like he was mad at you for seeing through him. Like he was mad at himself for letting you.

Because he wanted to kiss you. Badly. Not just to taste you—but to know you. To see what you looked like without that composure, without the carefully drawn lines between propriety and desire. He wanted to mess you up. He wanted you.

And he hated that.

So he inhaled, tossed the cigarette over the balcony edge, and stood. Swift and silent. Like he was leaving before he did something he couldn’t take back. But you weren’t letting him off the hook tonight. “You always walk away when it gets real,” you said. He paused. The words hit him square in the back, stopping him like a physical hand pressed against his spine. His knuckles whitened against the stone frame of the doorway. “I don’t walk away,” he said, his voice taut, almost strangled. “Yes, you do,” you said again, more firmly. “You look at me like you want me. Like you’re thinking things you probably shouldn’t be. But the moment it starts to show—really show—you shut it down. You laugh, you tease, you run.”

He still didn’t turn. But his voice came back to you like a whip crack in the cold air. “And what if I am thinking about something I shouldn’t?” Your heart thundered. Not in fear. In anticipation. “Then maybe I am too,” you said. And that broke something in him. He turned. Not fast. Not sharp.

Like gravity pulled him toward you.

His gaze met yours—and for the first time, you didn’t see arrogance or amusement or restraint.

You saw hunger. Real. Raw. Unfiltered. It wasn’t just about lips or bodies or tension anymore. It was about recognition. About seeing yourself in someone who also didn’t know how to love gently, who didn’t trust good things to last, who used sharp words and reckless charm to keep people from getting too close. You were mirrors. But instead of reflecting fear back at each other, you reflected fire. And in that fire, something dangerous—and deeply beautiful—began to flicker to life.

He didn’t speak.

He just stood there, his entire frame still as stone, as though the air between you had thickened, become impossible to move through. His expression was unreadable—blank to anyone else, maybe. But not to you. You saw the flickers underneath—the hesitation, the want, the fear.

And something else too.

He looked at you like he couldn’t decide if you were the worst mistake he was about to make—or the only thing that had made sense in a long, long time.

You stayed exactly where you were, watching him. Not moving forward. Not pulling away. Just… standing in it. In all of it—that unbearable tension between honesty and collapse.

And then, quietly, Mattheo said, “You don’t understand what it’s like.”nYour brow furrowed. “What what’s like?”

“To want something,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “that makes you feel like you’re going to lose control. Like you’ll become someone else entirely if you touch it.” His eyes were on you again, and it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t a line. There was something wounded in it. Something so real you almost had to look away. But you didn’t. You stepped closer, until there was barely a breath between your bodies. His chest rose and fell unevenly, like your nearness had short-circuited him.

“You think I don’t understand that?” you whispered. He clenched his jaw. “I watch you, Mattheo,” you continued. “I see how hard you try to be unreadable. Like if no one really knows you, no one can ever hurt you. But you’re not unreadable. Not to me.” He flinched—just slightly.

“I see the way you watch me when you think I’m not looking. The way your hands twitch when I walk by like you’re barely stopping yourself from reaching out. I see how fast you look away when we lock eyes for too long. Like you’re scared of what I’ll see.”

He swallowed hard, and the motion was tight, like it hurt. “I’m not scared of what you’ll see,” he muttered, barely audible.“No?” you asked. “I’m scared of what I’ll do if you don’t look away,” he snapped. And there it was—laid bare in the cold night between you.

Not lust. Not flirtation. Fear.

Fear of losing the one thing he hadn’t meant to want this badly.

“You’re not going to break me,” you said, softer now. “You don’t have to protect me from this. From you.”

Mattheo looked at you like you’d just spoken a different language—one he’d never been allowed to hear before. His eyes searched your face, like he didn’t know where to land. Your eyes, your lips, your voice—all of it pulling him somewhere dangerous.

“I don’t want to ruin it,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “I don’t want to ruin you.” You felt your chest tighten, not in pain—but in something deeper. Something like grief for all the versions of him who’d never been told he was allowed to want good things without breaking them.

“You won’t,” you said, and it wasn’t a promise. It was a knowing.

He closed his eyes. Just for a second. Like he was trying to ground himself. Or gather the pieces of him you’d just cracked wide open. And when he opened them again, he looked different. Stripped. Raw. Like there was nothing left to hide behind.

“You shouldn’t get close to people like me,” he said quietly. “We don’t know how to stay soft. We destroy things when we love them too much.”

You reached up then, slowly, gently, and touched his cheek. Just your fingertips—just enough for him to feel you. To know you weren’t afraid of his edges.

“I’m not asking you to be soft,” you whispered. “I’m asking you to be honest.” He stared at you. And for a moment, he looked like he might actually break. Not from weakness—but from the unbearable weight of finally being seen.

He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t move to.

But his hand—rough and uncertain—reached up slowly, like he was afraid you might vanish if he touched you too quickly. His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, barely grazing your skin. It was the softest contact you’d ever felt, and somehow it lit you up more than anything else ever had.

His hand didn’t fall away.

Instead, his knuckles skimmed the side of your jaw, and then—like something magnetic pulled him forward—his forehead lowered until it rested against yours.

Not in the way people do when they’re about to kiss.

But in the way someone does when they’re trying to breathe.

You felt him exhale—one long, shaky breath—and you realized he wasn’t just touching you.

He was grounding himself.

Like the moment was too much. Like you were too much. Like everything he’d kept bottled, all the walls he’d carefully constructed to stay untouched, unbothered, unmoved—were caving in under the weight of you.

And still, neither of you moved.

Not even a fraction.

The silence between you was thick, heady—woven with the pulse of restraint, of everything screaming under the skin. You could feel his heartbeat where your chest almost brushed his, steady but hard, like he was fighting something deep and primal.

“I shouldn’t…” he whispered, but didn’t pull away.

“I know,” you breathed, eyes fluttering closed.

Because you shouldn’t either.

You shouldn’t crave the way his thumb was now absently grazing the curve of your cheekbone. You shouldn’t feel a whole universe stretching between your lips and his, begging to collapse. You shouldn’t be this drawn to someone who made your head spin and your heart ache in the same breath. And yet, here you were. Locked together in the kind of closeness that didn’t need a kiss to break you.

You tilted your face just slightly, and that tiny movement made his breath stutter. His nose brushed yours. A hair’s width from your lips. His hand was still on your jaw, firm now. Trembling.

“Why do you do this to me,” he said, voice hoarse—like it cost him something to ask it out loud.

You didn’t answer. Because the truth was—it wasn’t just him. It was you too. He was the chaos you hated to need. The storm you secretly longed to drown in.

And in this moment, with your forehead pressed against his, your breaths tangled together and his eyes locked on your mouth like it might undo him—you weren’t just on the edge of something dangerous.

You were already falling.

And you knew—when it finally happened, when one of you broke and the space between vanished—it wouldn’t be gentle.

It would be everything.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

A/N: Ughhhh this felt so good to write! Don’t ask me why I got inspired to write this, listening to this certain song, I just did eheheh. Hope you liked it! I apologise for any mistakes, english is not my first language <3

!Reblogs and Likes are highly appreciated¡

…until next time lovelies 💋

#slytherin boys #mattheo riddle #mattheo x reader #mattheo angst #harry potter #written by ria

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halfway-happyyy · 2 days ago

Note

sooo.... whatever happened to the brax fic about him looking up at reader all big doe eyed, pawing at her chest, mumbling he's been good all week and needed her finally. god, he'd be so pretty begging.. my boy<3

ahhhhhhh I can't tell whether this ask added 10 years to my lifespan or took it away... either way, I'm here for it.

the one where brax likes being told he's a good boy, and reader indulges his (obvious) oral fixation - everything fun below the ✂️ because we're gettin' spicy with it.

I think one of the things that gets me the most is that it really doesn't take much for brax to slip into a submissive headspace in the bedroom (whether he'll admit it or not...) like - the man spends so much of his time on - that it's nice to be able to just... shut everything off for a little while, ya know?

your apartment takes on a different feeling when he's gone for work. there is a lack of light, a lack of colour, a lack of warmth, even a lack of sound - really just a general lack of everything good. it never matters how much you fiddle around with the thermostat, no matter how many sweaters you put on - the pervasive chill remains no matter how hard you try to drive it away.

but then brax will waltz through the threshold of the front door, and the heat and the colour and the sound will return immediately, as if they'd never vanished at all.

he doesn't reach out much when he's away. you'll get a text or two because he knows how much they matter to you - just landed in Montreal, baby. miss you more than words can say. or - just leaving Morocco, don't wait up. so when he gets home, you're often hit with a tidal wave of desire for him that cannot be satiated no matter how hard you try.

tonight is no exception to that rule.

it's late when your bedroom door creaks open. you finish the page of the book you're currently nose-deep in, and glance up to meet his gaze. he's watching you from the doorway, and he's tired - evidence of it can be found in the circles that bloom violet beneath his warm umber irises.

"hi brax," you breathe - and it feels like the first proper one you've taken since he's been gone.

he lifts a hand in greeting. "hi, baby."

"come here, and let me look at you."

he immediately does as he's told - always aiming to please, and always so damn good for you.

he's got on a favourite t shirt - the inexplicably soft waylon jennings one, a worn pair of jeans, and his raven hair still bears the moisture from the rain outside. you close your book and set it on the wooden stand beside the bed.

"did you miss me?" you ask, despite already knowing the answer.

he nods, and it isn't until then that you notice the subtle swell in the hollow of his throat.

he's so touch starved, he has no idea what to do with himself.

"only every second of every day, baby."

you caress a palm to the rounded curve of his stubbled cheek, and marvel at the tension he's carrying in his jaw. shimmying to the edge of the bed, you take his face in your hands and ask, "will you be a good boy, and get on your knees for me, braxton?"

he nods before dropping to the floor beneath you.

"how badly do you want to touch me?" your voice hovers above a whisper, but he catches it the same way his teeth catch the soft flesh of his bottom lip, and he gazes up at you with irises that are already glassy and blown wide from want. "i- i want to so badly, baby, please - you have no idea..." he reaches a hand up to tease the pearl buttons on your pajama top before stopping himself midway because he knows he hasn't really earned it yet.

the pleasantly warm ache grows between your legs, and you shift ever so slightly to ease the pressure mounting there.

"you think you deserve to?"

he nods at you with wide doe eyes that carry a desperate and almost pleading intensity to them. wordlessly, he reaches for the buttons again, this time undoing the top three so that more of your skin is exposed to him and the humid air before you.

"need to hear you tell me, braxton."

you don't miss the whine that rises in his throat before he mumbles, "I've been real good all week baby, I swear." he brushes a deliberate thumb over the hardened bud of your nipple and sighs. "I've been so good and I need this, need you," he swallows hard before murmuring a soft "please."

you fight the moan rising in your throat and concentrate on the task at hand, but while holding your gaze, he brushes another fingertip over your nipple and that's all it takes to wreck your resolve. it's been too long; your desire for him has reached a fever pitch.

"touch me, braxton."

his gaze lingers on yours while he tears your shirt the rest of the way open and then leans in to press a series of scorching kisses to your chest. the only sounds in the room are the pearl buttons as they scatter across the hardwood floor. your fingers find purchase in his damp hair, and every taut muscle in his body seems to soften the moment he wraps his lips around your nipple and latches on.

his eyes fall shut, and his arms wind their way around your back - tethering you to him - and it's all you can do to keep from coming undone on the spot.

he'd be there all night if you let him, but after a while, you're able to coax him out of his clothing and onto the space of bed beside you. his erection is unignorable - the head of his cock red and swollen and drooling pre-come; he must have been sporting it from around the time he got home.

he settles into your lap and latches on to your other breast, swirling his tongue around your nipple before starting to suckle rhythmically at it.

"would you like me to touch you, braxton?" you whisper, while carding a hand through his hair. "want me to jerk your cock for you while you suck on my tits?"

brax moans around your nipple and nods his head before shamelessly rutting his hips into the air before him.

"yeah, I thought so." you simper, and trail your hand down the length of his toned abdomen, past the thatch of dark hair just above the base of his dick. you lean down to press a kiss to his forehead before wrapping a tight fist around him, and your nipple falls from his mouth as he moans into the sensation.

"you stop, I stop." you murmur, stilling your hand against him.

brax whines - the sound of it high pitch and almost pathetic - before latching back onto you, his hands pawing and clawing at the soft flesh of your back, as you begin working his cock again.

"what a good boy," you gasp when you feel the rumble of the groan from his throat against your sensitive skin. he's already close. you can feel it in the way his cock twitches in your tight fist; the sensation of his pre-come as more and more of it leaks down the rigid base of him and onto your hand. the urge to lap it up is overwhelming, but you ignore it in favour of the way his hips slam into your fist, fucking it with reckless abandon.

"I want you to make a mess, braxton. can you do that for me?"

your words cause him to mewl against you, and his teeth gently graze the oversensitive skin of your nipple, causing you to curse out into the stagnant air around you.

"be a good boy, and come for me, braxton."

your nipple slips from his hot, wet mouth again, and a desperate, high-pitch moan travels up from the base of his throat as his hips still against your hand. he comes in thick, powerful surges then, painting most of his abdomen and your hand with his warm spend.

you card your fingers through his hair, holding him tight to you as the tremors from his release wrack his body, before suggesting that you both head to the washroom so he can get cleaned up.

he peers up at you with eyes that are somehow more glassy than before and asks, "after that, can I keep doin' this?" he paws at the soft skin of your breasts. "I've missed you too much baby, can't get enough."

and all you can do is nod your head and beam down at him. "'course you can, brax."

because he is yours - will be yours until your last, rasping breath - and there is nothing you could ever deny him of.

I'm used to writing for frank, (who doesn't really have a submissive bone in his body - pun very much intended) so this was so fun to write??? perhaps I'll consider writing more for sweet brax. hope you enjoyed !!

#the puppy dog eyes in this gif..... im in a ~place #i stared at this ask with my mouth agape for a good 5 minutes when i first got it hahaha #so thank you for sending it whoever you are #braxton wolff #brax wolff x reader #brax wolff x you #braxton wolff x reader #braxton wolff x you #the accountant #the accountant 2 #writing #smut #asks

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clementineinn · 2 days ago

Text

before you fade

abstract: a string of disappearances in a snowbound town pulls the BAU into a chilling case — one that hits too close when the next target is personal. chosen not for weakness, but for the strength that's been buried, hidden away in the depths of a person. as a team races against time, secrets resurface, and the line between subject and survivor begins to blur.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (some usage of Y/N)

genre: angst / fluff (a little dark i won't lie, but it resolves i swear fmskdjs)

word count: ~4.4k

note: this is my first time posting my writing on here,,, kinda nervous LOL. but huge thanks to all the writers here on tumblr that have inspired me to finally post some of my writing! i really hope you enjoy! :p

The jet was quiet — the kind of quiet that hangs between two people with too many unsaid things. Y/N sat near the back of the plane, tucked into a corner, a case file sitting open in her lap. Her eyes drifted to the frost-laced window, watching the clouds pass like bruises over a pale sky. One hand toyed with the edge of the folder absently, her thumb flicking the corner rhythmically. Tap, tap, tap. She hadn’t flipped the page in ten minutes, a fact that Spencer quickly noticed.

Across from her, he was trying — failing — to read the same profile paragraph for the third time. His eyes kept tugging back to her like gravity, focused on the shadows under her eyes, the soft, focused line between her brows, the way her fingers rested against the page as she focused intently on the case file in her lap. Her brows were furrowed in concentration – he wanted to press his finger to the wrinkles between her eyebrows and ease her worries away. A pencil caught between her lips. Reid pretended to read the victimology section again, but his eyes kept drifting up — watching the way she tilted her head when something just didn’t add up.

She always read case files too fast. She annotated them in shorthand code that only Garcia had once dared to decipher — and even she had given up after the third sticky note label “internal triangulation, subjective anchor.” But today—nothing. No highlighter, no pen. Just stillness.

Spencer knew how many sugars she took in her coffee (zero, but only because she hated the grainy texture). He knew she double-knotted her boots because once, on an op, her laces had snapped mid-chase. He knew she kept her phone on silent unless her mom was sick or the team was in the field. He knew she hummed soft rock songs when she thought no one was listening. He even knew her heart rate elevated whenever he stood too close.

And he knew her tells.

She hummed when she was bored. Quizzed herself on bone fractures when she was nervous. Flipped her pencil in her hand when she was thinking — and now, she wasn’t doing any of that.

He leaned forward slightly. “You haven’t turned that page in a while,” he said gently.

Y/N blinked, slow and unfocused. “I know.” Then her voice dipped, dry as the cabin air. “The words stopped making sense.”

She didn’t look at him. Just stared out the window.

Spencer hesitated. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope,” she said easily, popping the “p” with forced cheer, then gave him a half-hearted smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But thanks for asking.”

He watched her for another beat. Then: “You’re allowed to not be okay, you know.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, “I know.”

She finally turned to face him — eyes shadowed, tired, but sharp. “You ever feel like a case is talking to you, not just at you?”

Spencer’s throat tightened. “Yes.”

“Yeah.” She looked back at the file, thumb pausing its rhythm. She said it like a joke, but the tension behind it wasn’t funny.

He loved her. In the deepest, quietest part of himself. The part he didn’t dare let breathe.

She didn’t know.

Or maybe she did. Maybe she felt it too — the tension strung between them like an invisible thread, pulled tight and trembling with everything unsaid. But neither of them moved and neither of them reached.

Their case in Vermont had gone cold long before the team arrived. Cold in every sense of the word — the kind that sunk into bone and refused to leave. Barre, Vermont was blanketed in an oppressive hush, the streets buried beneath layers of old snow and older secrets. The town itself felt suspended, frozen in time and temperature. Over six weeks, three women had vanished without a trace. No witnesses. No forensic evidence. No behavioral patterns to chase. Just absence. Until Isabel Warren came back.

She wasn’t whole, however.

Isabel had survived, but only technically. In the sterile fluorescent light of the hospital room, she looked less like a patient and more like something plucked from the ruins. A porcelain figure fractured at the seams, held together by instinct alone. Her voice, when it came, was dry leaves crushed underfoot — barely audible, brittle. Her eyes darted, flickering to corners and shadows as if expecting them to bite.

“He didn’t hurt me like you think,” she whispered, voice trembling like frost-laced glass. “He studied me.”

Morgan and Prentiss had taken the lead in her interview, giving the rest of the team space to process the implications. The story Isabel shared didn’t come all at once — it unraveled slowly, painfully, like unraveling gauze from a fresh wound. There was no rage, no screaming. No sudden violence. Instead: metal restraints that gleamed under surgical lights. Stainless steel trays. The cool pinch of needles. A camera that blinked silently in the corner, recording her every flinch.

And the man behind it was calm – precise. He didn’t shout – he asked questions. He didn’t hurt her in the way they expected. He violated her humanity in silence. Conversation filled the spaces where screams should have been.

What Isabel described wasn’t just captivity. It was dissection — of the mind, of identity, of control. And that made it worse.

The cold hit hard when they stepped out of the SUV — the kind that cracked at skin, settled in bones. Snow clung to the rooftops and drifted in thin sheets across the pavement, whispering over the soles of their boots as the team moved toward the small-town police station.

Y/N lagged behind slightly, scanning the street. Her breath fogged in front of her lips. Everything about Barre felt like it had stopped mid-sentence — frozen storefronts, shuttered windows, barely a sound beyond the wind.

Inside the precinct, the air was warmer, but only marginally. The heat came from space heaters along the hallway and the bitter scent of old coffee.

They’d just finished introducing themselves to the lead detective when someone behind the front desk called her name.

“Agent Y/L/N?”

She turned.

A uniformed officer — young, no older than twenty — held something out toward her. A plain white envelope.

“This came for you,” he said. “Dropped off about ten minutes before you arrived.”

Y/N frowned. “Dropped off by who?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t leave a name. Just walked it in. Said it was for you and left.”

The envelope was unmarked except for her name in neat, block print. No return address. No smudges. Just… clean.

She turned it over.

No seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

No letterhead. No date. No signature.

Just one line, typed:

“You can hide what broke you, but I can still see the cracks.”

Beneath it — in ink — was a small, hand-drawn smiley face.

Eyes and the curve of a mouth.

Y/N stared at it, the paper crinkling slightly between her fingers.

Her pulse didn’t spike. Her face didn’t change.

But something in her stomach dropped.

She folded it carefully, tucking it back into the envelope — then into the inner pocket of her coat.

Not now.

Not yet.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The precinct’s makeshift war room buzzed with the low hum of fluorescent lights and muted voices. It was late — the kind of late that slowed movement and turned everything grainy – and the team had been investigating for days. Half-drunk coffee cups cluttered the table. A printer sputtered in the background. The map of Barre, Vermont, glared back at them from the board, dotted with red pins that marked where the victims had been taken. Three so far. All in two weeks. All women. All gone without a sound.

“He didn’t leave anything behind,” Morgan said, dragging a hand down his face. “No fibers. No prints. He’s not improvising. This is controlled.”

JJ’s brows furrowed as she laid out the victim photos. “All three women had similar emotional profiles. Independent, intelligent. Lived alone. Minimal social entanglements. Their trauma histories go back to early adolescence. They’re survivors, but just barely holding themselves together.”

Garcia’s voice crackled through the speakerphone like an apology. “And I pulled medical records like you asked. Isabel Warren? PTSD flagged in her file three years ago. She’d been in and out of counseling. So had the other two.”

“So he targets women who’ve already been broken,” Rossi murmured, eyes narrowing.

“No,” Spencer said quietly, his voice threading through the room. “He targets women who’ve survived it. Who’ve spent years putting themselves back together. He doesn’t want destruction. He wants erosion. He doesn’t abduct them at their weakest — he waits until they’re strong enough to matter.”

That quieted the room.

“Observation,” Hotch said flatly as the details were laid bare. His voice was calm, but there was a tension in the set of his jaw — a rare betrayal of emotion. “He’s not in a hurry. He studies them. Prepares the environment. Then waits until the right moment to break them down.”

Emily crossed her arms, staring hard at the psychological profile. “He doesn’t kill them quickly. He watches them fall apart. Slowly. Deliberately. He chooses subjects that are already primed to fracture.”

No one moved for a moment.

Y/N sat at the edge of the conference table, spine arrow-straight, the collar of her coat still pulled close around her neck. Her eyes were on the photos — lined side by side, the faces of missing women caught mid-smile, mid-blink, alive in one frame, vanished in the next. She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But she wasn’t seeing them anymore.

The team kept talking.

Morgan cursed under his breath, pacing. “The guy’s using psychological stress like a weapon. Cages, lights, silence. It’s about control."

“And emotional isolation,” Spencer added. “He mimics safety — gives them just enough normalcy to confuse them. Then watches what they do with it. He’s cataloging survival behavior.”

Hotch nodded. “He builds trust just enough to remove it. Then he watches what’s left behind.”

A silence settled again, deeper this time.

Spencer glanced at Y/N — and that’s when he saw it.

She still hadn’t moved. Not once. But her hands, under the table, had shifted. Her fingers curled into fists. Small. Tense. Controlled.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The crime scene board loomed like a ghost in the center of the precinct — faces, names, timelines. Victims rendered into data. But no one was speaking anymore. The weight of the profile sat heavy on all of them.

Y/N had left the room a few minutes ago. Silent. Swift. She’d said she was getting some air, but her expression hadn’t changed — just locked down tighter. More precise.

Prentiss watched her go, something flickering in her eyes.

Then she turned toward Spencer, her voice low. “Have you noticed something… off with her today?”

Spencer looked up from a page of victimology notes. “What do you mean?”

“She’s not reacting,” Emily said, stepping a little closer. “Not the way she usually does. She’s not asking questions. Not checking in. It’s like she’s watching the case from the inside out.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed. “I thought maybe she was just tired,” he said — but even to himself, it sounded like a lie.

Emily gave him a look. Not sharp. Just knowing.

“You know her better than the rest of us,” she said softly. “That’s why I’m asking.”

Spencer’s shoulders lowered slightly. “She’s… quiet. Too quiet. During Isabel Warren’s statement — she didn’t move. Her hands were clenched under the table, but her face didn’t change. Not once.”

Emily nodded. “Exactly. She was holding it in. And she’s too good at it.”

A beat passed. Then she added, voice careful now: “That’s the kind of woman he goes after, isn’t it?”

Spencer froze. Not because it was a surprise — but because it wasn’t.

“She hasn’t said anything,” he offered. Weakly.

“She wouldn’t,” Emily said. “Especially not about something like this. Not after what happened before she came here.”

They both fell quiet.

Everyone in the BAU knew that Y/N had come from Interpol. That she’d spent nearly two years undercover. That something had gone wrong — badly enough to get her pulled from the field and quietly reassigned to domestic ops. But the details? Those were sealed. Even Garcia couldn’t pull them.

Prentiss had always respected that silence. But now, that same silence felt like a liability.

“She doesn’t talk about it,” Spencer murmured. “Whatever happened overseas… I think she’s still carrying it.”

“I think he’d see that,” Emily replied. “He’d read it in her body before she ever said a word.”

Spencer looked toward the hallway where Y/N had disappeared. His chest tightened.

“Do you think he’s already noticed her?”

“I think he noticed her the second she walked into town,” Emily said quietly. “And if we don’t act like that’s a possibility, we risk everything.”

She paused, then stepped back, her voice softening.

“Keep her close. Even if she pushes you away. Especially then.”

Spencer nodded. Once. Tight and sharp.

Then they moved — together — toward the board.

Hotch stood at the front, arms folded, studying the regional map with a crease forming between his brows. Red pins marked abduction sites, discarded belongings, last-known locations. They looked like wounds.

“Hotch?” Emily’s voice was calm, but steady.

He turned. Both she and Spencer were standing too straight. Too still.

“We need to talk,” Spencer said.

Hotch motioned for them to continue.

“We think Y/N might be at risk,” Emily said. “Not just as a profiler. As a potential victim.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

Spencer stepped forward, voice quiet but precise. “All of the victims had histories of trauma — long-term, deeply buried. High-functioning women who survived something early, then spent their lives masking it. They weren’t fragile. They were contained.”

“And that’s how he chooses them,” Emily added. “Not because they’re vulnerable — because they’re strong. Because they hide it so well, no one sees the cracks.”

“She fits the pattern,” Spencer said. “Even if she hasn’t said it out loud… she knows.”

“I saw it,” Emily said. “The moment Isabel started talking. Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. She recognized it.”

Hotch looked between them. His jaw tightened.

“She hasn’t acknowledged it?”

“No,” Spencer said. “And I don’t think she will. Not until it’s too late.”

Hotch turned back to the board. Something clicked into place.

“If he’s watching her — if she’s already on his list — he won’t wait long.”

Then he faced them, all hesitation gone.

“Get the team.”

The air felt heavier as the team reconvened — everyone on edge from the tension radiating off Hotch’s stance alone. He waited until they’d all settled: JJ, Morgan, Rossi, Prentiss, and Spencer. Y/N wasn’t in the room — not yet.

Hotch spoke low and firm, voice carrying weight but no panic.

“We believe the unsub may be targeting someone on this team.”

That froze everyone.

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “You saying he’s made us?”

“I’m saying,” Hotch continued, “he may have identified someone who fits his selection criteria. And we’ve determined that the agent most at risk… is Y/N.”

A beat of silence.

JJ’s eyes widened. Rossi’s expression hardened. Morgan leaned forward slightly, voice tight. “Are you sure?”

“She fits the behavioral profile to a T,” Spencer said, his voice almost too fast, like he was racing his own thoughts. “Trauma survivor. Emotionally reserved. Isolated but highly adaptive. She’s everything he’s been selecting for.”

Prentiss added, “And she hasn’t said a word about it — because she doesn’t want to be seen as vulnerable. Which only reinforces the pattern.”

Morgan swore under his breath, pushing away from the table. “We should’ve seen this sooner.”

“She did,” Hotch said quietly. “She just hasn’t said it.”

That landed like a weight.

Everyone knew Y/N had been through something in her Interpol years. Something she never talked about. Something that changed the course of her career and quietly followed her into every room.

Hotch’s eyes swept the room, sharp now. Focused.

“I want eyes on her every hour,” he said. “No one goes anywhere alone. Especially not Y/N. She doesn’t need to be scared — she needs to be covered. Discreetly. We don’t lose one of our own.”

Everyone nodded, a silent current of agreement moving through the room.

Spencer’s jaw clenched slightly. “If he’s already watching her... he won’t wait long to escalate.”

“Then we won’t give him the chance,” Hotch said. His voice was calm — but even Spencer could see the storm behind his eyes.

And just then — footsteps echoed in the hallway.

The door opened.

Y/N stepped into the room, unaware of the conversation that had just taken place. Her stride was even, composed — but to those who’d just been told to look closer, that composure now felt different.

Like armor.

Spencer’s eyes found her immediately. So did Emily’s. JJ’s smile faltered as she looked away and busied herself with her notes. Morgan leaned back, arms crossed too tightly. Everyone shifted — subtly, instinctively — forming an invisible perimeter around her.

She didn’t seem to notice.

But Spencer did.

As Hotch launched back into the debrief, picking up where he’d left off, Y/N settled at the edge of the table. Not beside anyone. Just slightly apart. Her coat was still on. Her coffee sat untouched. Her face didn’t move, but her shoulders gave away the truth — pulled up just a little too tight.

And Spencer knew.

Spencer watched her out of the corner of his eye as Hotch continued listing behavioral patterns and forensic gaps. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, but they were no longer following. Her breathing was even, but too shallow. Every muscle in her shoulders was drawn tight, and her jaw flexed once, twice, like she was swallowing words she didn’t trust herself to speak aloud.

He could see it now — the slow unraveling. The tiny threads fraying at the edge of her self-control. It wasn’t visible to anyone who didn’t know her. But he did.

She hadn’t slept. He could tell. There were faint shadows under her eyes, soft as smudged graphite. Her hair was neatly pulled back, but a few strands had slipped loose around her ears, stuck to her skin from where she’d rubbed at her temples earlier. And the coffee in her travel mug sat untouched.

The unsub sought emotional containment — not chaos. He didn’t want hysteria. He wanted the slow, clinical breakdown of a subject too proud or too traumatized to scream.

Y/N fit the profile because she was composed enough to attract him — and haunted enough to keep him interested.

The room had fallen into a contemplative hush.

Garcia’s voice crackled through the speaker, listing trauma indicators pulled from each victim’s medical and counseling history.

JJ added, “They all presented as stable — no recent crises, no major relapses. But every one of them had years of quiet therapy behind them. There’s a pattern of early trauma, but also recovery.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed. “So what’s he hunting for? Strength? Weakness?”

Y/N looked up from her notes, finally speaking — voice calm, clear, steady.

“I don’t think it’s about strength or weakness,” she said. “I think it’s about endurance. The kind you don’t see unless you’re looking for it.”

The room quieted further.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, not rushed, just thoughtful.

“He’s choosing women who’ve rebuilt themselves. Not because they’re fragile — but because they’ve already been through something and survived it. He’s not looking for people who are breaking. He’s looking for people who know how to hold themselves together.”

Spencer glanced at her. There was something in his eyes — recognition, maybe. Respect.

Y/N continued, her voice soft but certain.

“He doesn’t want to destroy them. He wants to watch them try not to fall apart. To study the exact moment that strength starts to give.”

She didn’t say it with drama. She said it like she was laying something carefully on the table — something that mattered.

Hotch gave a small nod. “We’ll adjust the profile.”

And just like that, Y/N looked back down at her notepad and quietly underlined a single word: Endurance.

When the briefing ended, the team slowly dispersed to cross-reference victimology, revisit the scene logs, and check the geo-mapping data. No one said it out loud, but everyone lingered in her orbit. Just enough to keep her in their periphery. To follow Hotch’s directive without alarming her.

But Y/N lingered longer. Alone at the table, the light above her humming faintly.

Spencer didn’t leave. “You okay?” he asked softly.

She blinked. The motion was delayed, like a system rebooting. “I’m fine.”

It was automatic. Too fast.

“Y/N,” he said again, quieter now, stepping closer. “You don’t have to be fine.”

Her silence stretched. The room felt too big, too empty. Then she looked at him — really looked at him — and for a brief second, the glass cracked. The composure faltered. He saw it in her eyes. Not fear. Not yet. But recognition. Like she’d seen herself on that profile board, and couldn’t unsee it.

“He watches them fall apart,” she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, not really for him — more like a quiet realization rising from some place she’d kept sealed. “Like he’s waiting for something to break open.”

Spencer didn’t move. He just stood there beside her, close but not touching, like getting too near might crack what was left of her armor.

“He’s already watching,” she added, softer still.

Then, a pause. A slight shift.

She reached slowly into her coat pocket — careful, almost cautious — and pulled out a plain white envelope.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she murmured. “I told myself it was just local paranoia. A scare tactic. But... this was waiting at the precinct when we arrived.”

Spencer took the envelope gently, his brow furrowed. He opened it, unfolded the sheet inside.

One line of typed text.

“You can hide what broke you, but I can still see the cracks.”

And beneath it — a smiley face. Small eyes and the curve of a mouth. Inked by hand.

Spencer’s blood went cold.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I wasn’t sure it meant anything. And part of me didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of reacting.” She paused. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I read it. It’s not random. It’s not just a threat. It’s… intimate.”

His jaw tightened. “He knows.”

“I think he’s known,” she said. “Since the moment we stepped foot in Barre.”

They stared at each other in silence. Then Spencer slowly folded the paper and slipped it back into the envelope — like returning it to its cage.

“I’ll tell Hotch,” he said, his voice low, careful.

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “Not yet. Let me... let me handle it a little longer. Just until we’re sure.”

Spencer didn’t like it. Every nerve in his body told him not to let her walk that line alone.

But he nodded. “Only if you promise me something.”

“What?”

“If you see anything else — if you feel anything off, anything strange — you come to me. Not later. Right then.��

She met his eyes. For the first time all day, she looked like she might break.

But she didn’t.

“I promise,” she said.

And then JJ’s voice called out from across the room. Penelope had found something. Everyone was gathering again.

Y/N gave Spencer a practiced, quiet smile — the kind you use to keep people from looking too closely — and beckoned him toward the others.

He followed.

But his eyes stayed on her a second too long.

The case briefing had dissolved into murmured strategy and side conversations, whiteboards covered in red ink and shadowed photos. The team split off — Prentiss reviewing victim timelines with JJ, Morgan mapping out geographic overlays, Hotch and Rossi deep in behavioral cross-referencing.

Spencer hovered near the far wall, watching Y/N from across the room.

She sat perfectly still. Back straight. Hands folded. The epitome of focus. But he could see it — the hollow weight in her gaze, the way her shoulders sat too high, like her body hadn’t unclenched in hours.

He wanted to go to her. Say something. Tell her that she wasn’t alone — that even if she didn’t speak it aloud, even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself, they knew. But something in her expression told him she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

So he watched.

And what he missed — just barely — was the moment she excused herself to the bathroom and slipped out the door. If he hadn’t been looking at a case file, he would’ve seen the look on her face – would’ve known it was something deeper than just having to take a break. He would’ve seen the way she refused to make eye contact with anyone from worry of them seeing through her lies.

Y/N moved quickly but calmly, coat already over her shoulders, bag slung across her arm. The snow was still falling hard — it pelted the front windows in a sideways blur. A local officer sat behind the lobby desk, sipping weak coffee and half-reading a report.

She stepped close and kept her voice low.

“I need an escort back to the hotel,” she said. “Discreetly, please.”

The officer looked up, confused for only a moment. Then nodded. “Absolutely. You alright, Agent?”

“I’m fine,” she said with a tired smile. “Just need some air. It’s been a long night.”

He stood, grabbed his keys, and followed her out.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Back in the conference room, the team reconvened quickly upon Penelope’s sudden gasp, the undercurrent of tension drawing them together like gravity.

JJ stood near the monitor, phone pressed to her ear as Garcia’s voice poured through the speaker — clear, fast, and edged with adrenaline.

“Okay, family — grab your metaphorical Kevlar, because I’ve got a name. And it’s not just a name. It’s a history, an address, and a very suspicious paper trail.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his voice sharp. “Go ahead, Garcia.”

“Meet Benjamin Cyrus Milburn,” Garcia said. “Age thirty-nine. Former veterinary technician — licensed in Massachusetts and Vermont. Worked at several rural clinics, most recently in Waterbury. No criminal record, no major red flags, but there’s something weird here. He dropped off the grid about two years ago — no income, no property under his name, no bills. Like he went full ghost mode.”

Prentiss frowned. “That lines up with the timeline for the first disappearance.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Garcia continued. “The last known address tied to him is a decommissioned vet clinic on the edge of Barre. Shut down three years ago for health code violations. He worked there part-time before it closed.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s within five miles of Isabel Warren’s last known location.”

Spencer’s head snapped up. “Does he have access to controlled substances?”

“Legally, not anymore,” Garcia said, “but based on the inventory records from the shutdown clinic, a whole list of sedatives and anesthetics went unaccounted for — ketamine, isoflurane, and acepromazine. It could easily knock someone out fast and keep them just conscious enough to know what’s happening.”

A brief silence fell.

Then Hotch asked, “Do we have a photo?”

“Sending it now,” Garcia confirmed. A moment later, her familiar digital sparkle sound effect echoed from the monitor, and Milburn’s DMV photo appeared on screen.

He looked unremarkable. Average build. Short brown hair. Clean-shaven. Wearing a collared shirt like he was applying for a job he didn’t want. But his eyes were wrong. Blank, but focused — like he was already watching something no one else could see.

Rossi exhaled through his nose. “That’s the face of someone who disappears in a crowd.”

Hotch turned to JJ. “Have local PD canvass the area around the old clinic. No contact. Not yet. I want eyes on it first.”

“On it,” she said, already dialing.

Prentiss shifted, voice lower now. “If he’s using the clinic as his hunting ground... and Y/N fits the profile...”

Spencer finished it. “Then he’s already chosen her.”

Everyone went still.

Hotch turned slowly to Spencer, eyes narrowing with precision. “Where is she right now?”

Spencer swallowed. “She was just here.”

Rossi spoke up. “She said she was going to the bathroom.”

“She didn’t leave with anyone.”

Morgan stood, tense. “I’ll find her.”

But before he could take a step, the lights flickered — just briefly. Long enough to make everyone freeze.

Then JJ’s phone buzzed sharply.

She checked the message. Her face went pale.

“That was the hotel desk clerk,” she said. “One of their officers was supposed to escort her back to the hotel. He never checked in. And Y/N’s not answering her room line.”

The air drained from the room.

Hotch didn’t hesitate.

“Where’s her phone?” he asked.

Garcia’s voice chimed in a half-second later over speaker. “Last ping was twenty minutes ago near the main road out of Barre—before it went dark.”

Silence. Immediate. Heavy.

Spencer’s mouth went dry. He stepped back like he’d been hit.

“She left,” he whispered. “She left without telling us. Alone.”

“No,” Prentiss said quickly, trying to stitch it together. “She wouldn’t—”

“She did,” Hotch cut in, sharp now. “And she’s not responding. That means one of two things: either she’s gone dark on purpose or someone took her.”

Morgan grabbed his coat. “I’ll take the road to the hotel.”

“I’m coming,” Spencer said immediately.

Hotch nodded. “Go. Now.”

As they rushed out, the room behind them fell to silence.

But no one said what they were all thinking: they’d profiled the next victim and let her walk straight into his hands.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

At first, it felt like nothing.

The cruiser glided over snow-slicked backroads, wipers beating steadily against the windshield. The officer beside her — nameplate reading J. D. Greeley — was quiet, focused on the road. Barre’s small-town streetlights flickered past in the rearview mirror, fading as they veered farther from downtown.

Y/N sat in silence, arms folded, her breath fogging faintly in the chill that leaked through the windows.

“You mind taking the long way?” she asked, her voice casual. “I just need to breathe for a few minutes before going back.”

The officer nodded once. “Sure. Not a problem.”

He turned down a road that dipped behind a line of tree cover, away from the main street.

That was her first warning.

She knew the town’s layout by now — knew this wasn’t the most direct route to the hotel. But maybe he was avoiding a traffic blockage. Or snow.

Still.

Her fingers tightened slightly on her coat sleeve. “You from around here?” she asked lightly, trying to place his cadence, his rhythm.

But the man didn’t answer.

The second warning.

Her stomach tightened. “Officer Greeley?” she tried again, voice sharper now.

No response. No acknowledgment. Her heart began to pound.

She reached for her phone, kept in her coat pocket. Cold leather met her fingertips — no phone. She checked the other pocket.

Gone.

Her pulse quickened. She glanced at the dashboard. No GPS. No radio on.

And then — the cruiser slowed.

Not at the hotel.

Not anywhere near it.

They were pulling into a snow-covered drive that disappeared into trees — overgrown, unlit, forgotten.

A thin, wavering breath escaped her lips.

She reached for the door handle. Locked.

The driver turned to her.

And for the first time, she really saw him.

Wrong eyes. Wrong age. Wrong badge.

Not Officer Greeley.

Not a cop.

Just the unsub wearing his uniform like a second skin.

“You’re everything I expected,” he said softly.

And before she could scream, move, or fight —

The needle was already at her neck.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The cruiser’s wheels screeched to a stop at the edge of the snow-packed drive. Blue and red lights flashed across the skeletal trees, illuminating the icy breath that left Spencer’s lungs as he stared through the windshield.

“There,” Morgan said, already out of the vehicle.

The escort car was parked at a crooked angle just off the road — doors flung open. Snow had started to fill the driver’s seat. The headlights were still on.

Spencer sprinted forward.

“Y/N!” he shouted.

Nothing but the howl of wind.

Morgan reached the car first, flashlight sweeping the inside. The cabin was empty. Spencer circled to the passenger side — door wide open, scarf still clinging to the seatbelt.

Then he saw the needle cap in the snow.

“Oh God,” he whispered, dropping to one knee. He picked it up with gloved hands — a faint glisten of residue clinging to the tip.

“Chloroform or a paralytic,” Morgan said, voice grim. “He took her clean. Quiet. Knew how much time he had.”

Spencer rose, eyes scanning the tire tracks. “He left on foot or transferred her to another vehicle. There's no exit on this road except back the way we came. It was a trap.”

Morgan cursed low under his breath. “She asked for a private escort. He knew. He either intercepted the real cop, or he was waiting for her to ask.”

Spencer’s throat felt like it was closing. The image of her smiling softly, tugging on her gloves, saying I’ll be fine—it punched through his chest like a fist.

“She’s gone,” he said, barely audible.

Morgan’s hand came down on his shoulder. “Not for long. I’m calling Hotch.”

They stood in the snow, breath hard and fast, the empty cruiser behind them glowing like a signal flare in the dark.

Somewhere in the forest, Y/N was already fading.

And the clock had started.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer fic #reid fic #spencer reid fic #spencer x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst

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queenofmorningstar · 1 day ago

Note

Can you do a one-shot of Alastor in a secret relationship with male! reader who's the Angel of Death, and by that I mean they're like Death itself (as anthropomorphic personification) not only the Angel of it, oh and also in myth the Angel of Death is named Azrael, so that will be what reader is referred to, and also Death! reader is super sweet and loving and chill and a complete sweetie, just with a Gothic hippie vibe?

Alastor x Angel of Death!Reader

CW: Alastor gets injured, m! Reader is simp for Al

Word Count: 1.5k

Notes: Thank you Anon, for this unique request! You didn’t mention if it was sfw or nsfw so I’m leaning towards sfw. I tried to do my best. Fun fact: in some myths, Azrael has 4,000 wings!

On my Ao3 as well.

You descended with the rest of the army, since you’d heard that Adam was planning to target Hazbin Hotel first since Princess Moringstar came to the heavenly court. When you’d insisted on coming along this extermination, Adam had shrugged. “Good for you, Azzie. Get your freak on.”

You recognised Alastor’s shield. You almost smiled.

Adam clearly has had enough of being left out of the battle. “I'm fucking over this.”

Adam launched himself forward in a single, brutal movement. The air cracked around him as he drew back a fist–Boom. One punch. Just one. A shattering burst of golden light tore through the air, and the shield—your Alastor’s beautiful, delicate, stubborn creation—split apart with a crack like a mirror giving way. It didn’t explode. It dissipated.

The hotel stood exposed. Alastor still hadn’t moved. Your stomach twisted. You didn’t show it, of course. You stood there, still and unreadable as ever. Death didn't panic.

Your eyes found Alastor again. He was still smiling—but his posture had shifted ever so slightly. He wasn’t showing it. Not to Adam. Not to the army. Not to anyone. But you knew. You always knew. And gods, you wanted to hold him right now. To brush the smoke from his cheek and say, you did well, darling.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Any sign would damn you both. But slowly, so slowly, you let your hand fall from where it had been resting on your belt. It slid just to your side, fingers open. A silent gesture.

He twitched his sleeve, just once. Like dusting off his cuff. I see you too. I’m okay.

It was the only reassurance you would get. Alastor takes a few steps forward to meet Adam. “Adam! First man, next to die.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure. I'm about to end your fucking life.” Alastor taps his cane on the ground, causing four tentacles to rise up around him.

You really should’ve focused. But your heart did a stupid thing. Your fingers flew to your face instinctively, covering your mouth like you were suppressing a gasp of horror—but it wasn’t revulsion that bloomed in your chest. Because if you opened your mouth, you might sigh his name like a lovesick idiot.

It was a very specific, deeply unprofessional thought: He looks so hot right now.

God, you were weak.

You turned your face slightly, hand still up, as if shielding yourself from some blasphemy. Anyone looking would think you were repulsed—maybe even disapproving.

Alastor caught it. Of course he did. His gaze slid toward you, just a flick, just a hair’s breadth of motion—but his grin curled just a little more wickedly, like he could see right through your little mask of disgust.

He knew. And oh, he was going to make you suffer for it later.

Adam didn’t even try to mask his scorn as he turned to you. “Well?” he barked, his voice edged with impatience. “Aren’t you gonna help me kill that red freak or something?”

You let out a long, exaggerated sigh, lifting a hand to inspect a chipped black fingernail like it was far more important than the obliteration of your lover ten yards away. “I’ll watch,” you said smoothly, voice calm and dismissive. “You seem very enthusiastic. Wouldn’t want to rob you of your moment.”

The lie sat so easy in your mouth, you almost believed it yourself. But you didn’t move to fight. Didn’t lift your scythe. Just folded your arms loosely across your chest and leaned your weight into one hip, looking for all the world like you couldn’t be bothered.

Inside, though? Your chest burned. Your throat itched with all the things you couldn’t say. Adam scoffed. “Figures,” he muttered, turning away. “I’m disappointed that Death is too pussy to fight.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. You just smiled gently, almost beatifically. A peaceful expression that masked how tightly your fists had curled behind your sleeves.

He didn’t know that “the red freak” had held you in silence while you traced the scars on his back. That the demon he scorned had kissed your forehead like it meant something.

It was divine to watch him fight. Alastor moved with improvised violence, sharp and wicked and rhythmic.

You stayed still, arms still loosely folded, pretending to be bored, but your eyes tracked every movement. Every step Adam took. Every near-miss. Every time that blessed blade arced a little too close to where it shouldn’t.

Your jaw clenched. You tensed. You would not let him—

Alastor’s eyes found you. And he shook his head. A small movement. Barely there. It stopped you cold. The furious ache of having to stand there—untouching, unspeaking—as the one person you loved most was in danger…you’ve taken various souls, but never felt anything. But this helplessness was a new feeling.

Adam was done. “I'm going to wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, CAUSE RADIO IS FUCKING DEAD!”

Adam swings his guitar, sending a shockwave towards Alastor. When it dissipates, Alastor’s microphone has been snapped in two. While Alastor is distracted by his microphone, Adam manages to score a hit on him, slashing him across the torso. Alastor flew backward, crashing to the edge of the hotel’s rooftop with a sickening thud.

Alastor picks up the two pieces of his microphone, trying to get back up but was too injured. You gasped audibly. You hadn’t meant to break composure. You’d been so good until now. But when that cruel wave of divine force shattered Alastor’s microphone, you felt your whole chest seize up like it had been punched from the inside.

And you didn’t think anymore. You moved.

In a flash of black feathers, you launched from your perch above, wings outstretched, shielding him. Alastor coughed behind you, low and ragged, and it broke you.

Adam staggered to a stop, blinking in stunned confusion. “…What the fuck?” His brow twitched. “What the actual fuck, Azrael?”

You didn’t respond immediately. Adam stepped forward. “Why the hell are you protecting him? You should be taking his soul, not slacking on your job as you always do!”

His eyes searched yours, and then they widened. “Oh. Oh, I get it now.” He laughed—a short, cruel bark. “You’re sucking the red freak’s dick, aren’t you?”

Behind you, Alastor groaned and tried to rise. “Azrael, don’t—”

“No.” Your voice cut through the air, steady and absolute. You turned just enough to glance back at him. Blood stained his vest.

“Don’t do this,” he rasped, voice fraying at the edges. “You can’t undo this.”

You gave him the gentlest smile.“No secret remains a secret forever, darling.”

Adam’s face twisted into something grotesque. “You traitorous little—”

“Enough.” You lifted your hand, shadows forming at your feet, dark and ancient and godlike. “I’ve played the role asked of me. I do not participate myself with feeble politics of heaven and hell. But it seems like you’ve forgotten to fear me.”

Adam stepped back, hesitant. You got up in his face. “My darling is not going to die today, but you surely are.”

Adam’s voice faltered. “There’s no way–”

You grinned maliciously. “It will be aided by my brother, Lucifer, no else. See you on the other side.”

Alastor’s shadow encompassed you as well. “Radio's not dead, but it is ending this broadcast.”

The world warped. Reds overtook your vision—velvet drapes, worn carpet, that warm, perpetual amber glow of the “ON AIR” sign hanging like a holy relic.

Alastor’s radio booth.

He stumbled. You were there instantly. “Whoa, whoa, Al—sit down.” You guided him toward the plush old chair in the corner of the booth, hands firm but reverent.

Alastor chuckled, though it came out a little breathless. “Ah, my dear, you should’ve let me take the hit with dignity. I’m no stranger to pain.”

You knelt before him anyway, fingers glowing faintly at the tips as you peeled back the shredded layers of his red suit. “And I’m no stranger to fixing it.”

He winced as you exposed the gash—a deep, divine-etched wound that still pulsed angrily. That weapon hadn’t been made to wound. It had been made to end.

“Still smiling,” you murmured, eyes flicking up to meet his, “even with half your guts trying to escape.”

“Old habits die hard, dear heart.” He tilted his head, grinning crookedly through pain. “And speaking of dying, I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

“Working on it,” you muttered, your voice softening. A warm, obsidian light glowed beneath your palms, slow and careful.

Alastor watched you in silence for a long moment. His crimson eyes flickered, something rare and unguarded flickering beneath them.“You risked everything.”

“Not everything.” You finally met his eyes. “You’re everything.”

His lips parted. That ever-present smile faltered—trembled, even.

You smoothed your thumb across his chest, near the wound that was now fading into an angry scar.

You leaned forward, resting your forehead gently against his.“I’m here. I’m staying. You don’t have to smile for me.”

He closed his eyes. “That’s the problem,” he murmured. “I don’t smile for you. I smile because you make me forget it’s fake.”

#my asks #asks are always appreciated #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel x oc #alastor x reader #alastor the radio demon #alastor x you #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor x oc

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 2 days ago

Text

Godless and Free

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarsson (The Last Kingdon) x f!reader Warnings: Talk of religion, mild angst, sexually explicit content. Word count: ~5k

Summary: It has been a year since Sigtryggr took her away from Winchester. Now, settled into a life in Jorvik, the two must learn to navigate their differences.

Author's note: Based on this request, but also a sequel to Little Warrior. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

The wind whipped through her hair, its icy chill pricked like tiny daggers against her heated skin as she raced through the woods – more a rapid stumble than a full run – it was an inky black night, the glow of the moon and stars above were all that illuminated her way, preventing her from crashing face first into the roughened trunks of the trees. Her lungs burned with exertion, her feet bloody from the repeated snap of twigs and stab of jagged stones against her bare soles. She would not, could not stop though; a fate far worse than sore feet and breathlessness awaited her if she allowed herself to slow down.

“Christian…”

The taunt filtered through the air as a loud whisper, seeming to come from everywhere and yet nowhere all at once. She was suddenly uncertain of if she was running to or from the voice. She collided with something solid, and was sent sprawling upon her bottom. Her thin, cotton nightdress did nothing to cushion her fall, and she yelped at the impact of a gnarled root that protruded sharply from the earth. Pain bloomed hot and intense across her flesh. She stared fearfully up into a familiar pair of blue eyes – once they would have softened in sympathy at her discomfort – now she saw only hatred reflected back at her in their depths. Sigtryggr’s mouth twisted in disgust as he spat the word “Christian” again, as though it were poison upon his tongue. She wanted to plead, to cry out for mercy, but when she opened her mouth only a pathetic whimper escaped her lips. She trembled, a prey animal beneath a stalking predator, as fear sent acrid bile creeping up the inside of her throat. He lifted his axe in a high arc above his head and brought it down in a heavy swing.

She awoke with a gasp, her heart racing as cold sweat slicked her hair to the back of her neck. The pale light of dawn had only just begun to reach out across the heavy furs she lay beneath, bringing with it the realisation that she was not, in fact, being chased through the woods, but tucked safely in bed, next to the man who had once held her captive. Now she lay beside him of her own volition, though since leaving Wintanceaster he had haunted her dreams, not as a symbol of liberation, but one of terror. Instinctively, her hand went to her neck, fingers reaching fruitlessly for the wooden cross she had once worn around it, and found the skin bare. Her hand dropped uselessly back to the furs, curling into a fist. That little cross had been a source of comfort to her in the life she had before this one, that was until her heathen lover had torn it free and discarded it the first time they had lain together. She had not minded at the time, the reckless act had enthralled her, but that had been in the safety of the confines of Alfred’s study, which was familiar. Now they were settled in Eoferwic, the furthest from home she had ever been, and the absence of her cross made her ache.

Sigtryggr stirred beside her, disturbed by her startled awakening. A tired noise of displeasure rumbled in his chest, as he rolled to face her. His slender fingers reached beneath the furs, gripping the dip of her waist.

“It is early, Little Warrior, too early to begin the day yet” he whispered, before tugging her against his bare chest with gentle ease. “You are trembling. Why?”

His tired eyes opened wider, regarding her with mild concern as she felt her racing heart slow beneath the comfort of his touch and the soothing sound of his voice. So different from what she had dreamed, and yet eerily similar. “I had a dream,” she murmured as her body pressed against his, “about you.”

"You dreamed of me?" he asked, his gaze softening as his hand lifted from her waist to her face, and his thumb stroked tenderly against her jawline.

She could sense the desire that simmered beneath the surface of him, his body so tightly wound against her own and prepared to pounce at the slightest hint of invitation. It hurt her to know that the next words from her mouth would snuff that out, causing him to withdraw from her, but she could not lie to Sigtryggr. He did not just see her when he looked upon her; that piercing stare bore down to the very core of her, flaying her open. There was nothing she could hide from him, he was far too perceptive.

"I dreamed of you," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she clutched the furs tighter to herself, as though the very act would protect her from whatever hurt or offense she would inevitably see reflected back at her in his stare. "You were chasing me. You meant to kill me."

The wolfish grin that spread across his face was not the reaction she had anticipated, and she frowned as he huffed a soft laugh, the gentle expulsion of air fanning across her cheek. He cupped her face, pressing a soft kiss of reassurance to the crease of her brow. “I do not allow those I mean to kill to warm my bed,” he muttered, “now sleep. You are safe.”

She cuddled against him, allowing him to tuck her head beneath his chin as he wrapped both arms around her. His warmth quickly lulled her back into a gentle slumber, though she noticed as her breaths softened and she inhaled his scent that he smelled faintly of soft earth and fallen leaves – like the woods.

Hours later, with the morning sun now streaming vibrant through the gaps in the wooden beams of their longhouse, they broke their fast on salted pork and oat cakes – long gone were their days of scraping green mold from their bread crusts during the siege of Wintanceaster – food in Eoferwic was plentiful with no one at the city walls to starve them. The settlement here was a prosperous one for the Danes; they had crops, livestock, homes. The space she shared with Sigtryggr was modest, but comfortable – the self-contained hut was a single room consisting of a small hearth for a fire with a space to prepare food, a large bed laden with furs and a wooden table with chairs, which they now sat at to eat.

When Sigtryggr had given Wintanceaster back to Edward, and asked her to go with him, she hadn’t hesitated. The month they had spent together had not seemed long enough, especially not when they had only just begun to explore the depths of their feelings for one another. However, the journey north towards Eoferwic had worn her patience beyond its limits, quickly dissipating the lover’s haze she had lost herself in. She did not voice her complaints to Sigtryggr – she was all too aware of what he had sacrificed to keep her safe – however, long hours spent astride his horse made her backside sore and, as eager as she was to welcome him between her thighs when they made camp each evening, the hardness of the ground was unforgiving against her knees and back. She grew miserable and withdrawn, waving it away as travel weariness whenever her lover queried her sullen silences.

She had expected her spirits to lift once they arrived at their destination, and to an extent they had – a comfortable bed, and days not spent on horseback did wonders for morale, but at her core she was homesick. When Sigtryggr had thrown away her cross, in her mind that had been symbolic of his disapproval of her faith. Out of respect to him, she had not prayed since leaving Wintanceaster, afraid she would offend him or, worse, that he would mock her. It was painfully apparent from the suspicious stares directed her way by his fellow Danes that they did not trust her. Sigtryggr was putting himself at risk by keeping her as his woman, the absence of her faith was the least she owed him. However, far from home and without being able to speak to her god, she was afraid. The nightmares had begun shortly after that, and she had kept them to herself – until now.

“I want to talk about my dream,” she said, placing the remnants of her oat cake upon her plate, and dusting the crumbs lightly from her fingers. She watched as Sigtryggr chewed a mouthful of salted pork slowly, eyeing her carefully as he lifted his gaze from the table towards her.

“It’s nothing,” he said with a shrug once he’d swallowed, “I would never hurt you.”

“It’s not nothing,” she insisted, “I’ve been having this same dream since we arrived here.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms across his chest. “Are you afraid of me?”

She swallowed thickly, looking down at the crumbs upon the table then back up at him. A look of impatience had settled over his features, she could see it in the subtle lift of his eyebrow as he waited for her answer. “I was your prisoner once.”

He narrowed his eyes and she instantly wished she could take back what she’d said. But it was too late now. “And now you are my woman. You chose to come with me.”

“How has anything changed?” she demanded, her voice becoming shrill as she fought back the tears from it, rapidly losing the battle against a tide of emotions she had held at bay for months. “I am as much your prisoner here as I was back in Wintanceaster. I have not even my faith anymore, only you. My life is in your hands.”

He leaned across the table, nostrils flared in anger and instinctively she shrank away, fearful of his reaction to her admission. When he spoke, his voice was angry, but it was not loud. There was a dangerous lowness to it, a quiet edge that was more menacing than any furious shout. “You are free, free to leave anytime you’d like. And if this is how you feel, I suggest that you do.”

She felt as though all the air had left her as she watched him stand up from the table and leave without another word. There was a part of her that longed to chase after him, to demand that he stay and talk about all of this, yet she remained rooted to the spot, unable to move from her chair as her chest felt too tight and unshed tears pricked at the rims of her eyes. She had done it. She had finally done it; shown the depth of her ingratitude for all he had done for her and he had hated what he saw, grown tired of her. A tear tracked its way down her cheek as she wondered if he would come back.

He did come back. Darkness had fallen, the day having passed at a glacial pace as she busied herself, sweeping the floor, making the bed – no task taking enough time to while away the seeming crawl that the passage of time had halted to. She lay on her side, facing the wall when she felt the dip of the mattress next to her as his weight settled into the bed. She wanted to wail like a child when he didn’t tug her against him as he did every night when he slipped into bed beside her. She had grown used to him pulling her against his body as though she weighed nothing, either nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck as sleep claimed them both, or rolling her onto her back as his hardness nudged insistently at her inner thigh. Tonight, he did neither of those things. It was the first night since they left Wintanceaster that he hadn’t touched her.

No dreams came for her that night, though she was certain at some point she felt the gentle brush of Sigtryggr’s lips against her own. When she opened her eyes to greet the morning sun, his space in the bed was empty. She threw back the furs, eyes wide in panic as she moved through the small space. His weapons were gone, boots and clothes too.

Has he left me?

Not caring that she was dressed in only her nightgown, she pulled open the door, looking out upon the settlement. It was eerily quiet. The grassy plane that the longhouses encircled, worn down to the earth by repeated footfall over time, was mostly empty, void of the usual men that gathered to talk and spar. A few small children ran past giggling with a dog barking at their heels, and she could see Brynhild draping wet clothes to dry over a length of twine pulled taut between two posts.

Besides Sigtryggr, Brynhild was the kindest to her of the Danes. She was unsure of how old she was, but she had a manner of speaking which sounded more ancient than time itself. She was a portly woman, seemingly as wide as she was tall, and her long hair was grey as iron, always neatly braided and then pinned into buns at the sides of her head. Her blue eyes sat deep in her well lined face, yet still twinkled with vivacity. She was a person that smiled with her eyes rather than her mouth, and they softened as she watched the young Saxon woman rush breathlessly over to her.

“Brynhild, where is everyone? Have you seen Sigtryggr?” she asked, too worried to be embarrassed about the shrillness that the urgency in her question lent to her tone of voice.

“Gone to Dunholm,” the old woman answered simply, “all fighting men and women gone.”

“What for?” she asked. Dunholm was English land, the Danes had no business being there, unless to cause trouble.

Brynhild shrugged, then groaned with effort as she stooped to lift a damp undershirt from her wicker basket. The younger woman was quick to step forward, taking over from her and beginning to drape the laundered items over the clothesline.

“You are a good girl,” Brynhild commented, her eyes sparkling in one of her subtle smiles, “Sigtryggr was smiled on by the gods when they gave you to him.”

She stiffened at the mention of him, pausing to look sadly over her shoulder at the old Dane. “He’ll come back to me, won’t he?”

“If the gods mean for him to.” Brynhild took the empty wicker basket from her as she offered it back. Her words provided little comfort.

Sigtryggr had left without a word. The last thing he had said to her was that she should leave. Perhaps he hoped she would not be there when he returned. Dejectedly, she turned to go back inside, suddenly feeling much too vulnerable in the little that she was wearing.

“Wait, before I forget,” Brynhild called after her.

She turned, and saw that the old woman held out Sigtryggr’s dagger to her, hilt first. It was a simple weapon, the steel of the blade was dull, yet its edge was wickedly sharp. The dark wooden handle was carved with runes that she did not know the meaning of. She looked quizzically from the weapon to Brynhild’s face, hesitating.

“Take it,” she urged, thrusting her hand out again for emphasis, “he told me to give to you. Keep you safe.”

Slowly, she reached forward and took the dagger from her outstretched hand with a quiet thanks, then turned and walked back inside of the home she shared with Sigtryggr. She turned the blade over in her hands, wondering why it had been left for her. She would get no sense from Brynhild beyond what she had already told her, and she dare not speak to any of the other women left behind – they treated her with mistrust and their answers would not be kind.

Did Sigtryggr mean to return to her? Had he simply given her his blade as a means to arm herself when she went off by herself out into the world? Why had he left and not said anything?

The days passed by with an agonising slowness, and upon the fifth morning, when she had woken alone once more, she climbed from the bed and prayed – the first time she had done so since leaving Alfred’s study. The earthen floor was cool against her knees, a strange contrast to the warm furs upon which she placed her elbows as she clasped her hands before her and closed her eyes. She surprised herself when her thoughts immediately landed on Sigtryggr and not herself.

“I pray, Lord Jesus Christ, be Sigtryggr’s true armour. Cover him, therefore, O God, with your strong breastplate. Cover him all in all with his five senses, so that, from his soles to the top of the head, in no member, without within, may he be sick; that, from his body, life be not cast out

by plague, fever, weakness, suffering, until, with the gift of old age from God, departing from the flesh, be free from stain, and be able to fly to the heights, and, by the mercy of God, be borne in joy to the heavenly cool retreats of his kingdom.”

She kept her hands clasped in front of her, as she knelt before the bed with her eyes closed, and her thoughts drifted to her wayward lover. “Please come back to me,” she whispered. She would stay, she decided, if only to know for certain that he intended for her to leave, that their time together was at its end.

Upon the seventh night, she jerked awake, torn from sleep by the blare of a war horn that pierced through the silence with a loudness that made her heart feel as though it would burst forth from her chest. She snatched up Sigtryggr’s dagger from beneath her pillow – the place she had stashed it for safekeeping since Brynhild had given it to her, partially for her own protection, but mostly because having a little piece of her lover in the bed with her helped sleep to find her with greater ease. She moved quickly from the house, and peered out into the distance. She could see flames upon the wooden fortifications that encircled their settlement, and hear the shouts of men. The shouting grew louder, signifying that the people whose voices they belonged to were drawing closer. She looked down at the blade clutched so tightly in her fist that it made her knuckles white with the effort, and decided there and then that it was better to run. It was craven, she knew, but it was her best chance of survival. Her and a single dagger were no match for whatever army advanced upon them.

Having hurriedly tugged on a red linen shift over the top of her nightdress, and pulled on her boots, she rushed out of the door, dagger in hand. She thought of Brynhild – she couldn’t simply leave the old woman defenceless, but as she looked towards her dwelling, she could see that the portly old woman was already outside, her back towards her, and marching purposefully towards the source of the noise.

What was she doing? Did the old woman have a death wish?

She called out after her, wondering if she’d even hear her amidst the cacophony of noise. Apparently she did as, without turning around, she waved her off dismissively and carried on walking. She stared after her, jaw agape, torn between chasing after her and simply fleeing. Growling in frustration, she took off running in the opposite direction – she could offer no protection, simply another body for the advancing forces to cleave through before they inevitably killed Brynhild too. She made for the treeline, deciding that hiding in the thick of the woods was her best chance of survival.

The moment that she was running amidst the trees, the light of the settlement swallowed up by dense woodland, icy fingers of fear began to dance along her spine. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs, visible whimpers escaped her with every laboured breath as she ran as though hunted. She was living her nightmare, and this time she couldn’t jolt into wakefulness to end it – this was real. It was a cloudy night, with no moonlight to illuminate her path, and so she stumbled in darkness, tripping and almost falling several times over unearthed roots. She managed to right herself each time and continue to run, until a particularly bad pitch in her step shook the dagger loose from her grasp, sending it clattering to the ground where she could no longer see it.

“No!” she cried, dropping to her knees and scrabbling at the dark earth with trembling fingers in search of it. It was all she had left of Sigtryggr. Her nails scraped uselessly in the dirt, never making contact with the blade she desperately sought. She hadn’t even realised she had been crying until she felt the droplets fall upon her hands.

She yelped in surprise as her fingers brushed against someone else’s, drawing her hand back as though scalded. She looked up, her eyes able to make out the figure of Sigtryggr crouched before her, the dagger she had dropped held loosely in his fingers. She had been so frightened, so absorbed in her own sense of panic that she had not even heard his approach.

“Looking for something?” he asked softly, offering the weapon back to her.

It was in that moment that she realised that this was nothing like her nightmares. She had nothing to fear from him, he would never harm her. All of her fright dissipated in the moment that she looked upon his face – so familiar even in darkness – and she lunged towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, causing the blade to fall back to the ground as Sigtryggr toppled backwards, wrapping his arms around her waist, as he laid heavily on his back.

She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, his long hair tickled her nose as she sobbed helplessly against him. Her words made little sense, even to her. “I was lost, I was lost,” she babbled, hiccuping around her tears.

Sigtryggr hushed her with a soothing sound, stroking his large hand over the back of her head, before coaxing her to look at him. “You are lost only if I am searching for you, little warrior, and I have found you. You’re safe.”

She was overwhelmed by the urge to interrogate him, to demand to know where he had been for the last week, why he had left her, but at the feeling of him beneath her, the sound of his sweet words and how earnestly he looked into her eyes, all questions died upon her tongue. Suddenly aware of the feeling of him beneath her, how real he felt after so many nights without him, she was eager to feel more.

Reaching between them, she tugged open the lacings of his trousers. Knowing straight away what she was after, Sigtryggr crushed his lips to hers, forcefully pushing her skirts above her hips as he kissed her as though he meant to devour her. It was too much and not enough. She felt as though she could not breathe, but could not bear to be parted from him as her tongue licked messily against his. The scrape of the rough woodland floor against her knees stung, and yet not for a moment did she wish to climb off of him. With hastened desperation, she grasped the base of his manhood, panting heavily as he broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers. His eyes screwed shut in pleasure as she dragged him through her slick, and the vision of his face in the darkness, contorted in ecstasy, was one she wanted to etch into her mind, to ensure she would remember it always. She didn’t care that time had not been taken to prepare her properly, and sank down onto his girth with a cry of both pain and gratification as he stretched her open. The impossible fullness was the most complete she’d felt in days.

One of his hands grasped her hip, guiding her movements as she began to undulate atop him, while the other sank into her hair, anchoring her against him. Catching sight of his Mjölnir pendant against his leather breastplate, she took the cord of it between her teeth, biting down as she impaled herself upon him over and over, urged on by his soft, breathy moans. She stilled only when he came inside of her with a jerk of his hips, holding her hip with such force that she knew he would leave bruises. She let his Mjölnir fall from her lips, as he groaned low against the hollow of her throat, then fell bonelessly backwards, staying inside of her, taking her with him as he went. She had not peaked, it did not matter, the feel of him, his essence, filling her, reminding her he was real and not something her frightened mind had conjured as a comfort was all she needed.

When she had finally caught her breath enough to speak, she lifted herself enough to look down at him. “We have to go, we cannot stay here, we are being attacked.”

“That was just us,” he said softly, pulling her back down to him and tenderly kissing the top of her head. “I told Brynhild not to open the gates until she heard the horn and saw the torches, so that she would know she was welcoming us home.”

“Why did you leave?” she asked, lifting her gaze to look at the sharp line of his jaw. She was trying desperately to remain the balmy glow of their coupling, but could not quite keep the biting edge of anger from her voice.

“Uhtred wishes to take back Bebbanburg,” he explained, stroking a hand lazily up and down her back as they remained entwined upon the woodland floor. “We rode to Dunholm to keep him and his men away from Eoferwic.”

“And..?” she asked with a curious raise of her eyebrow.

“We had to lend fighting men and women to his cause, but he will not trouble our settlement here.”

“I am surprised you do not wish to join his fighting,” she murmured, tracing the lines of his leather breastplate with her fingertips in the darkness.

“I have fought for all I want, and it is here,” he replied, “I owe a debt to Uhtred for what he did for us in Wintanceaster, and that debt is now paid. I have no need to fight for him.”

She hummed in acknowledgement, quietly relieved that he would not be placed in harm’s way for another man’s cause. “Why did you not tell me you were going?”

He hesitated a moment, his hold on her tightening subtly. “I…I was going to, and then I was unkind to you before I left. I feared you would leave, and I knew if I went without telling you why then at the very least your curiosity would keep you with me.”

Her heart ached at his words, how could he ever believe that that was all that bound her to him? She reached up, cupping his cheek, nuzzling her face against his. “I am not going anywhere.”

“You say you still feel like my prisoner…”

She sighed, shaking her head. “I just…I do not know what my place is here. I wish to keep my faith, Sigtryggr, but will you cast me out if I am to do that?”

He sat up, keeping her upper body cradled against his chest. Sweeping her hair away from her face, he gazed down at her, intensity burning in his eyes, visible even in the gloom. “It is no secret that I hold no love for your nailed god, the followers of his faith have taken much and more from me. But it was a Christian woman that I fell in love with back in Wintanceaster, and I did not bring her north to change any part of her. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her eyes misty and voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

It was bright outside when she awoke – back in their bed, with no memory of how she got there – and Sigtryggr’s side was empty. For a moment, dread gnawed a pit in her stomach, worried she had dreamed his return and that he was still gone from her, until she looked bleary eyed around the room and saw him huddled in a corner beside the fireplace.

“Sigtryggr? How did we get back here? What are you doing?” she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

He turned, looking at her over his shoulder, offering her a cunning smile, before he rose and crossed the room, greeting her with a soft kiss against her forehead. “You fell asleep in my arms,” he told her, “and I carried you home. Come, I have something I want to show you.”

She accepted his outstretched hand, smiling at the warmth of his rough palm against her softer one, and rose from the bed. He led her to the corner where he had been kneeling a moment ago and gestured towards it. He had laid down a sheepskin upon the floor, with a small wooden altar erected against the wall, complete with a half burned tallow candle.

“Now we both have a place to speak to our gods,” he smiled, and opened his free hand, allowing a length of leather cord wrapped around his fingers to dangle against his palm. Threaded onto it was a handmade wooden cross, whittled so crudely that it almost made her want to laugh. She simply smiled though; despite its crookedness, it was all the more perfect for the fact that he had made it for her.

She pushed her hair out of the way, as he came to stand behind her, fastening it around her neck. Her fingers toyed with the cross as it settled upon her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her back against his chest, the word that fell from his lips was warm, moist, spoken with desire against her neck. “Christian…”

It sent a shiver down her spine, and this time for an entirely different reason.

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