#ive never lived a day in my life without asking for it back | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

skimmingmilk · 3 months ago

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aughhh sonic going back in time to visit little two yr old tails as been in my brain for what feels like forever! like how many dots does he end up connecting? how does he have the strength to not travel back further and knock the daylights out of tails’s mom? how does he react to the whole kukku invasion and forest fire? so many questions…aaaaa im so excited for this fic i will be in ruins. in ruins, i tell you

also with the whole sonic punching tails’s mom thing: you were talking about tails and his parents, but like sonic interacting (or just seeing) tails’s parents is always something ive thought about. idk, im curious about what your take on that would be, if you have one. (sorry if you’ve already answered something like this ahshhshs)

your boys are just spinning around in my brain constantly. they are living in there completely rent free. i adore them sm, they make me sick. anytime there’s a reference or parallel to something in their past, it hurts. these boys need therapy immediately. maybe even before immediately. your portrayal of them is such a huge inspiration istg

anyway, sorry this is kinda all over the place 😭 i just had a bunch of thoughts and threw them together in the most coherent way i could lol. hope you have a good rest of your night/day! stay safe out there 🩵

So, I was saving this because it really inspired me to write a little something, and it felt fitting because I live for your baby Tails and Sonic art, it's seriously the best boost of serotonin for me xD I'm sorry it took a minute to get to this, and I'll address the second idea you had in another ask (someone else was on the same wavelength as you around this time, and also asked about Sonic and Tails and Tails's parents xD).

But for now, please accept a continuation of the back in time shenanigans <3

Sonic Back In Time Shenanigans WIP #2: Back for the Luggage

Tracking down a second Chaos Emerald so he could skip back in time for an afternoon wasn’t how Sonic saw himself spending the past few days. Though, to be fair, he spent a good chunk of them trying to ignore the very itch encouraging him to give into this particular whim of the week, but impulse control wasn’t Sonic the Hedgehog’s claim to fame. Not by a long shot.

His curiosity had been piqued. New insight into the lore of his little brother’s life before he’d ever crossed his path niggled at his mind no matter how far and fast he ran from the temptation to take a peek. The glimpse he’d got on that rainy night hadn’t been all that reassuring, with Tails so small and sick and the time Sonic got to spend with him in that dusty, stuffy cabin all too brief.

Cocoa Island. He’d looked it up after he and Silver returned to Sonic’s present, their respective futures stabilized for the time being, but he couldn’t find much information on it. If it wasn’t for the fact that Sonic could chart it on a map, it almost seemed like it didn’t even exist.

Historic records mentioned studies of the volcanic activity on the island more than a decade ago. Mines had also been dug out in the cave systems throughout the island long before Sonic had been born, in search of potential esoteric energy sources.

The Chaos Emeralds, no doubt.

But other than that, it seemed the island had never been properly settled. Sonic could’ve flown over in the Tornado for a quick jaunt��running to small islands never boded well for him, they were always tricky to aim for—but he knew it wouldn’t have the answers he was itching to find out.

And sure, the big one was already answered. The sick baby fox he’d had to leave behind in the care of some flickies after that rainy night obviously made a full recovery, or else Tails wouldn’t be alive in Sonic’s present, off on his own adventure. Flying solo. Alone.

But knowing that without actually seeing it, experiencing it for himself, didn’t satisfy Sonic in the slightest. He was all about experiences. And he wanted to experience this mysterious chapter of his best bud’s life, one he never really let himself think all that hard on.

So, that was how Sonic found himself on a nearly deserted island eight years in the past with two Chaos Emeralds in hand. It was warmer than in his present, willing to bet they were somewhere in spring or early summer as opposed to late fall, but the dense cover of pine trees kept the forest floor cool in its shade. Allergies tickled his nose, prompting Sonic to scratch at it as he took in his surroundings. Flickies sang throughout the branches, their chirps a comforting song accompanied by the steady hum of insects hidden in the brush. With his own curious hum, Sonic picked a direction and ran with it—er, walked with it. He took it slow for the moment, trying to find his way back to the cabin from that night. It seemed like his best bet to start his search for Tails.

Until a child’s voice somewhere in the forest caught his ear, both perking up and flicking towards the sound with an instinctive pull as everything else faded into the background. A breath Sonic hadn’t realized he’d been holding lifted from his chest. The child sounded light, healthy. No coughing or crying as far as he could tell.

Sonic followed the voice to a clearing. Unlike the stormy day he’d first stumbled in on, sunlight flooded the patch of grass between the trees with its warm beams. One fell across a tree stump where a two-tailed fox kit lay sprawled across on his tummy, bright-eyed and bushy tails further confirmation that he’d made a full recovery. Sonic’s shoulders sagged with relief as he observed him from the brush, his own green eyes lighting up as he realized he was playing. Making motor sounds with his mouth, Tails rolled a toy airplane through the long, wild grass. His tongue poked out as he accidentally blew raspberries amidst his very serious airplane noises.

“Pfft—” Sonic’s laugh nearly sputtered out of him, cut off only by the fact that the kid heard him and froze.

Ears swiveled in his direction, but Tails couldn’t see him through the trees from his spot on the stump. The toy airplane fell to the grass with a soft thump as the baby fox squirmed and tried to hoist himself up into a sitting position, his two blue boots dangling just over the edge as his bare hands planted themselves on the wood between them to support himself. One tail flicked up and down with excitement while the other twitched limply against the tree stump, like it didn’t know it could lift itself up like its twin.

“Mom?” he called out, and the hope in his voice ensnared Sonic’s heart in a vice. “Mom!”

“Ah, sorry, little guy. Not mom.” Sonic stepped out from behind the brush with his hands up, a sheepish smile on his face. “Just me. Long time no see.”

His tails immediately wilted as the bright-eyed, eager expression on his face retracted into something shy and pensive. But not scared, Sonic noted. There wasn’t a trace of fear in his eyes.

“Remember me? I stayed with you during that rainstorm the other night,” Sonic added, hoping to jog the little guy’s memory, but he didn’t actually know how long it had been since that night.

He didn’t have Silver’s neat little time travel gizmos. His comm couldn’t pinpoint where he was in time, only in space. Which meant he couldn’t stay long, because if Tails or anyone else tried to ping his location, it’d probably come up blank.

The Tails sitting in front of him drew his legs up, curling into himself a bit the closer Sonic got. Okay, well maybe he was a little afraid. Sonic stopped short of reaching the tree stump, hoping a reassuring smile would get him the rest of the way.

“My name’s Sonic. Sonic the Hedgehog. What’s yours?”

Tails stared at him for a moment, until his gaze slowly slid past him to focus on the tree line behind him. Sonic planted his hands on his hips and canted his head back to see if anything was there, but aside from the buzz of insects and rustling of flickies in the leaves, the forest was still. No one else but the two of them smack dab in the middle of it.

“…Mom?” Tails whispered, grabbing onto one of his tails to hold.

Sonic’s smile slowly slid off his muzzle. In all the time he’d known Tails, he’d never once called for his mom. Not a single cry. By the time he came into Tails’s life, whatever innate trust he’d had for this faceless person had completely evaporated. There was only one person Tails had ever called out for, ever cried for, ever searched for when he was lost or scared or lonely.

Sonic swallowed thickly. “I don’t know where your mom is, bud. You waiting for her?” Tails nodded with the most intense certainty, his ears flopping forward and back with the force of it. “Did she… did she say when she’s coming back?”

This time Tails pursed his mouth as he thought carefully about his answer, his pensive expression the same one he’d still make to this day when he debated how to explain something to him. If he should explain something to him. If he should give his big bro a glimpse into the inner workings of his big brain, or if it’d be easier—safer—to keep it all to himself.

And just where’d he pick up that particular trick?

But this Tails was young enough—hadn’t been hurt enough—to trust someone who looked like a grown-up, so he slowly shook his head in response, wide blue eyes gazing up at him like there’d be some sort of prize if he answered all the questions correctly.

Sonic’s brow furrowed. “Do you know how long it’s been since you last saw her?”

“Long.” The small, squeaky voice was so matter-of-fact, Sonic nearly fell over with the sheer amount of joy a single syllable filled him with; his little bro’s attitude had been baked into him from the start.

“I’ll bet,” he huffed out a chuckle, choosing to sit cross-legged in the grass so he wasn’t towering over Tails like some kind of threat. “You like planes?” Sonic glanced meaningfully at the toy plane still discarded in the grass.

Tails glanced down at it, the tip of his tail in his mouth as he gently chewed on it. “Mmhm.”

Though Tails had long-outgrown the habit of chewing on his own tails, Sonic would still occasionally catch him nibbling on the ends of pens and pencils when he was deep in thought or starting to get hungry. Or, at least, he used to. Back before Sonic had been captured and Tails had been out on his own for six months…

“I like ‘em, too,” Sonic piped up with a grin. “Probably my favorite way to travel! Second to running, of course.”

Tails blinked at him, head canting to one side. Sonic’s smile grew and he scooched forward a couple inches, steadily closing the gap between them.

“Y’see, running’s sort of my thing. What kinda things do you like to do?”

Tails glanced down at the toy plane again, then up at the sky. He pointed shyly at the white, puffy clouds slowly floating by overhead. Sonic followed his gaze, unable to help the way his smile crooked to one side.

“You like to watch the clouds?” Sonic filled in for him, beaming when Tails nodded. “Me too. You ever look for shapes in ‘em?”

The little guy’s brow furrowed. “Shapes?”

Sonic laughed as the perplexed, and ultimately unconvinced, expression remained fixed on Tails’s face. “C’mere, I’ll show ya!”

Unceremoniously flopping onto his back, face turned towards the sky, Sonic patted the grass beside him. Though they were mostly shielded by the thick cover of trees, a light breeze still wafted down into the clearing and carried the salty scent of the sea with it. The stands of grass tickled Sonic’s side as he laid back and took a deep breath, listening for the familiar patter of eager footsteps following his lead.

Except they didn’t come.

Sonic pushed himself up onto his elbows. Tails was still curled up atop the tree stump, chewing on the tip of his tail as he watched him with worry in his eyes. Worry that had no place being there in a kid so young.

So Sonic cracked another smile. “Don’t worry. The floor’s not lava,” he teased, but it was something the toddler obviously didn’t understand. “It’s safe, bud. I’m not gonna hurt ya. Promise.”

Tails’s gaze darted to the treeline again, searching amongst their thick trunks and low-hanging branches before snapping back to Sonic. “Mm… s’pposed to wait here,” he mumbled, his words sounding a little thick as some of his syllables slurred together in a mouth that was still so small, but ultimately what he’d said was clear enough for Sonic to understand.

His smile slowly faded as he processed the simple explanation; the same feeling rising in the back of his throat as when he sat with a sick Tails in the cabin while the kid asked if he could go home. “Your mom tell ya that?”

Tails nodded. “Wait here. Be good.” His little face scrunched up in a look of pure, earnest determination. “Wait here an’ be good, then mom will come back. She said… she said.”

But she wouldn’t.

No one would.

And maybe Tails already knew that. Even if he didn’t want to believe that someone he loved would leave him, he’d always been a smart kid. Tails’s tiny claws caught in the fur of his tail as he clung tighter to it—like he could physically cling to the hope that his mom would still come back if he did this one thing really well.

If he did his very best.

“Look Sonic, I made this for you!”

“Sonic, I’ve made some adjustments to the Tornado’s aerodynamics, so her base speed has more than doubled! Pretty cool, huh?”

“I made a radar to help us track the Chaos Emeralds faster!”

“I still need to optimize your Extreme Gear’s turning radius and acceleration for your next race. It’s not good enough.”

“The Cyclone still has a ways to go in terms of balancing its different modes of transport. It’s just not good enough at land or air travel yet.”

“I’m wildly inconsistent. I’m just a burden to you. I’m not good enough.”

Not good enough.

Sonic’s fingers dug a little firmer into the soft, damp soil beneath the grass. “Well, I mean, ya gotta get off that stump sometimes. What about when you get hungry? You leave to go get food, dontcha?”

Tails stiffened, fur frizzed up like he’d been caught with his hand in the proverbial mint chocolate chip cookie jar. “Don’t tell,” he pleaded, eyes wide as panicked tears welled up. “I’m sorry—”

“Woah. Hey, hey, hey,” Sonic sat up straighter so he could lift his hands, using them to make a calming gesture as Tails’s little chest started to heave with each little gasp. “Easy there, bud. I’m not gonna tell her.”

“…Not?”

Despite the storm brewing just beneath the surface, faced with further confirmation that Tails had never truly felt safe or wanted, he refused to scare the kid with its intensity. Offering up a kind smile and reassurance, Sonic held up a finger to his mouth. Like they were keeping secrets from some nameless authority figure they’d never shared.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Tails’s ears perked up and the grip on his tail eased up. “M’kay…”

“M’kay,” Sonic mimicked, smile growing as he watched Tails scrub at his face with the fur of his forearm. “C’mere, kiddo. Watch the clouds with me.”

Tails looked at him for a moment, then scooted closer to the edge of the tree stump. He swung one leg over, then the other, his little boots scraping against the bark as he eased himself down. He was a little off-balance as he toddled over. Both arms splayed out to steady himself as one tail flicked up and the other was dragged behind him, still as limp and awkward as it had been on the stump.

Sonic’s gaze narrowed in on it immediately. “Didja hurt your tail?”

Tails paused and craned his neck back, wobbling a little as he tried to look behind him. “No,” he answered simply.

“Then how come it’s not up like your other one?”

Tails reached behind him and picked up the limp appendage, hugging it to his chest. “Doesn’t do it.”

Sonic’s frown deepened. “Let me see it.”

Tails didn’t even hesitate. He let go of his tail as he waddled right over to him. He turned his back to him, giving him complete access to the part of his body he protected the most. Sonic was the only one he’d learned to trust with them over the years, but he’d had to earn it.

Sonic gently ran his fingers through the fur, watching his baby brother’s posture for any sign of discomfort. He didn’t flinch, but his good tail started wagging almost immediately, thwacking Sonic in the side of the face.

“Careful with that,” he chuckled, catching it in a loose hold when it smacked him again. “You could take someone’s eye out with one of these bad boys. Here, hold onto this for me.”

He waited for Tails to grab onto his eager tail, hugging it hard when it wiggled uncontrollably. “S’tryna get away,” he giggled.

“Oh boy, better get a good grip. It’s a slippery one, that tail,” Sonic laughed, using the distraction to his advantage as he palpated along the base of the weaker tail with his fingertips.

There was barely any muscle to it, and the fur was patchy and matted, flattened in a way that his other tail clearly wasn’t, even though his fur overall could’ve used a good brushing. But it wasn’t injured, no welts or bruises or cuts. It was just… weak. Like it was developing slower than its twin. He’d caught a glimpse of it that night where he was sick, but now that he was getting a good look at it, the differences between the two were stark. He couldn’t imagine why; Sonic’s brain literally wouldn’t let him conceive of a situation where this would happen—where Tails wasn’t allowed to use one tail to the same extent as the other.

Whatever had caused this had reversed itself by the time Sonic met Tails, both little propellers of equal strength. At least, he thought they were. To be fair, he’d only been eleven and he hadn’t looked all that closely at them. And Tails barely let him patch him up from where he’d been smacked around by bullies or badniks in those first few weeks.

Idly petting along the length of his tail, Sonic stilled when it spasmed against his palm. Just looking at it, he’d have thought he accidentally pulled on it or snagged his fur, but there was a gentle rumbling sound emanating from Tails’s chest that assured him otherwise. Sonic flicked his gaze up to see Tails watching him, a smile on his face while he purred openly. His tail jerked in his hold again. It was trying to wag.

Sonic’s shoulders sagged, his own smile lopsided as he let his tail slip from his grasp. “All clear. Time to park those two tails of yours right here on the runway.”

Tails squeaked as Sonic nabbed him around the middle, but dissolved into a fit of giggles as he was lifted up and plopped down on the grass next to him. Kicking up one leg over the other, Sonic laid back once again, arms pillowed behind his head as he let out a contented sigh. Beside him, Tails laid back and wiggled a bit to get comfortable, both tails swept to the same side so they wouldn’t get pinched underneath him. He tilted his head up to look at the sky, the same color reflected back in his eyes.

“Shapes?” he asked.

“Yeah, we’re gonna look for shapes, little buddy,” Sonic hummed. “Go ahead and tell me what ya find.”

Tails considered the sky for a moment, then pointed at a blob above them. “Oval.”

A sharp laugh burst right out of Sonic. “Sorry, sorry,” he wheezed when Tails pouted at him. “Not those kinda shapes, pal. I’m talking things like flickies or flowers or chili dogs! But good first try. I’m thinking that one looks more like… a whale.”

“Whale?”

“Uh-huh. See the tail?” Sonic removed one hand from behind his head so he could trace the oblong cloud as it faintly curved upwards at the end, making sure Tails’s eyes followed where he pointed. “And there’s its fin. And the wispy bits at the top are like the water shooting out of its spout.”

“Spout,” Tails echoed, blinking up at it like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“Yeah, you know. Like when they come up from the water and all that mist sprays from that hole on top of their heads like…” A devious grin spread across Sonic’s face before he looped his arm around Tails and dragged him close enough to blow a raspberry against his cheek with a loud, “pbbbbbbfffft!”

Tails squealed, legs kicking as he squirmed about instinctively, but made no move to pull away entirely. The ticklish sensation buzzed through him like a bunch of tiny butterflies; the feeling silly, unfamiliar, and almost overwhelming all at once. He eventually pawed at Sonic’s muzzle, pushing it away from the fluffy, baby fur of his cheek, but he was smiling and laughing as he looked over at him, eyes shining with delight.

“Was that funny?” Sonic snickered.

“Yeah!” Tails beamed at him, his tails beating an inconsistent rhythm against the grass. “You’re funny.”

“I’m funny?” Sonic feigned offense. “Excuse me, but seems to me like you’re the funny one, wiggling around over here like a cup of sparkle gelatin!”

“No!” Tails squeaked, curling up when Sonic poked him in the tummy.

“No?” Sonic eased back, reminding himself to reign it in a bit so he could figure out if the “no” was just in play or if he was serious.

As much as he wanted to give this little guy something to smile and laugh about while he was out here on his own—and it was so easy, it was almost intoxicating when he hadn’t seen his brother’s smile in weeks—he didn’t want to overwhelm the kid. But as he let him go and pulled back, a panicked look flashed in Tails’s eyes. His smile fell and a fear that was too big for a guy so small replaced it as he froze up.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Sonic lowered his voice, but even that didn’t stop the tears from suddenly sprouting in the corners of his eyes. “Was that too much? Sorry, kiddo. Not really used to you like this. I don’t know your limits.”

Tails didn’t answer him, probably because he didn’t know how. He was a baby, after all. Four-year-old Tails had often had trouble expressing how he felt or what he wanted. And heck, even ten-year-old Tails was still facing that particular issue. He couldn’t expect a maybe-two-year-old to know…

Tails’s tiny paw reached for Sonic’s arm, the light touch barely registering as anything other than an itch before his fingers curled into his fur. Sonic stared at his hand for a second, then immediately darted to his face. Tails sniffed, muzzle quivering as he held back his tears.

Always sucking it up. Always putting on a brave face. Always trying to be a big kid, like his big bro.

Even when he was just a baby.

“It’s okay,” Sonic repeated, his arm curling around Tails again. “I’m right here, it’s okay.”

Tails nestled against his side, nuzzling his face against him with a shiver and a barely suppressed whimper. “Mom… dad…”

The storm returned with a white-hot flash of frustration and resentment. Sonic directed his glare at the cloud whale lazily floating past them, since he couldn’t look the people responsible for this in the eyes. Not that he particularly wanted to. If they never crossed paths, his and Tails lives would only continue on for the better. That was one thing he was still certain of. There was nothing in the universe that could convince him otherwise.

Not even the baby who desperately wanted them.

But he didn’t know any better. They were all he knew.

Releasing a long sigh, Sonic let go of the past and pulled himself back into the present—or, well, two-year-old Tails’s present anyway. He patted Tails’s side, then ruffled his fur a bit when he cuddled closer. His fur tickled as he rubbed his little face against his ribs, so Sonic scooched him up a bit more until his cheek was pillowed against his shoulder.

“Sorry if I scared you, bud,” he hummed, watching as one of Tails’s ears twitched from the lull of his voice. “Didn’t mean to. You’re safe with me, okay? When I’m around, I’m always gonna do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

Tails tipped his head back to watch him, silently absorbing his words, even if he didn’t understand them. But as Sonic looked down at him, he saw his four-year-old brother snuggling up to him in a storm and his six-year-old brother falling asleep on him during a movie and his eight-year-old brother trying to be strong for Sonic as they lost another friend… He could see all of Tails in the way he looked at him, every moment where he let Sonic see a little of that vulnerability he always tried so hard to hide.

He could even see his ten-year-old brother, hundreds of miles away, determined to bury that vulnerable little kid for good, somewhere Sonic would never find him. And that was fine. If that was what Tails wanted, then Sonic wanted that for him. He wanted Tails to feel confident and capable and every bit the hero Sonic saw in him every day.

“And even when I’m not here… when you can’t see me? I’ll still be with you. Wherever you go, whatever you face, you won’t have to do it alone.”

Tails sniffed, then lifted his head to gaze up at him. “Pomise?”

Sonic’s breath hitched, his eyes as wide as saucers as the fox kit who’d only known him for a few minutes at most looked at him with nothing but trust. “Yeah. I promise.” He had to clear his throat, then tugged Tails up to sit on his chest. “You’ve got no idea just how stuck with me you are, keed.”

“No idea,” Tails repeated, shaking his head with the utmost seriousness a two-year-old could express.

Sonic’s laughter traveled through him and right up into Tails, the two of them shaking with it. The feeling of being bounced about coaxed a few giggles out of Tails and he nearly slid off his unsteady perch. But Sonic’s hands supported him, holding tight so he wouldn’t fall.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Sonic choked out as his laughter petered out on a breathless sigh. “Don’t ever forget that, okay?”

“M’kay,” Tails agreed.

“M’kay.” With one hand remaining on Tails’s waist, Sonic lifted the other to poke him on the tip of his nose, grinning at the way he went cross-eyed from following his finger. “I’m gonna follow up on that in eight years, y’know, so better work on committing that to memory, stat.”

“M’kay.”

“I mean it. There’ll be a test and everything.”

“M’kay.”

“You’re so agreeable,” Sonic sighed, closing his eyes as he laid his head back, leaving the comfortable weight of the baby fox on his abdomen. “I don’t think I know what to do with a little bro that actually listens to me.”

He felt Tails squirm a bit, one knee digging into his ribs as he attempted to scoot further up, then a finger lightly tapped Sonic on the tip of his nose. One green eye cracked open, immediately greeted with a pair of pleased blue ones and a wagging fox tail. Despite the fact that it was pinned beneath him, pressed into the grass, Sonic felt his tail give a jerky little wag, too.

“Shapes?” Tails asked.

“You wanna look for more shapes in the clouds?” Sonic waited for Tails’s eager nod before turning him around and laying him back in the grass beside him. “You got it, bud! You need a redemption round, after all. Let’s see what kinda shapes you can find this time.”

Tails hummed, contemplative gaze fixed on the clouds for a good minute before he pointed slightly to his left. “Floor!”

“Floor?” Sonic squinted up at the cloud, making sure he was looking at the right one. “Oh, ‘flower!’ Yeah, that does kinda look like a tulip flower. Good eye, kiddo.”

Tails nodded proudly. “Mmhm. Floor.”

“Flower,” Sonic repeated, and even made the sign for it, touching each side of his nose with his fingertips, like he was smelling a flower.

“Floor-er.”

“Close enough,” he chuckled. “Oh, okay, now that one looks like a crab claw. Like from a crabmeat.” Grinning devilishly, Sonic made a claw-like grabby motion at Tails with his hand while the little guy laughed. “Or, y’know, an actual crab.”

They watched the clouds, picking more shapes out of them until Tails’s stomach started growling. Sonic quickly sped through the forest to gather up whatever kind of fruits or vegetables were available on the island, eventually settling on some peaches, plums, and cherries. He grabbed them from the other side of the island, so as not to take from anywhere Tails was likely to forage on his own. He liked the plums and peaches, the sticky juice staining his muzzle as it dripped from his hands. He kept trying to lick his fingers clean while Sonic wiped the fur around his mouth so it wouldn’t bother him later when it dried. He didn’t care for the cherries as much, but Sonic still left a small stash of them and the leftover peaches at the base of the tree stump.

With a full tummy and sticky paws, Tails let out a big, squeaky yawn before he curled up on top of the tree stump. His tails covered him like a blanket as he settled down for a nap, giving Sonic just the out he needed. He’d been debating how to head back to his present time without sounding any alarms for Tails. He honestly wasn’t sure he’d be able to if the kid just looked at him with those sad eyes, like he was being abandoned all over again.

But if Tails was asleep, then maybe this would all have felt like just a dream. Sonic had just wanted to check on him after leaving him so abruptly that first time, and then he figured it couldn’t hurt to give him one good afternoon. There would be so many days where he’d be on his own after this, so many months before their paths would cross. One afternoon where a stranger showed him kindness and played with him wasn’t going to break the time stream, but even Sonic knew it couldn’t really go further than that.

“I’d break time lines for that kid.” His own words echoed at the back of his mind, the certainty he’d felt at the time faltering when faced with the sleepy face of a baby fox who wasn’t supposed to have met him yet. It wasn’t so simple.

Sonic waited until Tails’s breaths were deep and steady, arms wrapped around the weaker tail while the stronger one blanketed him with its fluff. Smoothing down his bangs with his thumb, Sonic gently stroked the top of his head and scritched behind his ear.

“Love ya, little bro,” he whispered.

Things would be okay, Sonic reminded himself as he backed out of the clearing, picking up the two emeralds that were his ticket back to his time. Because they were okay in the present. Even if Tails wouldn’t be there when he returned, they would still be okay. Eventually. They always came out on top. Sonic still believed that.

If there was anything he still believed in above all else, it was Tails.

So, to be fair, when he left the Poloy Forest that afternoon, it had been with the intention that this wouldn’t happen again.

But then, Sonic the Hedgehog’s impulse control wasn’t his claim to fame, was it?

---

A/N: Anyway, just wanted to say thank you again, 0vergrown, and that I appreciate you so much! I'm so happy you're interested in this little side plot I've got brewing and all the angst potential that it holds <3 I have so many little scenes I want to write for them, you have no idea! Hope this scratches a bit of the itch for more of these boys who need so much therapy. So much...

And thank you everyone else who's also interested in this idea! Much love to all of you!

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msfantasy-anime · 2 months ago

Text

A Visit From Dear Ole Dad

Monkey D. Luffy x Reader

Summary: Your dad visits Marine!Reader to talk

A/n: rushed ending but shrug

Series Masterlist

Part IV

“Mrs. Monkey.” A teasing gravely voice calls out.

Standing at the bow of the ship, you turn around to see your father standing just behind you. His bright red hair and sunny smile beaming at you.

"Dad!" You call out excitedly. Shoving your tea cup into the nearest officers hands as you launch yourself into the arms of your father. His big arms wrapping around your form as he begins to spin you in circles as you giggle like a young girl again.

He finally places you down, “How’s it going little trouble maker?” He asks ruffling up your hair.

“Me? If anyone’s the trouble maker— it’s you!” You accuse back, all whilst Shanks throws his head back in laughter.

The ship seems to grow quieter at the unexpected visitor. Soon all you hear is the ocean waves lapping against the vessel as the crew shuffle silently behind the figure of your dad. All attempting to catch glimpses of him, but he pays no mind to the watchful eyes only looking upon your face instead.

“No more than usual— but you?” He says, raising his brow, “Imagine my surprise when I catch word about my little girl messing around with another marine.” He says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now I don’t like getting involved with you two but you better set the record straight before Luffy hears anything— aren’t you two married or did I miss something?” He lectures, making you shrink under his scrutinising gaze. “Even if it’s another one of your schemes, you know how Luffy feels about those tricky tactics of yours.”

“Might’ve …” you spoke hesitantly. “Told a small fib here and there to get out of a situation…” you mutter, twisting your fingers around your coat. “But it’s not true! Luffy knows I would never.”

Shanks couldn’t help but huff a sigh. “Kid— It might not be my place. But I think it’s time I finally had a heart to heart with you.” Shanks says, looking you deep in your eyes, making sure you’re listening. “How much longer are you going to play marine.” He says as you raise a brow at this.

“Dad, it’s not like that. I want to be a marine.” You defend, but Shank doesn’t hesitate.

“Is it though?” He asks, making you falter, “I don’t know exactly where this dream of becoming a marine came from but I just wanna make sure that my little girl won’t make any decisions that she regrets in life. Even though you two love each other, love isn’t enough to keep you together. There will come a day that you will have to choose between your job and him and I don’t think you can live with that decision.” Shank says grabbing your shoulders. “So I’m asking you again, why do you wanna be a marine?”

Maybe it was the sincerity in his eyes, or the sorrowful look he’s giving you, or perhaps it was your own admission back that make your heart ache.

“I don’t know.” You answer back, your voice trembly as you painfully admit you’re unsure. It’s a terrifying notion to admit. For years you prattled on about becoming a marine as the boys prattled on about becoming a pirate king. You’ve made becoming a marine your whole personality and without that title you don’t really know who you are. Truth be told that thought sat in the back of your mind for quite a long time now; having become a marine and achieving such an esteemed title only trapped you further. To finally admit out loud that you’re not sure if the years of dedication to your craft was even worth it. Being a rear admiral almost felt like nothing, it feels like it should be a title you ought to be proud of having. “I was so angry when you left me on the island dad.” You say, meeting his gaze.

“I’m sorry darling you know if I had any other way then I would—“

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not angry at you. I was angry at the situation.” You said, a tear spilling over the edge of your eyes. “I’m grateful that I got to have the childhood I did. Growing up with Ace, Sabo, and especially Luffy, was more than I could ever ask for.” You say, Shanks whipping away your tear. “I was angry that the Marines kept you away from me. I was even more angry when Ace told us about the world government issued an execution order when he was a fetus. The world wanted him dead before he was even born.” You said, your brows crossing. “And the idea cemented in my head when I watched the Marines just stand there when that celestial dragon launched a bomb at Sabo.”

Shanks just stood there for a moment mulling over your words. “Darling, if I had to be quite honest with you, I don’t believe being a marine is your dream.” in the words rattled your mind. “Say you achieved the highest rank as a marine. Would you feel complete and happy in the end?” You just stood there, your mouth left a-gape.

“I-“

“Say you go on countless adventures with that husband of yours, would you have regrets leaving the marines behind?” He asks, and something in his eyes compelled the honest truth from you.

“No.”

And with that admission, Shank smiles ever so slightly.

But you couldn’t even focus on that as you saw a hoards of your crew gathering behind your father. “Rear Admiral— we thank you for all your years of service but we think it’s time that you follow your own dreams as you have helped us follow ours.” One of the officers shout as the crowd begins to hold back their tears.

“Thanks to you. We understand the vision that you had for the Marines and we will do our best to carry out.” Your Lieutenant announces. “ Will leave for your name and document so they never even know that you’ve left—“

“No—“ you say firmly. “Tell Akainu the truth. That I’ve abandoned post to join my husband- as a straw hat pirate!”

Tag list: @rainbowcreepie

#one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece imagine #one piece x s/o #one piece x you #asked and answered #luffy x reader #straw hat pirates imagine #pirate x reader #luffy x you #monkey d. luffy x reader #monkey d luffy x reader #luffy x marine!reader #luffy x wife!reader #luffy imagine #luffy fluff #strawhat pirates x marine!reader #straw hat! reader #strawhat pirates x reader

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makixroll · 1 month ago

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SNEAK OUT DATES — jo ۫ ꣑ৎ

pairing . . . jo asakura x fem!reader

contents . . . richkid!jo , fluff , comfort , established relationship .

message . . . tysm to the anon who requested this!!! Ive always wanted to write for jo but couldn't think of smth that'll suit him ;-; hope you'll like this! 💖

With just a short message of "im here" from your boyfriend, you immediately bolted from your room, not even bothering to close it as you sprinted downstairs, unlocking the front door and went outside, spotting a tall figure of a man you were most definitely familiar of.

"Jo!" You whisper-shouted, being mindful of the neighbors who were sleeping at this late hour. Your boyfriend glanced at you, a huge smile now etched on his face.

"Hi, lovely." Jo whispered, greeting you as he ready himself from the embrace you were about to give him. He watched you run towards him, arms spread wide as he catched you. Jo's hands went in contact with your waist, lifting you up a bit as he spun you around, a soft giggle leaving both of your lips.

"Wanna go to my room?" You softly mumbled, asking him as you glanced up at him due to his height, your arms were wrapped around his neck like a koala as his hands never left the sides of your waist.

Jo shook his head, "not tonight." he mumbled, before leading you towards his motorbike that he rides in every late at night just to see you. Jo then lifted you up and made you sit on his vehicle.

"You sure I'm not gonna fall from this?" You asked, giving him a teasing smile.

"Mhm, as long as I'm here." Jo said in the most softest voice he could muster, giving you a soft glance as he caressed your cheek, which you nuzzled in.

"I missed you." He whispered, so quietly it almost went past your ears. A soft smile plastered on your face as you held his hand that was placed on your cheek, closing your eyes to enjoy the warmth of his palm.

"We just saw each other earlier." You replied in a whisper.

"Wasn't enough.." he whispered back, going closer to you as he rest his forehead on yours, closing his eyes in the process.

"Can I sleep with you tonight?" Jo asked so softly yet pleading it almost broke your heart, placing soft kisses on your forehead, and then your cheeks.

"You'll get in trouble, y'know?" You told him, talking about his strict parents that wouldn't let him do as he pleases.

"I won't, and I don't care." He replied, now staring at you with love circulating in his eyes. You let out a small sigh, putting your hand on his cheeks that were tinted pink due to the cold weather.

"One of these days, you'll definitely get caught by your parents." You commented.

You've been with Jo for five months already, and for four months, he has been sneaking around just to be with you late at night. Jo's parents were strict, he couldn't even breathe properly whenever he's at their house, it always felt like he's living a life that wasn't his.

Jo's parents were rich, like crazy rich. While yours were just average, just right. Enough to eat full meals everyday, just enough to buy things you wanted every now and then. But that wasn't enough, not for Jo's parents, at least.

Your boyfriend didn't care about your status, all he cared about was you, your feelings towards him, and how you made Jo feel like he could be himself whenever he's with you. He could breathe properly without thinking of his parents strictness. Jo thinks of you as his prized possession, his comfort in this cruel world. You were like an escape from his reality. Jo knew his parents wouldn't approve of you, but he didn't care about what they think. He loves you, and that's all that matters. Your love for each other is what keeps him going.

You two met at a prestigious high school during your senior year. You were a scholar, which meant you excelled in school and didn't pay even a single dime except for extracurricular activities such as fieldtrips and other events. While Jo, went there because of his parents who wanted him to have connections from different rich families.

He met you, inside a classroom you two shared. You were a breathe of fresh air. You didn't wear any stacked expensive accessories that other rich girls wore, only a simple gold bracelet that your mother bought you for your birthday. Then, Jo found himself entangled with you. Which led things now, him sneaking around from his parents just to see you, just to spend more time with you.

"I bought snacks, will you let me now?" Jo said in a hushed tone, bribing you as he gestured for the plastic bag that was on his bike. Your eyes sparkled, he knew your love for snacks, especially sweet ones.

"Hmm... throw in a cuddle and ten kisses and you got yourself a deal." You said, teasingly that made him let out a chuckle. Jo nodded his head, staring at you lovingly.

"Deal." Jo leaned in and captured your lips in a soft kiss, his kiss was slow and soft, filled with love, just like him.

"There, nine more to go." He mumbled, wearing a cute smile that makes you want to smother him.

"Is it too late to add an additional ten kisses to the deal?"

"It's never too late."

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starkwlkr · 3 months ago

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undressed | michael robinavitch

an: guys i’m finna be in the pitt ‼️ n e ways here’s my contribution to the pitt fics (btw i spent the last few days reading every fic and they’re all soooo good i’m obsessed) and yea this is inspired by undressed by sombr!! and am i rewatching ER? yes ma’am 🫡

He worked on instinct now—his hands steady, his voice calm, his focus laser-sharp. The boy on the gurney, no older than five, had taken a nasty fall at the park. A fractured arm, a possible concussion, a scared father, and a worried older sister waiting outside in the waiting room.

Robby gently adjusted the sling on the boy’s tiny arm. “You’re very brave, Luke.”

Luke sniffled through his tears but gave a shaky smile. “Mom says crying is okay as long as you still try to be strong.”

Robby’s hands froze for a second.

His heart did that thing it hadn’t done in decades—skipped, clenched, softened. He swallowed tightly and looked down at the boy.

“Your mom says that, huh?”

Luke nodded solemnly, then added, “She also says you should always try your best even if you’re scared.”

Robby chuckled softly, a sound that cracked in the middle. He could almost hear her saying those exact words. He hadn’t heard that voice in years, but it still lived in the dusty attic of his mind, untouched but never forgotten.

“I used to know someone who said that too,” he murmured, more to himself than to the boy.

Luke tilted his head, curious. “Who?”

Robby smiled faintly, not looking up from the IV line he was adjusting. “Someone really special. From a long time ago. She wanted to be a teacher. Always had her nose in a book and believed in people—even the worst ones. I thought... I thought we’d be together forever.” He chuckled. Was he really telling a little boy about his failed love life? Yup.

“Did she move away?” Luke asked innocently.

“Yeah,” Robby said softly, the word almost catching in his throat. “Life took her somewhere else. And me too.”

He stood quietly, ruffling Luke’s brown hair. “But if I could see her again—even just once—I think I’d give anything for that.”

And then—

“Luke! Luke, where is he?!”

The voice was frantic, a mother’s voice, rich with fear. Robby froze. He turned just as the emergency room doors flew open, and time. . . time stopped.

There she was.

Hair slightly messier than he remembered, a coat slipping from her shoulders, panic in her eyes—but it was her. The only woman he’d ever really loved. The one who got away while he stayed behind in this city full of ghosts.

She hadn’t changed. Not really. Not where it counted.

“Mom!” Luke called out, smiling through his tears.

She rushed forward, falling to her knees beside the gurney. “Oh, baby, are you okay?” She cradled his head, kissed his forehead, checked his arm with shaking hands. She peppered kisses all over his face until the boy got annoyed.

“I’m okay. Dr Robby said I was very brave.” Luke turned to look at the older man.

Her eyes met Robby’s, and it was like someone had cracked open an old wound and let every ache spill out.

She blinked. “Michael?”

His voice was hoarse. “Hey.”

She stared for a second too long before whispering, “I didn’t even know you were still in Pittsburgh.”

“I never left.”

There was a pause. So much hung unsaid between them. Years. Regret. Memories. Choices.

“Thank you,” she cleared her throat. “For helping him.”

“Of course. . .” He said, his eyes not leaving hers. “He’s a good kid, very brave too.”

And then—without meaning to—his gaze fell on Luke’s face again. On the eyes.

Her eyes. The same eyes he’d once dreamed their children might have. But they weren’t his. They belonged to another man. A life he never got to live.

“So you’re back?” Robby finally snapped out of it.

“Just for the week. My niece is getting married then it’s back to Vancouver. My kids are waiting for me.” She explained.

Kids? Did she have more?

She then realized how that sounded and corrected herself. “My kids i teach. I’m a middle school teacher.”

So she did end up being a teacher after all. . . Robby could remember all the times she would mention how she wanted to work in a school. It was during their high school days that she would go on and on about her dream of being a teacher that cared about the school system.

“You live all the way in Vancouver . . .” Robby said with a sad tone.

“Yeah, my husband has his law firm there.”

Husband. That hurt to hear.

“Can we go?” Luke asked.

“Y-Yeah . . . Sorry for . . Yeah, you’re all good.” Robby helped Luke get down from the gurney. “So if he—” he was cut off by the voice of his first love.

“Yeah, I got it. I actually read your med books for fun after you would fall asleep when we would watch ‘Unsolved Mysteries’. If he’s in so much pain, I know who to take him to.” She held her son close as she spoke.

That was news to Robby. Watching unsolved mysteries was something they would do if they had time, which was rare, but when they did, Robby would end up sleeping after a couple of episodes and that’s when she would take a peek at his books.

“Thank you again,” she smiled at him. And just like that, she was gone—arms wrapped around her son, walking to the waiting room to her family and back into the world that wasn’t his.

Robby stood still for a long time.

In the end, all he could think about was this: the children of another man had the eyes of the girl he could never forget.

And there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do about it.

#the pitt #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby #dr robby x reader #the pitt x reader #dr robby imagine #michael robinavitch imagine #the pitt one shot

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atlabeth · 2 years ago

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bleedin' me dry | luke castellan

runaway with luke ending here!!

summary: luke has a proposal. it doesn't go over well.

a/n: so um. obviously im a huge percy jackson stan ive got annabeth in my name and ive literally wanted to be her since i read the books in second grade and by virtue of being an annabeth stan i hate luke but i also think he is so interesting and so good for angst and i also love the pjo resurgence we’ve got going on here from the show!! so here you go. here's some angst

title from vampire by olivia rodrigo

wc: 2.8k

warning(s): fem!child of demeter reader. luke is his own warning lmao. pushy and manipulative behavior, not the healthiest relationship! and no happy ending

“You know I love the forest,” you mused, “but you have to have a reason for bringing me out here.”

He gave you a wry smile as he squeezed your hand. “Do I have to have a reason? You said you love it—that’s gotta be reason enough.”

“I love it, but there are monsters here.” You twisted your free hand and flowers sprouted up a few feet away. “It does give me a chance to show off, though.”

You were in your cabin helping Katie clean up everything—it was the last day of summer and most of the Demeter kids had already left—when Luke knocked on the door and asked you to accompany him on “a little adventure”. Despite the teasing of your siblings, you bashfully accepted.

It wasn’t the smartest thing, admittedly, to find yourself in the forest with your boyfriend with a couple hours ‘til curfew when you still weren’t even sure if you were leaving or not, but you had your dagger. Luke didn’t have his sword, but you had been practicing.

It wasn’t like it really mattered, anyways—he probably just wanted to make out with you. It was far from the first time, and for all he knew you were leaving for the school year in a few hours.

He chuckled but didn’t say anything. You looked up at him, a slight frown creasing your brows, and nudged him with your shoulder.

“Is everything okay, Luke?” you asked. “You’ve been… oddly quiet.”

Again, it took him a moment to respond before he just shrugged. “I’ve been thinking, I guess.”

“About what?”

“Life,” he said. “Our lives.”

“Very philosophical for the hour,” you said dryly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Luke nodded, “yeah, I’m fine. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away.”

“Have you ever thought about leaving?”

“I’m still deciding whether I want to go back home for school or not, but—”

“Not after the summer,” Luke interrupted. “Leaving camp. For good.”

You frowned, a chill running down your spine. “Of course not. Camp Halfblood saved my life, Luke. I could never leave.”

“Says who?” Luke stopped and your intertwined hands pulled you back, stopping you as well.

“Says all the monsters that tried to kill me last time I went home,” you said slowly. “Don’t tell me you forgot the dracaena that nearly got me on that field trip.”

“‘Course I didn’t forget,” he said, inclining his head. “I just think you’re good enough now to make it without this place.”

“Luke,” you said with a strained laugh, “you— you can’t be serious.”

He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because if we leave, we’ll die,” you said slowly. “I barely made it on my own out there.”

“You’re more powerful now. And you won’t be on your own,” he said, tugging you closer. Despite it all, warmth bloomed in your chest. “I can protect you.”

“Luke…” You trailed off as he cupped your cheek with his other hand, bringing your gaze back to his.

“What’s the point of staying here?” Luke murmured, an unmistakable softness in his eyes. “Just so we can sit around at summer camp for the rest of our lives? I mean, it’s not like that’s gonna be much longer, the way Chiron tells it.”

“I ha— we have friends here,” you said, huffing another laugh as you took a step back from him. It was easier to think when he wasn’t touching you, when you were still able to sever the string connecting the two of you. “We have a life here. A safe life, Luke, where we don’t have to look over our shoulders constantly.”

“Not me.” Luke shook his head as he moved a step forward in tandem, and he took your hand again, his grip tighter this time. “You’re the only thing I’ve got keeping me here.”

“Please,” you said in disbelief. “You’ve got a whole cabin of siblings that adore you. You’re the best swordfighter here. I’m pretty sure even Mr. D has a soft spot for you.”

“Please,” he mocked, “you can’t seriously believe that.”

You shrugged. “All I know is that when you finally asked me out, I gained a whole lot of enemies.”

“Like that means anything,” Luke said.

“The kids love you too!” you exclaimed. “Their eyes light up with stars whenever you help them with their sparring. You’re a beacon of light to this place— where is all of this coming from?”

“I’m tired,” Luke said roughly. “Tired of the gods ignoring us when all they’ve caused is pain.”

You frowned, but he continued on.

“You’re telling me you haven’t noticed it?” he asked. “When’s the last time you ever saw my dad give me any kind of attention besides some fun-colored smoke? He ruined my mother’s life— he ruined my life! And our cabin is damn near overflowing with unclaimed kids. Where are their parents?

“Luke—”

He shook his head as he forged on. “And you can’t say that Demeter is any good either. I bet she makes your cereal tastes real good in the morning, but she’s abandoned you for your whole life.”

“Luke, where is this coming from?” you asked, your frown deepening further and further as you let go of his hand and took a step back. “You— you know I’m not a fan of them, but you can’t just go around saying things like this. The last thing I need is for my mother to— to smite me, or strangle me with vines or something because I’m not appreciating her enough.”

Luke huffed a laugh. “That would be the most attention she’s paid to you since she claimed you.”

“She’s a goddess,” you said. “She’s got more important things to do than send me emails asking how my day is going.”

“Really?” Luke asked, his eyebrows rising.

“Yes, really,” you enunciated. “I expect it. I consider myself lucky she claimed me at all.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” he marveled as he said your name. “Your mother has never been there for you, and you think you’re lucky?”

“Luke—” you started, but you couldn’t even finish as he continued on.

“Demeter wasn’t there for the year you spent feeling like the scum of the Earth because you hadn’t been claimed yet. Demeter wasn’t there for the childhood she gifted to you then abandoned you for.” He pushed forward still. “Demeter wasn’t there for all those sleepless nights you spent in the Hermes cabin wondering if you were ever going to know who got you into this mess.”

“Luke, stop,” you finally managed to get out, moving back in turn.

“You know who was?” He continued to forge on, capturing your wrist when you tried to take another step back, eliciting a shaky exhale as you flinched. “Me.”

You ripped your arm away from him, fire in your eyes and blazing in your blood. “Don’t ever touch me like that again.”

“I’ve been here for you since the moment you stepped foot into Cabin Eleven!” Luke’s voice rose, and you’d never been more aware of the dagger hanging off your belt. “Through every tear, every tirade, every godsdamned rant about the gods—”

You stumbled back, and your heart stuttered in your chest as your back hit a tree. Your jaw was clenched, attempting to stop your tremors trying to wrack your body.

“And you’re telling me,” his voice suddenly lowered until it was scarily soft, little more than a whisper as he leaned over you, noses nearly touching, “that you would still choose them over me?”

“If you do not get away from me right now,” you said, quiet and even, “what we have, and anything we could have, will be over.”

Luke didn’t move. “Answer me.”

For a moment, it was just that—you and Luke staring at each other. His chest rising and falling just so from the effort of yelling, his beautiful eyes devoid of any previous softness. You thought your teeth might crack with the pressure in your jaw.

“No,” you said. “I wouldn’t choose them over you.”

And for an even shorter moment, his eyes do soften.

“But I won’t leave my family,” you whispered. “Not for whatever cause you think you’re fighting for.”

And just like that, the armor went up again.

“So that’s the way this ends,” Luke said evenly, and when he moved a few steps back, you felt like you could finally breathe again.

“You know who I am,” you argued, though you couldn’t make yourself move. “My siblings are my family— my friends are my family. I’d never leave them.”

“Oh, I should have expected it,” he said offhandedly. His laughter was a cruel thing. “I always knew you were a coward.”

“Don’t you dare turn this on me,” you spat. “Why do you even want to leave in the first place?”

“Because I’m sick and tired of all the bullshit that goes on here!” Luke yelled. “We’ve been here for years, and what the hell do we have to show for it? A couple scars? A lot of near death experiences? Some deadbeat parents that ruined our damned lives?”

“I have a family that I never could’ve dreamed of!” you exclaimed. “I have sisters and brothers that love me, friends that understand me, and—”

Your voice broke for a moment and you swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the tears back. Some of the fire burning through your veins had been extinguished as you continued.

“And I thought I had a boyfriend that was there for me.”

It was there again—his eyes softening ever so slightly when he looked at you. But then he clenched his jaw. “And I thought I had a girlfriend that was there for me.”

“I won’t leave,” you enunciated. “I’m not going to help you with whatever crusade you think you’re meant to lead against the gods!”

“You don’t understand,” he insisted.

“You don’t understand!” you exclaimed. “You’re ready to leave all of this behind, and for what?”

“I don’t want to leave it all behind,” he said. “I want you by my side. We could be something truly great together— can’t you see?”

Luke took your hand again and pulled you away from the tree, gesturing with his hand around you. “You can control all of this. The whole world is your domain—we’d be untouchable.”

“Luke, you sound crazy,” you said roughly. “Where is all of this coming from, seriously?”

“I just know that we can live a better life,” he said. “Together, without the gods.”

“Witho—” You couldn’t even manage to finish the word, shaking your head at the pure absurdity of it. You hardly recognized your boyfriend purely because of the insanity he was spouting. “Luke, we don’t need to leave! We don’t need to stand against the gods, or— or whatever this is!”

This time, you took his hand as you tried to smile. “We can make this work, Luke, and we can make it work here,” you begged. “I promise.”

“Things need to change,” he said, voice steely, pulling his hand away. “And they’re clearly not going to change here.”

“Yes, they can,” you insisted, your hands clenching into fists at your side. “I want things to change too, believe me! But going off on your own isn’t going to do anything for it. We can start it here—together.”

His eyes were colder than ever as he looked down on you, and you truly didn’t recognize him. The glint in his eye and edges you would cut yourself on and the insanity he was spouting for no damn reason. You didn’t know what in Hades’ name had gotten into him.

“All we do is sit around and wait for that hag in the attic to spout prophecies, and then Chiron sends some kids off to die, and then we sit around and wait to do it again,” Luke said. “The gods keep making kids and the kids keep dying because they leave them in the world alone— we’re practically grandparents here because we’re lucky to make it past sixteen! The gods don’t do a damn thing about it, and neither does Chiron.”

He shook his head as he stared right into your eyes. “You’re not as smart as I thought if you think you can change anything here.”

“So— so what?” you asked brazenly. “You’re just gonna leave?”

Luke shrugged. “I was always gonna leave. It just depended whether you were with me or not.”

He turned around and started walking, and for a moment you were fully dumbstruck, unable to move. Then something snapped inside of you, and you moved your hands straight up through the air. Vines sprouted from the ground and tangled around Luke’s legs, stopping him and nearly causing him to fall.

“You don’t just get to walk away from me after spouting this bullshit,” you fumed as you ran to catch up with him. “What in Demeter’s name has gotten into you, Luke? Gods— this isn’t you!”

“See?” Luke smiled, ignoring your question. “You are powerful.”

“Answer me,” you seethed.

He shrugged, that small smile still on his lips. “It’s always been me. Maybe you’ve just been too stupid to realize.”

“Where are you going to go?” you asked, ignoring his jab. “Not home, clearly.”

It was a deep cut, something you never would have said under normal circumstances, but his expression didn’t change.

“I’ve got plans,” he said, ignoring your jab, and he huffed a laugh. “And I guess they don’t involve you anymore.”

All you could do was stand there, stunned as you stared at him. It was cliche, but it really wasn’t him, because you loved Luke and he loved you.

He’d always been a bit spitfire, always a little sharp around the edges, but you loved that about him—and he softened those edges for you. He was strong-willed and caring and passionate about everything, and you didn’t want to lose him. Not like this.

You knew what he’d been through. You knew what happened to his mother, what happened to Thalia, everyone he’d lost and every reason for every scar. But you never thought—

Gods. You never thought he’d actually do… this.

“Let me go, will ya?” Luke asked, tilting his head. “Or else what we have will be over— or whatever it was you said back there.”

The vines receded against your will, like his words just connected to your subconscious. You stayed rooted in place as he continued walking away.

But then he stopped. Turned around, looked right at you.

And for a moment you were fourteen again, feeling alone and forgotten going into your third month in the Hermes cabin. Grumbling your way through sword practice because the excited camp counselor who just happened to be your age refused to let you sulk for another day.

It was days after your fifteenth birthday, and the golden sickle with sheaths of wheat had finally appeared over your head at lunch. Luke had lunged at you, wrapping you in the tightest hug possible, and looked at you with all the stars in your eyes as he congratulated you. He helped you move your meager belongings into the Demeter cabin the very next day.

It was the first time you decided to go home since arriving at camp, and Luke was sidled outside your door, making wry comments every so often as he kept you company while you packed.

It was him kissing you right before you went over the hill because he said he couldn’t keep his feelings in any longer. It was you kissing him right back wondering why he waited so damn long.

It was three years of the best thing you’d ever experienced, of the most steadfast companion you could’ve had by your side—three years of Luke Castellan’s love.

Then you blinked, and you were back in the woods. Luke’s expression had softened, but the brimming tears in your eyes blurred your vision.

“I really did love you, y’know,” Luke finally murmured. “But you should know that love isn’t ever enough.”

He was out of your view before you could even muster the strength to move again, and then you were running through the forest faster than ever before.

But when you reached Cabin Eleven, there was no sign of him. And when you checked the pavilion and the forge and the amphitheater and the training arena and every other godsdamned place, you were just as disappointed.

But by the time you got to Chiron and found out the chaos that had spouted in his wake, that he had wanted you to be a part of, it was much, much too late.

Percy Jackson was fighting for his life. Camp had been left in complete disarray. Luke was working for Kronos.

And the man you loved was truly gone.

#this is especially funny to me bc luke is all for kronos but kronos literally ate her mom #couple goals!!#also she spent like 30 minutes looking for him after which is plentyyy of time for him to try and kill percy #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan fic #luke castellan angst #pjo x reader #x reader #sadie writes

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chimcess · 10 days ago

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⚔︎ Chapter Two: Your Name's Buck, Right? Pairing: Taehyung x Reader Other Tags: Assassin!Taehyung, Assassin!Reader, Assassin!Jimin, Dad!Jimin, Assassin!Yoongi, Gang Leader!Yoongi, Assassin!Namjoon, Swordmaster!Hoseok, Chef!Hoseok, Pimp!Seokjin Genre: Assassins! AU, Exes!AU, Lovers to Enemies, Action, Comedy, Suspense, Martial Arts, Drama, Thriller, Romance (if you squint), Heavy Angst, Violence, Age Gap, 18+ only Word Count: 22.2k+ Summary: A former assassin awakens from a four-year coma after her ex-lover Taehyung tries to kill her on her wedding day. Driven by revenge for the loss of her unborn child and stolen life, she creates a hit list and embarks on a ruthless mission to take down everyone responsible. Warnings: graphic violence, grief, implied SA, stabbing with IV drip, bashing head in with a door, stolen car, very crude language, revenge plot, past relationships explored, previous reader and Yoongi, smut, backshots, friends with benefits, more than likely poorly translated Korean, my bad, bickering, swords are here, guns too, crying, seething anger, PTSD flashbacks, implied CSA, more backstory, pedophilia referenced multiple times, blood and gore, all of the content warnings really, dead dove: do not eat, seriously this really only gets darker as we go along, throwing knives at someone, I love Hoseok in this one, he's one of my favorites here, attempted murder, actual murder, ripping tongue out with teeth, jealousy, character in a coma, body scars, no one here is really a good person morally or otherwise, I don't think I missed anything but let me know if I did... A/N: Happy 4th!

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It was raining hard in El Paso. The storm hit Mesa Street in sheets, the streetlights flickering weakly through the downpour. Their halos cast brief, warped shadows on the wet asphalt. Cars crawled through the flooded intersections, tires cutting through the water. Windshield wipers slapped against the glass in frantic rhythm, and hazard lights blinked in every lane. Some drivers had given up, pulling to the curb with their turn signals on. Others huddled in their seats, squinting through the storm.

Three floors up at El Paso General, the building rattled with the force of the storm. Room 304 sat at the end of a beige hallway that looked like it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades, the walls lined with buzzing vending machines. The air inside smelled of mothballs, bleach, and old paper. The room was still. The bed was neatly made around the body, the tubes connected, and machines hummed in a steady lullaby of survival: a soft beep, then another. No flowers, no cards, no voices waiting for her to wake up.

The name on the chart: Rhonda Portnoy.

A man had come to identify her—Bill White. Big guy, quiet. Hard to place. He came four days after the paramedics had brought her in. Signed the papers, listened to the surgeon’s rundown without blinking. He didn’t ask about the swelling, the coma, or the chances of waking. He just signed and left. Took the baby with him.

A girl. Born premature. Five days in NICU under blue lights and wires, machines breathing for her. Then Bill came back, this time with a duffel bag, and left with the infant like it was just another errand. No photos, no family, no questions. Just a man walking out of a hospital with a newborn like he was clocking out.

The nurses wondered, as they do. Did Rhonda even know she’d had a baby? Did she remember the wedding? The white dress, the flowers, the crowd that never made it to the reception. Tommy Groban was the groom. Shot in the chapel before the vows. Most of the family went with him. Blood on the church floor, champagne never popped. Rhonda took a bullet to the head, but somehow lived.

At first, they called it a miracle. News vans lined the street, reporters scrambling for the scoop. The Bride Who Lived. The story wrote itself. There were cameras, tabloids, a viral ambulance video. But Rhonda never woke. No blink, no cry. So the miracle faded. Headlines dried up. The cameras moved on to other tragedies. The world forgot.

Now, there was just the hum of machines, the rain beating against the windows, and a silence that had stopped waiting. Four months of it. No visitors, no changes. The air in the room had turned stale, a sour, chemical smell—like melted plastic or a burnt match. The kind of air that clings to you.

She lay there, untouched by time except in the way it drained her—soft muscles, drained color, a body left to maintenance. A life on pause. The monitor kept its steady beat, like a metronome counting nothing. The IV kept dripping, a drop at a time, into a vein that never twitched. The staff kept up their routines, but none of them expected her to wake.

Down in the rain, a black car slid into the hospital lot. It idled for a moment before dying, the only sound the ticking of cooling metal and the steady slap of wipers. Then, the door clicked open. A red umbrella unfurled, sharp and efficient, the kind of movement that came from practice, not panic. Yellow boots splashed into the ankle-deep water, followed by the woman herself—tall, composed, wrapped in a bright coat that seemed out of place in the washed-out world around her. She didn’t rush. The rain hit her shoulders, her face, and slid down her cheeks, but she walked as though it was nothing.

The ID badge clipped to her collar read: R. Stone, RN. The name meant nothing. The photo was blurry enough to avoid suspicion, and the laminate caught the light just right. It was a good fake—hospital-grade, correct barcode, and even the weight was spot on. The automatic doors slid open for her, just like the night before when she’d tested the entry points, counted the cameras, and watched the shift change.

Inside, the hospital buzzed under fluorescent lights, the air thick with the scent of disinfectant. The floor was too shiny, and the dry, sterile air barely masked the faint mildew and copper tang that lingered beneath.

Janice sat at the desk, barely awake, scribbling through a crossword with two untouched coffees beside her. Her scrubs were wrinkled, shoes discarded, feet swollen in pink compression socks. She didn’t look up when the woman walked by.

“Late shift?” she muttered, more out of habit than curiosity.

The woman gave a tight, professional smile, empty and practiced. “Always short-staffed.”

Janice grunted and scratched at the puzzle, too tired to question anything.

The woman moved quietly down the hallway, her footsteps soundless on the linoleum. Her pace was steady, her eyes sharp beneath the brim of her umbrella. She didn’t break stride as she passed the nurse’s station, the vending machines, the rooms marked with numbers no one cared to remember. She turned into the restroom, and the door clicked softly behind her. The lock slid into place.

The mirror caught her slowly—first her shoulder, then her face—drawing her in like a photograph developing in real time. The umbrella lay crumpled at her feet, leaking water into the grout. Her soaked coat hung from her shoulders, rain dripping from her elbows, her mouth set in a firm, unreadable line. She moved with a calculated grace, the kind earned by discipline or violence—every action precise. She peeled off the coat, folded it tight, and sealed it in a plastic bag with practiced ease.

She sat on the edge of the sink, pulling on white stockings that snapped against her thighs. The fabric was slick, uncomfortable, but she wore it anyway. Next came the white nurse's shoes—standard-issue, ugly—and she slipped them on without ceremony.

The uniform was a near-perfect match for the hospital’s own. Just enough wear in the seams to pass unnoticed under tired eyes. She adjusted her cap, smoothing an invisible wrinkle on her chest, flat palm over the fabric, breath held. Her reflection stared back. One eye icy and sharp. The other hidden behind a clean white patch, sealed at the edges with surgical tape. Her lips were bright, rose red, her face symmetrical and flawless. She looked like someone who knew how to get away with anything.

From her duffel, she retrieved a stainless steel tray, placing it carefully on the counter. On it, a single glass syringe. Next to it, a vial of something clear and viscous—mercury without the shine, more shadow than liquid. She held it to the light, but it didn’t reflect. She rolled it in her palm, watching the liquid slither from one side to the other. Then, with steady hands, she drew it into the syringe—no bubbles, no tremble. When the plunger reached the mark, she flicked the needle once. A bead swelled at the tip like a tear.

“Goodbye forever,” she murmured to herself.

She capped the needle and slid the syringe into a pocket sewn just for it. A final check in the mirror, fingers brushing over her collar, her sleeves, her eyes—no flaws. Perfect.

She stepped into the hallway, the same sterile hallway she’d walked through the night before. Hospitals had a way of staying the same—clean floors, the smell of bleach and antiseptic, the hum of machines behind thin walls, carts squeaking, and somewhere, someone was crying.

She moved through it like she belonged. The ID badge clipped to her collar caught the light as she walked, the tray in her hands steady, unshaken. If anyone bothered to check, the ID would pass. The name wasn’t hers, but the photo was. It didn’t matter—there were no fingerprints on file, no records of any kind. Just a trail of dead ends. Brandi had gotten good at leaving them.

She walked with purpose, tall and commanding, her shoes silent against the linoleum. People glanced up, saw what they expected, and looked away. She didn’t try to hide—she just blended in, looking exactly how they thought she should look.

Years ago, she used to fight behind a warehouse in Modesto. Bare-knuckle, no gloves, no rules. The air smelled like piss and cigarettes, and she wasn’t angry, she was just fast. She fought to feed her sister, Presley, when there were no shifts left at the liquor store. She did what she had to do. Then Taehyung found her. He’d watched her knock out a man twice her size in under eight seconds, and the next day, he showed up at her door. He promised her an escape, a place for Presley, a life away from everything that had always chewed them up.

The next morning, her boss was found dead, and Brandi left with Taehyung before the sun came up. She didn’t look back.

Taehyung called her California Mountain Snake. Not because of where she came from, but because of how she moved—quiet, fast, and lethal. She didn’t charm or slither; she waited, struck, and disappeared. Y/N, though, had laughed when she heard the name. "Those snakes don’t even bite, right? Copycats. Harmless," she’d mocked. That pissed Brandi off, but Taehyung stepped in, stopping her before she went too far.

Y/N was better. Brandi knew it. Faster, smoother. When Taehyung looked at her, he saw everything. He gave her the keys to everything—everything Brandi wanted, everything she’d worked for. Brandi had loved him, fiercely, foolishly. And when Y/N walked in, everything changed. Brandi’s world tilted, and nothing was the same.

Brandi thought she could take Y/N on, but in the end, she was wrong. Thirty seconds, one slip, and Brandi was down. Y/N didn’t gloat. She didn’t have to. Brandi took her hand, but hated herself the whole way up.

Years passed, and through it all, there were pictures—Presley in a costume, Presley with cake smeared on her face, Presley on stage. Brandi studied each one like it might explode, then locked them away. She never reached out. She never tried to find Presley. That deal had been made long ago. Presley was alive, and that’s all Brandi wanted to know.

That life was worth less than shit on the bottom of her shoe.

Brandi stepped into the hall, the same quiet hall she'd walked down the night before. Hospitals didn’t change. The floors were too clean, the air dry with the scent of bleach and disinfectant, and the buzz of fluorescent lights was constant. Behind the walls, machines hummed. Somewhere, someone was crying.

She moved with purpose, tray in hand, badge on her chest swaying with every step. It would pass any scan. A perfect fake. The name, the photo, everything matched the records, even the barcode. No one would notice the difference. Brandi had spent years perfecting the art of vanishing in plain sight.

Now, she walked down the hallway to room 304. The door was old, the nameplate crooked, clinging by rusted screws. “Rhonda Portnoy.” The name pissed her off. Soft. Stupid. She knew what she was walking into. The door opened without resistance. Inside, the room was too still. The light overhead flickered, buzzing a sick yellow. One tile sagged, curling at the edge. Outside, rain smeared the windows. Inside, the machines hummed, the oxygen hissed, and the monitor beeped in an endless rhythm, like time moving without weight.

Y/N lay in the bed, unmoving. Eyes open, mouth slightly ajar. Hands folded over the blanket. She didn’t blink. Didn’t stir. Just stared at the ceiling. Brandi knew this person. Not the body. Not the shell. But the woman who used to burn bright.

Brandi stepped in, like a witness, like a judge. She set the tray down, and the cold metal clicked. The syringe gleamed in the low light. It was the end. The final step. The thing that would stop all the waiting.

She looked at Y/N—not the body, but the ghost of the woman she used to be. The one who fought and burned everything in her path. Now, there was nothing but breath and machines. No fire. No soul. Just a hollow shell.

“I don’t think I ever liked you,” Brandi said, her voice rough, the words tasting like ash. “Actually, no. I hated you.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear, her fingers gentle in a way they hadn’t been in years. “But I respected you.”

Brandi set the syringe in her hand, tapping it once, twice. She moved to the IV line, found the vein without looking. The plunger was ready. The silence was thick, and for a second, Brandi wondered if she could hear Y/N's heartbeat. Then, she whispered, “Dying in your sleep... that’s a mercy we never get.”

She hesitated. Just for a moment, her thumb pressing against the plunger, ready to end it.

“My gift to you.”

But then, the phone rang.

It cut through the silence like a knife. Sharp. Wrong. Unwanted. The monitor beeped in confusion, struggling against the sound. Brandi froze, her hand still holding the syringe.

Brandi froze mid-step, every muscle locked tight. The syringe in her hand didn’t waver, but she could feel the rage crawling up her spine. The phone buzzed again, sharp and insistent. She reached into her coat pocket, slow and methodical, and answered.

“Yeah?”

“Brandi.”

His voice. The name. It sliced through her like an old wound, reopening everything. The tension inside her shifted—subtle, inward—but it wasn’t calm. It was controlled. Her jaw ticked. She couldn’t hide the disgust in her chest. The air seemed thicker now, too thick to breathe.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice dead, stripped of everything. “She’s out. No change. I’m standing over her.”

There was a pause before Taehyung’s voice came back.

“I changed my mind.”

Brandi’s body didn’t move, but the words hit her like a sucker punch. She felt something freeze inside her. She didn’t even know how to react.

“What do you mean?” she growled, every word cutting through her teeth.

“Pull back.”

The laugh that slipped from her was broken, hollow. No warmth. Just a dry rasp that seemed to fill the room with its emptiness. She didn’t know if she was laughing at the absurdity or at herself. But she had to say it.

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“Now you’re switching it up?”

“It was always mine to switch.”

The words hit like a crack down her spine. She turned on her heel, pacing in tight circles, the anger bubbling inside her. Her heels snapped against the floor, louder with each step. The syringe still hung in her fingers. The tray sat cold on the counter, untouched. The whole world was shifting. The one person she thought she could rely on had just changed everything.

“You don’t owe her anything,” Brandi snapped. “You don’t owe her shit!”

There was a pause. Her voice dropped low, a breath caught in the middle of everything.

“You don’t owe her shit.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. And then Taehyung’s voice came again—steady, sure, cutting through everything.

“You all beat the hell out of her, but you didn’t kill her. I put a bullet in her head, and her heart kept beating. You saw that yourself. With your own beautiful blue eye, didn’t you?”

Brandi didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. The truth hit her hard. She felt it, deep in her chest.

“We’ve done things to that woman,” Taehyung continued, his voice gravelly, each word dragging. “And if she wakes up, we’ll do more. But we don’t sneak in like rats and kill her in her sleep. That’s beneath us.”

A beat of silence.

“Don’t you agree, Miss Phoenix?”

Brandi stopped dead in her tracks. The syringe slipped in her hand, and her fingers tightened around it, knuckles turning white. Her jaw flexed, her body vibrating with the change in the room’s air. The tension was unbearable now.

She looked at Y/N, still there, still lifeless. But there was something in the room now. A heaviness. An awareness. Y/N had been here before, and now she was just a breath away from death. Or mercy.

Brandi inhaled. Slow. Like she was preparing to vanish.

“I guess,” she said, the words slipping out like poison.

Another pause, and then Taehyung pushed.

“Do you really have to guess?”

Her eyes flicked to the peeling paint on the wall, the dark stains on the ceiling tile. She couldn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.

“No,” she whispered. “I know.”

She stood there, still, in the silence of the room. For the first time since walking in, Brandi felt it. The pull. The twisted history. The venom of memory that had never quite let her go. Y/N’s presence, even in her coma, felt like something was still alive—something that refused to die.

Taehyung’s voice cut through the silence again. Soft. Sweet. That tone he always used to get what he wanted.

“Come home, honey.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. The tension drained from her body. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath. The syringe dropped slightly in her hand. Her shoulders slumped.

“Okay,” she breathed.

Taehyung never had to convince her of anything. All he had to do was speak like that. Sweet as bourbon, rough as salt. He made her feel like she belonged—even if it wasn’t real.

“I love you very much.”

Brandi’s gaze dropped to the floor. Her heart was heavy, but she had no choice but to speak the words.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Bye-bye.”

Brandi stood in the doorway, feeling the weight of her decision, but not moving. She wasn’t sure what had changed, but something had. The tension in the room settled on her shoulders, thick and suffocating.

Her fingers clenched around the syringe, but they didn’t tremble. She was pissed. Her jaw tightened as she stood there, watching the woman in the bed, the one who used to own every room she walked into, reduced to nothing more than a body being kept alive by machines.

Y/N used to be the most dangerous woman in the world. Now, she was a husk. Just a body on a bed, still breathing in sync with a machine.

Brandi looked at her for a long moment. She remembered the girl Taehyung brought home back in 1990. The woman she became over the following ten years. But this wasn’t her. This wasn’t the girl who made men stumble over their words and women step back. The very same woman who’d kill an entire crew single-handedly and walk away without a scratch.

Brandi stepped closer to the bed. Her shoes made no sound on the floor. She stood there for a while, watching the rise and fall of Y/N's chest. The machines hummed and beeped in time, but it was all lifeless. The air in the room felt thick, like it had been soaked in bleach and blood for too long. A scent she could never wash out.

When she spoke, it was slow, almost measured. “Made me come all the way out here,” she said, her voice low and cold. “Steal a uniform. Forge the badge. Walk through a fucking thunderstorm. Just to stand here and get told to stand down like I’m a motherfucking intern.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, because there wasn’t one. Y/N’s body didn’t respond. It was just there, lying in the same position it had been for months.

Brandi’s mouth twitched. “Only good thing about it, is that I can see how fucking pathetic you are.”

Her gaze dropped to Y/N’s face. The woman who had once made her want to tear her apart now looked so small, so… ordinary. The once sharp cheekbones, the daring eyes, all softened into nothing. There was no power left in her. No fire. Just a faded memory of what she used to be.

Brandi’s expression hardened. The softness drained from her voice. “You shouldn’t wake up,” she muttered. “Now that I get a good look at you?” Her voice turned whisper-thin, sharp. “You’re not even that pretty.”

Her eyes scanned Y/N’s face, dissecting it. The curve of her nose, the slack jaw—it wasn’t beautiful anymore. It wasn’t anything. Just like the bitch in the coma.

“Face like that only works from a distance,” Brandi said, a dry laugh escaping her lips. “Put you under real light, and what’ve we got? Crooked nose. Plain face. Probably snore. Probably drool. Probably stink.”

Brandi stood still, her body tense as she watched the woman in the bed. No anger now, just a cold, deep disappointment. Her head tilted, almost mechanically. “My skin’s better,” she muttered. It wasn’t a boast, just a blunt fact. A reminder of what Y/N used to be—and what she was now.

Without thinking, she straightened, the syringe still in her hand, the metal catching the dim light. The weight of it felt familiar, like it had always been hers, like it had always belonged there.

Then Y/N coughed. It wasn’t a breath or anything close—it was a wet, hollow sputter, the kind of sound something rotting makes as it falls apart. It didn’t echo. Didn’t make a noise that felt alive. Just existed for a moment. A fleck of it hit Brandi’s cheek—warm, damp, and undeniable. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. She just froze. Her limbs locked up, rigid as stone. Slowly, her hand rose to her face, not out of alarm, but something worse—disgust. She touched the wet spot like it had insulted her.

Her jaw clenched. Her lips went flat. Her nostrils flared like she could smell something dead.

“Oh,” she whispered, her voice low and filled with venom. “No, you didn’t.”

She reached for the gown, grabbed it with a sudden pull, yanking it. The body shifted, limp and unresisting, the tubes pulling tight, the tape curling at the edges. Y/N’s head snapped to the side. The machines screamed in alarm, a chorus of metal shrieks, the lights flashing red.

Brandi didn’t give a shit.

She drew back, then swung—once, fast, a punch to the jaw. Her knuckles hit hard, rattling teeth that didn’t even seem to remember what pain was anymore. Another strike, higher—right to the temple. A clean hit. One last punch to the chest, right above the sternum.

The machines screamed louder, stuttered, then picked up their normal rhythm again.

Brandi stood over the bed, fists clenched, her chest rising and falling, slow and even. She leaned in close, her breath brushing against the dead skin that still felt warm. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“If you ever—” she said, each word like it had been carved from stone. “—drag yourself out of this bed—ever—”

Her voice faltered for a split second, her anger only increasing with every word.

“I’ll kill you myself, bitch.”

Brandi let go. Just shoved the body back into the bed like she was returning a broken piece of furniture. Y/N collapsed, limbs slack, arms hanging off the bed.

Brandi didn’t move right away. One breath, slow and deep. She smoothed her uniform, resetting herself. Her face remained blank. She needed to calm down if she wanted to speak with Taehyung once she left. He would be angry if she knew what had just happened.

She glanced at Y/N one last time before she turned and walked away, leaving the room behind. The door clicked shut behind her.

The hallway buzzed with the cheap hum of fluorescent lights. Polished floors, blank walls, machines beeping like it meant something. Nurses moved with practiced urgency. Strangers talked too loud about nothing that mattered. A hospital doing its best impression of control.

Brandi didn’t pause. Didn’t look back. As far as Taehyung was concerned, the job was done. Whether she liked it or not.

She’d made it ten steps before a door cracked open behind her. A young doctor spilled into the hallway, wild-eyed and bloodied, dragging a gurney like momentum might save the patient.

“We’re losing him!” he shouted, voice high and breaking. “Nurse! Help me!”

Brandi kept walking. Eyes forward. Spine straight. One loafer in front of the other. Behind her, the alarms screamed louder. Code blue or red or whatever color meant dying. Machines panicked. Nurses scrambled.

“Tough titty,” she muttered. Just loud enough for the tile to hear. “I quit.”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Not for the blood, not for the chaos, not for the sound of lives cracking open behind her.

By the time anyone thought to ask who she was, she was already gone. All that remained was the echo of her whistling her way out of the front door. And even that didn’t last.

The room was dim. Fluorescent light flickered overhead, throwing thin shadows across the white walls. The air was stale and smelled heavily of ammonium. No one had touched the furniture. The scuff marks on the tile looked frozen in time. A nurse had come by at seven. That was it. The night shift forgot she was even there.

Y/N lay motionless in the narrow hospital bed, swallowed by stiff, scratchy sheets that hadn’t been changed in days. Her body was frail—little more than skin stretched thin over bone, nearly weightless. Her eyes stayed open, dry and unblinking, staring at the water-stained ceiling tiles like they might shift into something that made sense.

Her hair was dry and brittle. It broke off in soft clumps, collecting in the creases of the pillow like dust. She hadn't moved in years. Four of them—long, silent years.

Just above her left temple, a crescent scar curved across her forehead, its edges pale and raised. Beneath it, a metal plate—an ugly, necessary thing. The bullet had missed the vital parts of her brain by millimeters. A miracle, the doctors had called it. But still, she hadn’t woken.

Her vitals were normal. Brain activity, too. Nothing about her looked wrong—except for the fact that she wasn't there. It was like her body had been waiting for her to come back.

The room was quiet except for the machines. One kept time with a soft, patient beep. Another hissed every few seconds, pushing medication into the thin line that disappeared into her arm. A third clicked, slow and metronomic.

A mosquito drifted through the still air. It landed on her forearm, then bit in, feeding on its easy meal.

Then, miraculously, she moved. At first, just a flicker in her fingers. Small. Almost imperceptible. It could’ve been a twitch. A reflex. But it came again—sharper, more deliberate. Her hand lifted and then dropped.

Slap.

The mosquito was crushed. A smear of red on translucent skin. Her hand hovered, trembled, then brushed the remains aside.

Her eyes blinked. Once. Twice. They focused.

She was awake.

Her body convulsed upright in one sudden, panicked jolt. A scream tore out of her—raw, cracked, like something rusted breaking free. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, gasping waves. Breath came in hard and uneven. Her lungs, unpracticed in the chaos of living, struggled against the rhythm machines had held for years.

Her eyes darted around the room. White walls. Fluorescent lights. Machines still whirring, still unaware. A camera in the corner. A door with no window. Nothing familiar.

Then the memories hit.

A chapel. Roses in bloom. Music playing low. A man’s voice—warm, certain. Then light. Then pain.

Her hands flew to her head, digging into her hair. She found it. The scar. The plate. Hard and unnatural beneath her fingertips.

Tap. Tap.

Tink. Tink.

Her throat felt scorched, her voice barely a sound. “My baby,” she rasped.

She clawed at the thin hospital gown. Her fingers slid over her stomach—soft, unfamiliar, hollow. Then they stopped. A scar. Long. Healed. Her hands froze.

The room didn’t. The machines went on without her.

She looked down at her palm and began tracing the lines, slow, methodical—like she was reading tea leaves. One. Two. Three. Four.

Her gaze shifted to the wall across from her. A calendar hung there, pages curled and yellowed at the edges. The year: 2004.

“Four years,” she whispered. The words felt foreign in her mouth.

Something deep inside her cracked.

Her chest tightened. The weight of her own breathing pressed in, sharp and raw. Her lungs fought to remember how to expand, how to fill. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Her shoulders began to tremble—small, uneven shakes, like a warning before a storm.

Then the tears came. Fast. Violent. Not graceful. Not cinematic. They gushed down her cheeks, soaking the pillow, her gown, her tangled hair. Her mouth opened in a wordless cry, her jaw shaking with the effort of trying to make sound happen. Her face, blank for years, folded under the force of emotion—creases of pain, of memory, of things lost.

She reached for the gown again, gripped it in both fists. Twisted hard. The fabric pulled tight across her lap, straining, threatening to tear. Her body convulsed—not from sobs, but from something deeper, more primal.

Beep. Hiss. Drip.

The machines didn’t pause.

She wept. Everything she’d once had—gone. Erased. A life folded closed and filed away somewhere she couldn’t reach. And now here it was, back in front of her, impossible to look at without shattering.

She had carried a heartbeat that wasn’t her own. Protected it. Loved it.

Now there was silence beneath her ribs. Just the machines. Just the room. Just her.

Then she heard it. Step… step… step. Distant, muffled at first, but unmistakable. She froze mid-cry, her swollen eyes snapping open, not with hope, but recognition. The cadence. It cut through the haze of her emotions and hit her with a force that made her heart stutter. Taehyung. The name surged in her chest, filling her entire being. Her mind seized the sound, molding it with memories that had been locked away for far too long. She saw him then—his black leather boots striking the floor with that exact rhythm she had heard before, a sound so ingrained in her mind that it was etched into her very bones. The image played behind her eyes like a film reel, the memory of the chapel flooding back—his presence walking down the aisle, the distant sound of wedding bells ringing, the roses scattering beneath his feet. And then, gunshots. Screaming. Blood on white.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she almost believed he was there, just beyond the door, walking toward her like it was a lifetime ago, before everything fell apart. But then, another set of footsteps joined the rhythm—quieter, irregular, wrong. Step… step… squeak. No boots. Rubber soles. She barely moved her head, just enough for her ear to catch the subtle shift in sound. Reeboks. A hospital orderly. Not him.

Her body remained frozen, suspended in the collision between the haunting memory of him and the harsh reality of the present. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her breath caught in her throat. The room seemed to spin around her, the walls closing in. The illusion of Taehyung’s presence still lingered, fighting for dominance in her mind, refusing to let go of the ghost it had conjured.

And then the voice came, breaking the fragile thread of her thoughts. “She’s right in here.” It was too nasal. Too flat. It wasn’t him. But her brain twisted the words, distorting them with his intonation, layering them with his deeper, smoother voice. The sound of his voice—familiar and warm—cut through the confusion, and her body involuntarily flinched. It wasn’t him. But in that moment, logic didn’t matter. The mind could be cruel, playing old reels at the worst possible times, trapping her in a memory that wouldn’t let go.

Outside the room, there was muffled conversation. Then, three figures appeared behind the frosted glass of the door. One in scrubs, two in mismatched uniforms that had no hospital logos, no stethoscopes. Their presence was commanding—broad, upright, and expressionless.

Her breath narrowed into controlled, shallow gasps. Panic wasn’t an option now. She couldn’t afford to be seen, to make a sound, to break the stillness that had fallen over the room. They couldn’t know she was awake.

In one swift, practiced motion, she snapped back into the bed, flattening herself against the pillow. Her body went limp—limbs slack, jaw loosened. Her eyes fluttered closed, but just barely. A sliver remained, enough to see, enough to plan.

The door opened, and the orderly stepped in first, speaking over his shoulder to the two men who followed. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t even acknowledge her existence. His attention was fixed on the clipboard at the foot of the bed as he scribbled something down, his movements automatic. One of the men scanned the room with a practiced sweep, his eyes flicking from corner to corner, searching for anything that might pose a threat. The other stood stiffly near the door, his posture rigid and watchful, as if expecting trouble to spring out from the walls at any moment.

Y/N remained motionless. Her eyes didn’t blink, didn’t shift. She didn’t breathe a hint of movement. But she saw. She was aware of everything around her. The subtle bulge beneath the jacket of the man closest to her—the unmistakable outline of a weapon tucked under the fabric. She committed their profiles to memory. The way they stood, the way they carried themselves—too controlled, too silent to be hospital staff. Too deliberate, too tense to be just guards.

Her gaze was unfocused, not really on them. Her mind wandered elsewhere—back behind them, past them, to a place where a phantom figure still loomed. The memory of Taehyung remained, his presence almost tangible in the air, as if he were still standing in the doorway, just out of sight. His image slipped away from her every time she tried to concentrate on it, like water running through her fingers. But his footsteps lingered, echoing in the background, following her even here, in this cold, silent room. She felt them, deep in her bones, haunting her with the weight of unspoken things.

She didn’t move. She didn’t even try to force herself into the world she had left. She was a shadow now, a body that wasn’t really alive, a presence that was forgotten in the space between the past and whatever future she hadn’t yet found.

The men moved around her, completely oblivious, as if she were nothing more than a fixture in the room—an object no one had bothered to remember. That was her advantage. Let them think she was nothing, that she was still just a body on a bed. She would let them believe it, until she could learn more, until she had the strength to act, until she had a plan.

She waited, every breath measured, every muscle tense but still. Her eyes were closed, but the world kept moving around her. The door opened wider, the sounds of the hallway spilling in. Footsteps, distant voices, the hum of hospital life carrying on without interruption. And in her mind, the chapel reappeared—the soft crunch of rose petals underfoot, the unmistakable rhythm of steps she had once known too well, then the sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot. Blood spilled over white satin, and pain flared in her abdomen. The last breath of a second heartbeat—the one that had been taken from her.

The orderly turned slightly, moving to the foot of the bed, like he was on autopilot. His motions were bored, almost lazy, as if checking her vitals was just another item on a list of things he had to do. His eyes didn’t meet hers. His hands moved through the motions with no real intention behind them. He glanced at the clipboard, shifted it as if pretending to read.

The men behind him hung back near the door, towering and silent. Their size was enough to make their presence known without a single word. The first man scanned the room again, looking over the machines, the walls, the hall outside. His eyes lingered on nothing, but it was clear he was calculating. The other focused entirely on her—the body in the bed, the woman who hadn’t moved in years. He was watching, waiting, assessing. She could feel it, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her.

Her body remained still. She let her limbs fall limp, let her face slacken with the same blank stare she had worn for so long. But her mind was anything but still. Behind that vacant expression, her thoughts raced. She studied every detail, took stock of every tiny thing. The faded tattoos on one man’s forearm. The way the other’s jacket hung lopsided, weighed down by something hidden underneath. The stench of old sweat and cigarettes clung to their clothes, giving them away. These were not hospital men. Not staff. Not guards. They didn’t belong here. Yet, here they were.

Her eyes were open, wide, unblinking. She let them take her in, let them think they were in control. The game wasn’t over yet.

The orderly shifted, moving to the side of the bed. He pulled the thin hospital sheet back, the rough fabric crinkling as it was dragged. He lifted her gown with a slow, deliberate motion, a kind of crude ceremony. His eyes flicked to the men as he did so, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he were showing them something worth their attention.

“Now is that the cutest little pussy you ever saw, or is that the cutest little pussy you ever saw,” he said, chuckling like it was a joke between old friends.

One of the truckers—tall, with a pitted face and a voice like gravel—nodded approvingly. The other—shorter, squatter, his arms crossed—shrugged with affected disinterest.

“I’ve seen better,” he muttered.

Y/N didn’t blink, but there was a flicker in her eyes. Not quite a flinch. More like contempt. Barely controlled.

The orderly scoffed, not missing a beat. “Yeah, in a movie - maybe. But I know damn well this is the best pussy you ever saw you had touchin’ rights to. The price is seventy five dollars a fuck gentlemen, you gettin’ your freak on or what?”

He held out his hand. The taller trucker reached into his pocket, peeled off a folded wad of cash, and slapped it into the man’s palm.

The orderly turned back to them, his face dropping into something close to professional. “Alright, listen close. Here’s the rules; Rule number one; no punchin’. Nurse comes in tomorrow and she got a shiner - or less some teeth, jig’s up. So no knuckle sandwiches under no circumstances.”

Both men nodded.

“And by the way, this little cunt’s a spitter. It’s a motor reflex thing but spit or no, no punchin. Now are we absolutely positively clear about rule number one?”

“Yeah,” The taller trucker says.

The other one just nods again.

“Rule number two; No monkey bites, no hickeys - in fact no leaving no marks of no kind. But after that, it’s all good.”

The Orderly finished counting the money and stuffed it into his back pocket.

“Her plummin down there don’t work no more, so feel free to cum in ‘er all ya wont. Keep the noise down. Try not to make a mess, and I’ll be back in twenty.”

More nods.

He pointed toward the door. “Keep it quiet. No yelling. Don’t knock over anything. And clean up after yourselves.”

Then, as he turned to leave, he paused, reached into his satchel, and pulled out a half-empty jar of Vaseline. He handed it off like an afterthought, barely concealing his amusement.

“Oh by the way, not all the time, but sometimes this cunt’s cunt can get drier than a bucket of sand. If she’s dry, lube up with this and you’ll be good to go. ”

He smirked.

“Bon appétit, boys.”

The door clicked softly behind the orderly, the sound too quiet to be anything but deliberate. It wasn’t the kind of sound that should have been heard—it was the finality of a lock being turned, the certainty of isolation. To Y/N, it felt like the cold embrace of a deadbolt sliding into place. Now, it was just her and them.

Inside the room, the two men laughed—low and wrong, the kind of laughter that carried nothing but malice. It wasn’t amusement. It was nervous energy, the kind that signals the start of something that shouldn't have been allowed. Warren, the larger of the two, fumbled with his belt, hands clumsy, tugging at the leather strap beneath his stomach. He didn’t glance at her; he didn’t need to. She was nothing to him. Furniture. Inventory. Part of the room he’d already written off.

Y/N blinked.

It wasn’t deliberate. Not a flinch. Not fear. Just a reflex. A quiet reclaiming of her body after so long, a whisper of life. Her lashes flickered, just enough to stir in the dim light. But it was enough.

Gerald saw it first. His voice, still playful but with a sharp edge, cut through the haze of laughter. “Hey, Warren... she just blinked.”

Warren didn’t even look up. His focus was still on his belt, the effort slow and unfocused. “He said she can’t blink.”

“I know what he said,” Gerald replied, quieter now, voice dropping an octave. “But I saw it. I’m not imagining it.”

Warren grunted in response, the sound of his pants dropping loud in the tense silence. His hands were heavy, fumbling with his jeans. “Just nerves, man. You’re jumpy. You think I care if her eyelid twitched?”

Gerald didn’t answer. He stood still near the foot of the bed, uncertainty in the way he held himself, his eyes flicking to Y/N like he didn’t know what to make of what he had seen.

Warren, irritated, moved to the bed. His bulk sank it with a groan, his knees pushing into her frail body. Y/N didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She was stone beneath him. The gown pressed cold against her skin, but she didn’t let herself react. Her muscles were tight, rigid, holding on to the stillness like it was the only thing she could control.

Her heart hammered in her chest. The only thing alive in her body.

She stared past him, eyes dull and empty. A mannequin. A shell. Her mind was a hundred miles away from the man above her, but it wasn’t in peace. She was a captive, caught between the body she couldn’t move and the memories that still haunted her.

Warren shifted his weight, letting out a grunt of discomfort. “Hey, Gerald.”

Gerald blinked, his arms folded as if trying to block out the awkwardness of the moment. “What?”

“This ain’t no damn peep show,” Warren muttered, eyes narrowing. “Go wait outside. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Aww, c’mon, you serious right now?” Gerald’s voice was petulant, but it didn’t last long.

Warren’s glare darkened. “Dead serious. Get out.”

Gerald muttered under his breath and shuffled toward the door, his shoulders slumping as he cast one last glance at Y/N before slipping out into the hallway.

The door clicked behind him with finality, leaving the room empty save for the sounds of machinery. The steady pulse of the heart monitor, the hiss of the ventilator, and the hum of the fluorescent light above filled the silence. The air in the room felt colder now, heavier, like the space had closed in on itself.

Warren turned back to her, his eyes roaming over her body with a sneer. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, bending close as he leaned over her. His breath was sour, stale tobacco and decay, and his eyes gleamed with something ugly. “You really are pretty up close. Like a doll somebody left in the attic.”

He positioned himself over her, hands braced on either side of her head, blocking her view of the ceiling as his lips parted. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, his breath heavy as it neared her.

And then, without warning, she moved.

It wasn’t hesitation or uncertainty. There was no struggle. It was raw action, fast and decisive. Her arms shot up from the bed with brutal precision, hands locking into the back of his greasy hair, yanking his face down toward hers. Her mouth opened, and in an instant, her teeth sank into his tongue.

The sound was immediate—a sick, wet crunch, followed by a strangled, guttural shriek. Blood flooded her mouth, hot and coppery, coating her tongue and throat. Warren jerked back, howling in pain, his hands clawing at his face in panic. The scream was garbled, unrecognizable—his mouth no longer formed words.

He stumbled, tripping over his own pants, blood streaming between his fingers.

Y/N sat up with the suddenness of a corpse reanimated. Her chest heaved as her chin, slick with blood, turned. She spat the severed piece of his tongue onto the floor, the sickening thud echoing in the room.

She didn’t flinch.

Her eyes locked onto him—clear, blazing with life, a fire ignited in her chest.

With a practiced motion, she ripped the IV from her arm. Blood welled from the site, but she didn’t even flinch. The sting barely registered. All she could feel was the rush—the flood of adrenaline, every muscle alive and ready to move.

Warren, now trying to crawl backward across the bed, was still shrieking through gurgles, his eyes wide with disbelief, his hands still clawing at his mouth.

She didn’t wait.

She launched herself at him, throwing her body forward and slamming him down flat against the mattress. She straddled his chest, her fists planted firmly above him. The IV needle, now in her hand, glinted with cold steel under the harsh fluorescent light. She drove it into his left eye.

His scream tore through the room—a pure, primal sound that reverberated off the walls. He bucked beneath her, thrashing, but she held tight, twisting the needle deeper. There was resistance, then a soft, wet pop. His limbs stiffened, his spine arched—and then, with a sickening finality, he went still.

It wasn’t the stillness of sleep. It wasn’t the stillness of unconsciousness.

It was the stillness of death.

But she wasn’t done.

Gripping the collar of his shirt, Y/N shoved his weight sideways. His body rolled toward the edge of the bed, and with a twist of her hips, she sent him crashing into the metal bedframe. The impact rang through the room, a hollow, awful crack that punctuated the silence that followed.

Y/N crouched at the edge of the bed, her body splattered with his blood, her gown clinging to her like a second skin. Her breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale burning, each exhale heavy with the weight of what she had just done. Sweat beaded at her brow, her vision pulsing with adrenaline, sharp and distorted. She scanned the room quickly, making sure there were no more surprises.

Outside, Gerald paced. He’d heard the shift—a grunt, followed by a scream, then nothing. His instincts told him something wasn’t right.

He banged on the door. “Hey! Hey, man, keep it down in there! I can hear your ass from out here!”

Silence.

One second. Two. No answer. No more sounds. Just a deep, unsettling quiet that settled in his gut like a bad omen.

Something wasn’t right.

He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Then, he pushed it open.

“Come on, Warre—”

The sentence died in his throat, stifled by the overwhelming stillness of the room. His eyes scanned the scene, trying to make sense of what was unfolding. His mind struggled to process the violence before him.

Warren was on the floor, crumpled in a heap beside the bed, his limbs twisted unnaturally, like a broken puppet discarded on the floor. Blood pooled beneath his head, so bright and red it looked surreal against the pale linoleum. The bed was in shambles—ripped sheets, soaked blankets, and machines strewn across the floor as if they had been cast aside in the chaos. But the woman…

She was there. Exactly where they had left her. She was flat on her back, eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Motionless.

Gerald blinked, his confusion deepening. His gaze flicked between the bodies, trying to find some logic in the mess. There was too much blood, too little movement. Everything was wrong. He took a tentative step forward, unsure of what he was seeing.

Y/N blinked. It wasn’t a flinch. It wasn’t involuntary. It was deliberate. Her eyes moved, and in the next instant, she acted.

Her arm shot upward in a blur of motion—fast, practiced, explosive. She grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him toward her with a force he wasn’t prepared for. He stumbled, thrown off balance, and pitched forward, only to meet the cold steel of the IV needle still slick with Warren’s blood. It sank into his temple, and a sickening crunch echoed in his ear. Metal piercing flesh. The kind of sound that made your stomach twist.

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

She twisted the needle, driving it deeper.

Gerald’s body jerked, spasming uncontrollably. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out—just a bubbling, choking gurgle, like drowning in air. His limbs kicked and flailed, but it was too late. His body sagged, heavy and lifeless, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Y/N released him.

He dropped to the ground beside Warren, a wet lump of dead weight.

For a moment, Y/N stayed still. Her breath was shallow, her body streaked with blood. The adrenaline buzzed through her, but there was no time to savor it. The two men, both much larger than her, lay dead around her, and she hadn’t moved more than a few feet from the bed she had been trapped in for years. But it wasn’t over.

With a quick, fluid motion, she ripped the blood-soaked sheets off the bed and swung her legs over the side. Her bare feet hit the cold tile with a slap, and she tried to stand—

Her knees buckled beneath her. Her body folded like dry paper, crumpling to the floor. Pain shot through her ribs as she hit the hard surface, and a tray of instruments scattered, clattering across the tile like metal rain. Tubes snagged on her ankle, tangling in a mess she couldn’t escape.

She lay there, her cheek pressed against the freezing floor, gasping for air. Her legs didn’t move. They were numb—foreign. They didn’t feel like her own. Panic surged, but she forced it down. Now wasn’t the time. Survival wasn’t going to wait for her fear.

She closed her eyes, focused on her breath.

One second. Two. Just enough to recalibrate.

Then, she heard it.

Footsteps. Not Warren. Not Gerald. Her heart skipped in her chest.

Taehyung?

His name echoed in her mind like a shot fired in the distance, but she didn’t speak it. She couldn’t afford to. Instead, she focused. She focused on what she could control.

Her head turned, just enough to see who was coming.

Gerald's body lay sprawled on the floor beside her, his jacket hiked up from the fall. His belt—still intact—held a trucker’s knife in a worn leather sheath. Y/N’s hand shook as she reached out, her fingers brushing the cool steel. With a steady grip, she grabbed the hilt and pulled.

Click.

The blade snapped open with a clean, satisfying sound. The noise cut through the air, sharp and empowering.

In the hallway, she heard an elevator chime. The doors slid open with a squeak, and footsteps followed, each one slow, deliberate—the orderly. Y/N pressed herself flat against the floor, sliding against the wall next to the doorframe. Her body screamed in protest, muscles strained and protesting the movement, but her grip on the knife didn’t waver. It was steady, cold.

The footsteps stopped. The door opened.

The orderly paused, the mess before him catching his attention. Blood pooled on the floor. Bodies were scattered. Sheets shredded and twisted. The horror of the scene struck him, but not her. Not yet.

“Oh, shi—”

The words never finished. Y/N struck.

In one swift motion, she cut down, the blade slicing through the air with precision. It hit his Achilles tendons—both of them—splitting through flesh, tendon, and bone. His scream tore through the corridor, high-pitched, desperate, and ragged. He collapsed, his legs giving way, folding beneath him as his body crashed to the floor.

Y/N didn’t give him a moment to recover. She crawled toward him, her muscles burning with the effort, teeth clenched against the strain. She grabbed a fistful of his uniform, blood smearing across the floor as she dragged him into the room. His legs twitched uselessly behind him, his body weak and limp.

With a growl, she pulled him toward the door and slammed his head into the frame.

CRACK.

The sound of bone hitting wood filled the room. His scream was muffled, but it only pushed her further. She did it again.

CRACK.

And again.

CRACK.

Each blow sent fresh waves of blood splattering across the floor. His body jerked, limbs twitching in a desperate attempt to escape, but Y/N held him steady. His breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain. And then, they locked onto her.

And he saw her.

His face twisted in terror, raw and unfiltered.

Y/N crouched over him, her breath labored, strands of hair plastered to her face with blood and sweat. She wasn’t just looking at him—she was seeing him. She was past the point of mercy.

“Where’s Taehyung?” she rasped, her voice jagged, like shards of broken glass.

His lips trembled. “I—I don’t… I don’t know—”

She slammed his head into the doorframe again.

CRACK.

He gasped, his body shuddering in pain.

“I saw him,” Y/N growled, voice thick with fury. “Here. In this room. You tell me where he is—or I’ll beat your brains in until you can’t lie anymore.”

“I swear—I don’t—”

SLAM.

The room was quiet now, heavy with the weight of the silence that followed the last blow. Blood seeped from his face, dripping steadily, his breathing short and labored. Y/N didn’t speak. She just stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she caught a glint of something at his neck. A flash of gold caught in the dim light. A thin chain, delicate despite the blood and grime clinging to his skin.

Her hand shot out, quick and sure, and she yanked the chain with all the force she had left. The link snapped with a sharp ping, the tension sending the pendant swinging into her palm. She didn’t hesitate as she examined it. It wasn’t jewelry.

It was a coke straw.

The metal was cold, smooth, worn down by years of handling, the mouthpiece tinted from use, heat, habit. It wasn’t meant to be noticed. It wasn’t flashy. It was personal. Private. And it was deeply familiar.

Her blood ran cold as she realized what she was holding.

She’d seen this before. She’d seen it hang from a neck like this, swinging and tapping against a collarbone in the dim light. Taehyung had worn it, a signature of sorts, like it was part of him. The click of it against his lighter echoed in her mind. The way it swayed when he leaned in close, whispering things that blurred the line between promise and poison.

Now it was here. In her hand. On this man.

Y/N stared at the straw for a long moment, the world shrinking down to that single object—its shape, the cool metal, the heat from the skin it had touched. She felt her chest tighten as she looked down at him.

“Where,” her voice was low, the words cold and cutting, “did you get this?”

His eyes, wide with panic, flickered up to meet hers. His lips barely moved, strained by shock and pain.

“It’s mine,” he gasped.

Y/N didn’t say anything at first. She just stared at him. And then, she laughed—no humor, just disbelief, sharp and biting.

“Bullshit,” she hissed under her breath.

Her hand tightened around the doorframe, ready to slam it down again, but something caught her eye. Ink.

She saw it on his hands, faded but still visible. Amateur tattoos. Crude block letters, likely done in a backroom or some dark corner of a prison. The letters stood out against his skin like scars.

B.U.C.K.

F.U.C.K.

The words hit her like a punch to the stomach. She wasn’t just shocked by what they said, but by what they meant.

Her eyes locked on the tattoos, and in that moment, her mind slipped away from the present. It slid into something older, something darker. The memory hit her like a wave.

The room was dim, bathed in the cold glow of security flashlights that cut through the shadows. Y/N lay there, helpless. Trapped in her own body, floating somewhere between a dream and oblivion, unable to move, unable to scream. And then, he’d appeared.

He stood at the foot of her bed like a storm she couldn’t escape, his presence dominating the space. His voice had been thick with a Southern drawl, slick with overconfidence.

“Well, ain’t you just the slice of cutie pie they all said you was,” he’d said, his words dripping with a disturbing kind of charm. “Ma’am, I’m from Longview, Texas. My name’s Buck. And I’m here to fuck.”

She hadn’t been able to respond then. She couldn’t even move. She had been frozen in that hospital bed, paralyzed, unable to fight back. But now, the tables had turned.

Now she was awake.

The memory of him—his tattoos, his boots, the stench of cigarette smoke mixed with rot—had haunted her for far too long. But this time, she wasn’t trapped in a dream. This time, she was fully in control, and he was here.

Her vision snapped back to the present. She looked down at him, cold fury simmering in her eyes.

“Your name’s Buck, right?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost too calm, as if she were confirming the simplest of facts. “And you came to fuck.”

He froze, recognition flashing in his eyes even as blood poured from his wounds. His body trembled, a sick realization sinking in: she knew exactly who he was, and he wasn’t going to make it out alive.

“Right?” she pressed, louder now, a challenge in her voice.

“Wait-”

Her grip tightened on the doorframe, her muscles coiling, ready for what came next. And then, with a sharp motion, she brought the door down.

CRACK.

The sound was deafening, final, wet. It ended him. He didn’t move after that—not a twitch. His body was still, lifeless, his breath stilled forever.

Y/N stayed crouched there for a moment, her body slumped slightly, arms trembling from the force of it all. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Her legs were still numb, unresponsive, like they belonged to someone else. But she didn’t care. He was gone. The weight of him was gone.

The room was silent again, the sterile hum of machines the only sound. The world outside continued to spin, oblivious to the violence that had just unfolded within these walls.

Slowly, she leaned over the body, her fingers working to find something useful. She brushed against the cracked leather of his pocket, tugging out a battered wallet. It smelled of sweat and cheap cigarettes. The faded gold letters on the outside still read, BIG EL PASO PIMPIN’. She curled her lip in disgust and opened it.

A wad of bills, mostly ones and fives, damp from the heat of his body, sat in the wallet. Y/N didn’t hesitate. She shoved them into the inner pocket of her scrubs without a second thought. Her hand brushed against the front pocket next, and she found the keys.

They weren’t just keys. A bulky plastic fob dangled from the ring, shaped like a tacky novelty license plate. Bright yellow, with pink flames licking the sides. PUSSY WAGON in a loopy, absurd font.

Her fingers tightened around it. It was vulgar, ridiculous. But it was hers now, and it was her way out.

She pocketed the keys quickly, then shifted her focus to Gerald’s body. Her arms felt like lead. Her lungs burned with the effort of each breath. But she dragged herself across the floor anyway, leaving a trail of sweat, blood, and fury behind her. She found the knife where it had fallen, still open, the blade slick with old blood. She wiped it clean on Gerald’s pants, then gripped it tightly once more.

She looked back at Buck’s body, still lying in a heap. One more thing to take.

With a grunt of effort, she began to peel his uniform off him. The fabric was damp, clinging to his body, still warm from his flesh. She worked one sleeve off at a time, her arms shaking with the effort, but she didn’t stop. It didn’t matter if the clothes fit. It didn’t matter if they were clean.

It wasn’t about comfort. It was about freedom.

When the last piece of his uniform came off, she pulled it on. It wasn’t smooth, her movements clumsy, but she was determined. Her legs still refused to work. Numb. Unresponsive. But her mind was sharp. Her arms were strong. Her will was unwavering.

She might have to crawl out of here, but she would get out. And she would take whatever she needed to make it happen.

The elevator doors opened with a low hiss, like something ancient trying to stretch itself awake. Flickering fluorescent lights spilled into the dark, damp parking garage, revealing a cracked, oil-streaked concrete floor, stained from years of neglect. The air felt thick—heavy with diesel fumes and dust, as if even the air had given up on movement, resigned to a stagnant existence.

Y/N’s wheelchair shot forward with swift precision. The wheels clicked rhythmically as she pushed, each rotation sending a jolt of pain through her arms. She gripped the rims hard, her palms blistered, pushing herself relentlessly. Her shoulders burned, muscles protesting, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the ground, her scrubs sticking damply to her back. The oversized fabric bunched awkwardly around her hips, borrowed from a dead man’s body. Her legs hung motionless in front of her, pale and stiff, like lifeless mannequins strapped to the chair. No feeling. No response. Just dead weight.

At least her arms were working.

The garage stretched out before her, a dim maze of columns and half-lit corridors. Cars sat like dormant creatures, their shapes ghostly beneath the flickering lights. The shadows seemed deeper down here, every sound sharper. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, louder than the hum of the overhead lights or the distant whir of a ventilation fan.

She maneuvered through the rows, the wheelchair tires rolling over debris and cracks in the concrete. Every few feet, she stopped, scanning the vehicles—make, model, color—matching them to the image etched into her mind. It was in here somewhere.

And then she saw it.

A yellow Chevrolet Silverado, sitting low to the ground against the far wall, half-hidden in the shadows. It stood out like a neon sign in the dark. Red flames curved across the sides, peeling at the edges, as if the paint had been burned on. The word PUSSY WAGON sprawled across the tailgate in bold, fluorescent-pink cursive. Obscene. Ridiculous. Unmistakable.

Her chest tightened. It was real. Not a hallucination, not a memory. After everything—after him, the blood, the pain, and the years locked away—there it was. Still there. Still waiting.

Her hand slipped into the baggy pocket of her scrubs, fingers closing around the key ring. The plastic fob dangled out—gaudy and yellow, shaped like a miniature vanity plate. The same absurd font gleamed beneath the garage lights. She stared at it for a second. Just a moment. Then, without hesitation, she pushed herself forward.

Her wheelchair wheels clicked faster, urgency spiking inside her. When she reached the truck, she didn’t pause. She slid the key into the lock and turned it. The sound of the mechanism snapping open hit her like a blow. Simple. Clean. But to her, it split the world in two. Before and after. Caged and free.

The door creaked open. Warm, stale air rushed out—thick with the smell of vinyl and old sweat. It hit her like the breath of a sleeping animal disturbed too soon. She reached up, bracing one arm against the seat, the other gripping the doorframe. Her fingers slipped a few times, but the third time she caught it.

Her muscles screamed in protest as she forced herself upward, her elbows scraping against the metal. Every inch of her body resisted, but she didn’t stop. She gritted her teeth, a grunt escaping her lips as she pulled with everything she had left. With one final surge, she collapsed into the cab.

Her body hit the backseat in a jumbled heap, her head crashing against the cracked vinyl with a dull thud. Sweat streamed down her face, slipping into her eyes, her arms hanging limp at her sides, trembling from the strain. For a moment, she just lay there, panting like she had run a marathon, the exhaustion from the last few hours crashing over her in waves.

Her legs lay stretched out across the seat, stiff and lifeless, like two pale pillars frozen in time. Her bare feet were caked in dirt, toes pointed upwards in the stillness, as though her legs had never moved at all. She stared at them, her mind reeling with the disconnect between her and her body.

So close. So far.

She nudged the wheelchair with her heel, watching it roll a few feet before tipping sideways and crashing to the floor with a metallic clang that reverberated through the empty garage, loud and jarring like a gunshot. The sound hung in the air, then settled into silence.

Alone. Hidden, for now. Buried in the belly of this forgotten, cold space.

Her eyes shifted to her right foot, her gaze fixating on her big toe. She stared at it as though it held the key to something important, something she had forgotten how to reach.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered. Her voice cracked with desperation.

Nothing.

She repeated it again, quieter this time, as if the words could somehow coax movement. “Wiggle your big toe.”

Still, nothing.

Her eyes narrowed. She focused harder. Her breath slowed, measured. It was that one small piece of her. That tiny bridge between mind and limb. She needed it to move. Just that one thing. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

“Wiggle your big toe,” she said, the words now coming with the cadence of a chant, a desperate plea, a silent demand for her body to obey.

No movement.

She wasn’t going to give up. She couldn’t. That toe had four years of sleep to wake up from. And she was going to wake it, no matter how long it took. She wasn’t going back to the bed. She wasn’t going back to that place, that silence. She had a truck, keys, cash in her pocket, blood on her arms, and names in her head—names like prayers she hadn’t spoken yet.

She had a mission now.

But as she concentrated, her thoughts shifted, deepening into something darker, older, more familiar. She wasn’t in the garage anymore. Not fully. The stale air, the cracked vinyl seat, the flickering lights—they all blurred at the edges of her awareness as something colder and heavier slid into her mind like smoke, creeping beneath a locked door.

The faces returned. Not as ghosts. Not as visions brought on by trauma or fever. No, they came as memories—names, histories, real people who had been part of her life. Each face slipped into her mind like a puzzle piece finding its place, fragments of a life she had lived, of betrayals that had shattered it. They came without order, but their presence was a fire all the same.

Yoongi Min.

He had once been her calm in the chaos. Cottonmouth. The quiet one. Always the sharpest in the field, the one who spoke the least but saw the most. For a time, he had been one of the few people she allowed to see her without armor. He was precise, elegant in his violence, the kind of man who would leave a room of people dead without saying a word. She had trusted him, even loved him once, before everything had blurred and bled together.

They had shared secrets, missions that required silence, that left them covered in blood and dirt, unable to speak of the things they’d done. He had been her friend, one of the only ones she had left.

And yet, when the time had come to make a choice—when her name had been spoken in that room—he had stayed silent. He hadn’t argued, hadn’t asked questions. He had simply let it happen. Worse, he had known about her daughter. And still, he had let it happen.

He would be the first.

Not because he was the easiest target, but because he had known exactly what they were doing and had done nothing to stop it.

Then there was Jimin Park.

Copperhead. Her mirror image, her partner in crime, the quiet rebellion in a world of rigid obedience. Jimin was the one who made her laugh when everything else felt like it was sinking. They had trained together, fought side by side, and trusted each other with a loyalty forged in the fires of their past. They both had wanted out—once, briefly, they had even believed it was possible. She had helped him disappear. Off-grid, out of Mexico, up into the hills of California with some girl who dreamed in watercolor. Big eyes, kind voice, a future untouched by blood.

She wondered if he was still there.

She hoped he was.

If he was, it meant he’d made it out. Truly escaped. If he wasn’t, finding him wouldn’t take long. Jimin, for all his sweetness, had a sharp edge. He’d made enemies on the West Coast, and all she’d need was a name, a rumor, a whisper, and she’d find him.

But if he had stayed quiet, like Yoongi? If he had known what they were doing to her and walked away? Then that edge of his wouldn’t be enough to save him.

Her hands curled into fists in her lap, then released.

Brandi Phoenix. California Mountain Snake.

Cold. Beautiful. Calculating. Brandi wore her hatred like perfume—light enough to be unnoticed but poisonous beneath the surface. From the moment she stepped into the fold, Brandi had resented her. For her skill. For her rank. For the space she filled beside Taehyung. For simply existing where Brandi wanted to be.

Their fights were legendary—venom in their words during missions, fists behind closed doors. Brandi was a storm in heels—always circling, always striking. There had been no mystery in her betrayal. It had been coming for years. Brandi had needed only the excuse.

And she got it.

That confrontation would come. Eventually. It wouldn’t be clean. It wouldn’t be subtle. Brandi wouldn’t beg for her life. She’d fight to kill, and Y/N had no illusions about that.

And honestly, she welcomed it.

But Brandi wouldn’t come easy. She’d be close to Taehyung, as always. If Y/N wanted one, she’d have to face the other. When that time came, she’d need to be ready for both.

Then there was Namjoon.

Namjoon Kim. Sidewinder.

Taehyung’s older brother. Stoic, haunted, built like a fortress but just as empty. Namjoon had never truly belonged to their world—not the way the others did. He had inherited the family legacy, a weight he never wanted. Over time, it had slowly broken him, year by year.

He hadn’t been cruel. But he hadn’t been kind, either. He’d simply been... resigned. Watching his own story unfold from behind a wall of glass.

And yet, he had been there. He had participated. He hadn’t stopped it.

That was enough.

She wouldn’t make him suffer like the others would. Her rage didn’t burn as hot for him. But he would die. Quietly. Quickly. No warnings, no speeches. Just a clean ending for a man who had stood silent while she was buried alive.

And then, always at the center of it all, was Taehyung Kim.

The Snake Charmer.

The leader. The architect. The one who had bound them all together with whispered promises and elegant plans. He had trained them, molded them into something more than human. He had spoken of legacy, eternity, while hiding a blade behind his back.

He had touched her like she mattered.

He had promised her a future—a shared future.

A life.

And then, with cold precision, he had signed the order. Clinical. Exact. The same hand that once traced lazy circles on her skin had sentenced her to four years of silence, stillness, stolen breath, and severed motherhood.

He was the father of her child. Her lover. Her executioner.

No one else came close.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the pain wash over her. The constant ache in her body had become familiar, a pulse deep within her muscles and bones, a reminder of the years spent in stillness. But beneath the physical suffering, deeper than any physical wound, was the rage. It wasn’t hot anymore. It didn’t burn like it used to. It cut. It was cold, sharp, focused. She opened her eyes, her gaze fixing on her foot again.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but steady.

Nothing.

Her foot stayed still, lifeless. But something in her shifted. There was no disappointment in her face. Only determination.

The silence around her grew thicker, but she was anything but still inside. She could feel the fire inside her, the rage pulsing beneath the surface. She wasn’t done. She wasn’t free yet, but she would be. She would feel the ground beneath her feet again. She would move again. It would start with her toe. Then her foot. Her knee. A step. Then a run. And when she ran, she would hunt.

She knew where to start. Yoongi Min. If he was still alive, he'd be in Korea. And she would find him. She would look him in the eye, and the last thing he’d see would be her.

His face appeared in her mind without effort—soft features, a strong chin, pale skin with freckles in the summer, though he never tanned. His hair was as black as a raven’s feather. He moved like a cat, always calm, always assessing.

Yoongi’s life hadn’t been easy, though he would never admit it. His father never laid a hand on him, but he hadn’t seen his entire family slaughtered, either. Yoongi’s first real encounter with death had come when he was just eleven years old, in the summer of 1981. She couldn't recall the exact date, but she knew it had been hot. He’d told her once, many years ago, how warm the room had been, the sweat dripping down his back, his breath shallow.

Yoongi had been hiding beneath a rusted iron cot in a small apartment on the outskirts of Busan, the kind of place where the ceiling leaked when it rained and the walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors’ every move. He was small, too small for the horrors he’d already seen, too small for what was unfolding now.

He curled into a ball beneath the bed, his limbs bent like fragile paper, wedged between an old pair of sneakers and a half-empty tin of candy. His mother’s candy, the kind she used to sneak into his backpack, telling him to chew quietly during class. Yoongi held his breath, his hands clamped tightly over his mouth, as the cold wood floor pressed into his ribs. Dust filled the air and his nose.

Above him, the room was chaos. His father, still in uniform, sweat darkening his shirt, was fighting three men. They were strangers, but not unfamiliar. They wore dark suits, polished shoes. The kind of quiet that came with practiced violence. They were members of the Chilsung-pa, a crime syndicate as old as the neighborhood itself. These men were no thugs. They were trained, hardened, and they were here with purpose.

One of the men carried a blade longer than Yoongi’s forearm. Another moved with the calm assurance of someone who didn’t need to rush—because he never needed a second swing.

The first man lunged. His father, once a sergeant, met him head-on, muscle and instinct colliding. The sound of their struggle filled the room, the shuffle of feet, the crash of furniture. The man’s neck snapped loudly, cleanly, like a branch breaking in a storm.

But it wasn’t enough.

The other two were faster, smarter. Steel gleamed in the dim light. It cut through air, then flesh.

Yoongi couldn’t see the details—only flashes of motion, grunts, and the spray of blood. Red splattered across the walls, the floor, the photograph of his grandfather pinned crookedly to the wall. His father made a sound—half snarl, half gasp—and then he collapsed. A heap of blood and breathlessness.

Yoongi didn’t scream. His voice had vanished somewhere in the violence. He didn’t blink. He didn’t cry. He just watched, frozen, as the world around him shattered.

They dragged his mother into the room, barefoot and frantic, wild with fear and anger. Her resistance was relentless, a last stand against everything that had already broken her. She fought like someone who still believed there was a way out—kicking, clawing, her body a whirlwind of desperation. Her curses filled the air, her cracked lips spitting venom. Her teeth snapped at the hands that tried to control her. But even in her fury, they moved her with ease. The bed loomed ahead, and she was shoved toward it.

Yoongi watched from his hidden spot, trapped under the bed, unable to move, unable to help. His eyes were locked on the struggle above him, his heart hammering in his chest. Her foot struck one of the men holding her, and for a moment, it seemed like she might break free. But then came the backhand—hard, sharp. It landed with a hollow crack, and she crumpled.

They didn’t hesitate. Two of them hauled her up by the arms, dragging her limp body the last few steps. She was crying now, but not out of fear—this was pure, unbridled fury. Her body shook with the force of her grief as she was thrown onto the bed. The mattress sank under the weight, groaning with the strain. The bedsprings screeched, the dust falling through the seams in the wood.

Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat. He could smell her—citrus and talc, warm and familiar. But that scent was quickly overtaken by the metallic stench of blood and sweat and something darker, something far worse. He clamped his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his ears, hoping for silence.

It didn’t help.

The noises started—sickening, unrelenting. The sound of bodies colliding. Her screams started out defiant but quickly turned into broken gasps, half-screams, choked sobs. The kind of sound you make when all hope is gone, when you’ve lost everything that could save you.

Yoongi was frozen. Trapped in his own body, not by fear, but by the sheer magnitude of his helplessness. His hands balled into fists so tight his nails broke the skin on his scalp, but his body refused to move. His teeth ground against each other, the pressure building until a molar cracked, but he barely noticed. He pressed his face into the splintered floorboards so hard his nose bled, warm blood trickling down his lip and pooling in the dust beneath him.

But none of it mattered.

The bed above him dipped and rose, groaning under their weight. The rhythm of the violence was sickening, steady, relentless. The sounds—every thrust, every scream—carved themselves into him, deep, permanent. It was like being marked, like each noise was a chisel, shaping him into something different.

Time stopped. The seconds stretched into eternity, each one slow and distorted. Reality blurred like smoke, like the edges of a dream slipping into something darker. He felt as though he was underwater, struggling to reach the surface, but never getting any closer.

And then, through the chaos, came a whisper. A sound so small, so broken, it nearly crushed him.

“Yoongi…”

Her voice. His mother’s voice. It was a breath, a prayer, shaped by pain and defeat. Her words were barely audible, muffled by her suffering. She wasn’t just calling out to him; she was reminding herself that he was still there. Still alive. Still hers.

That one word broke him. It shattered the last of his resolve. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t do anything.

So, he stayed there. Silent. Hollow. No tears left.

He was still staring into the dark when the blade came down. It sliced through the mattress with a sickening crack, cutting through flesh and bone with a brutal, decisive force. The sound of it—sharp and final—was one Yoongi would carry with him for the rest of his life. His breath stopped in his throat, his body freezing in the moment, as if everything had paused with the strike. The tremor that shook the frame seemed to ripple through the world itself, as if the earth itself winced in response to the violence.

Blood soaked through the mattress slowly, cruelly. The warmth of it was thick, spreading downward like it had all the time in the world, creeping into every fabric thread, darkening the cotton, turning it maroon, then black. One drop fell through the mattress and landed beside Yoongi’s eye. Then another, splattering his cheek. It didn’t stop—more followed, dripping onto his lips, his forehead, like a slow rain.

The blood clung to his skin as though it had been there forever, like his mother’s touch had once clung to his hand. And just like that moment—he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t fight it. He lay still beneath the bed, covered in her. Still, he made no sound. No scream. No breath.

It was over.

Not just the violence. Everything.

The room seemed to hold its breath, a heavy pause that hung thick in the air. Then, one of the men spoke, his voice low and calm, almost bored. Yoongi couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t want to. His mind had gone white, the kind of empty stillness that comes when everything around you has shattered. He floated somewhere above the horror, detached from the mess unfolding above him. But still, his eyes didn’t leave them.

He saw the man move to the side of the bed, wiping the blade clean on the edge of a pillow. Watched as he straightened his tie, adjusted the cuffs of his suit as if he were stepping out of a business meeting, not a slaughterhouse. The man’s face was composed—cold, calculating. A scar marked his right cheek, a thin line, old and worn. The kind you get when you’ve been in the thick of it, up close, and survived. His eyes were dead—dark, lifeless coal that had long since lost their light.

Shin Ji-Sung. They called him Boss Shin. Yoongi never forgot that face. Not then. Not ever.

He stayed there, unmoving, until the door slammed shut behind them, until their footsteps faded into the stairwell, and the quiet resumed. The rain had started again, tapping lightly against the glass, like it knew it couldn’t do anything but bear witness.

Only then did Yoongi crawl out. His knees slid in the blood as he pulled himself forward, inch by inch. His movements were slow, mechanical, drained of everything but the force of will. When he reached the edge of the bed, he stopped. He looked up.

His mother’s body lay twisted, her eyes wide open but unseeing. One arm hung over the edge of the bed, her fingers curled toward nothing. Her mouth was slightly open, as if still trying to say his name.

Yoongi stared at her for what felt like forever—minutes, hours, maybe more. He couldn’t tell. His own mouth was open, but no sound came. Not a cry. Not a breath. Just a hollow, unbearable stillness.

Yoongi was eleven years old, half-Korean, half-Japanese, a base kid—an accident in a country that barely acknowledged his existence. But even at that young age, something inside him survived. It wasn’t his innocence—he lost that the moment he was forced to witness violence beyond comprehension. It wasn’t his sense of safety—he never had that to begin with. But something deeper, something colder, remained. A promise. Silent. Absolute. Forged in blood and etched into the marrow of his bones.

He would survive. That was his truth. And when the time came, he would rise. The men who had done this to him—he would find them. All of them. He would track them down, one by one, and make them bleed.

The world had broken him in so many ways, but it had also shaped him. He had learned to live with the pain, to swallow it whole and keep moving forward, even when every instinct told him to stop. And one day, that hunger for retribution would fuel him. He would find Boss Shin. The man who had sealed his mother’s fate and shattered his life. The man who would pay in ways he couldn’t yet fully comprehend. But Yoongi would make sure he bled. He’d make it hurt.

In the cruelest twist of fate—or perhaps the cruelest design—Yoongi wouldn’t have to search far. Boss Shin, for all his power, for all the fear his name inspired, carried one fatal flaw. A craving. A hunger for boys who looked just like Yoongi. And in time, Yoongi would give him exactly what he wanted. He would become the thing that haunted Boss Shin's every nightmare. And when he did, there would be no escape.

By the time Yoongi Min turned thirteen, he had stopped being a child. He had learned to stop asking questions, to lower his gaze, and let silence speak for him. He had perfected the art of stillness—watching without being seen, listening for what wasn’t said. He had learned to hear the meaning beneath words and the threat behind a smile. He spoke less but saw more.

But what he had learned most of all was patience. Not the kind you’re taught in school or the kind that’s scolded into you by tired parents. This was something darker. A patience that comes when you’ve been hollowed out, when the only thing keeping you upright is the shape of the rage you’re saving for later.

He waited. Not for days or months, but for years. He moved through the system like smoke—foster care, state programs, shelters with locked food cabinets and bars on the windows. He was polite, obedient, invisible. Until the moment came.

And when it came, it wasn’t gentle. It came with blood.

The room reeked of false luxury—gold-leaf frames on the walls, velvet drapes drawn tight against the light, the lingering scent of expensive cologne. It was all soft, muted. Except Yoongi.

Boss Shin, the man on the bed, was nearly asleep, his eyes heavy from wine and narcotics, his body limp from a life of routine depravity. His breath came shallow and uneven, a smugness laced in every exhale.

Yoongi stood over him. Smaller than he would ever be again—thirteen years old, narrow-shouldered, wiry, but taut with focus. His hair was jet-black, tied back beneath a wig, and he wore a schoolgirl’s uniform—pleated skirt, white blouse, knee-high socks. He had spent weeks preparing. Days enduring. It wasn’t shame; it was strategy. Because Shin liked boys who looked like girls. Everyone knew that. And Yoongi had made sure Shin noticed him.

Now he was here.

Yoongi climbed onto the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress without a sound. Shin’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, the haze of his stupor thick around him.

And then the blade came down.

There was nothing delicate about it. No finesse, no grace. It was raw. A thick military-grade combat knife, taken from a dead man months ago, plunged into Shin’s chest with a grunt of effort. The steel slid between his ribs. Shin’s eyes snapped wide, and a wet gasp tore from his throat.

Yoongi didn’t stop.

He twisted the blade. Blood erupted—hot, arterial—splattering across his neck, his chest, the pale blue sheets. Shin thrashed, his body arching in agony, but Yoongi held him down, straddling him like iron. The man’s strength already began to fail, his nails scraping futilely against Yoongi’s skin.

Yoongi watched it all. Not with hatred. Not even with satisfaction. But with cold, clinical detachment.

This wasn’t revenge. It was correction. A realignment of the world.

When the light finally left Shin’s eyes, Yoongi pulled the blade free and exhaled. The silence that followed was brief.

Shouts thundered from the hallway. Heavy footfalls. Yoongi moved quickly, slipping off the bed and into the shadows beneath it, blending into the folds of the velvet bedskirt like he had rehearsed a hundred times.

The pistol was already in his hand, taped beneath the bedframe for days, waiting. A small .22, stolen, modified for close-range, silent, deadly. It felt cold in his hand, familiar. He didn’t need to think. He was ready.

The door crashed open, the hinges groaning under the weight of the men rushing in. Two of Shin’s enforcers. Guns half-raised, but their bravado faltered as soon as they saw the scene inside. Blood-soaked sheets, their boss’s lifeless body slumped across the velvet pillows, red dripping from the mattress and pooling on the floor. They froze, not with grief, but confusion. Fear. Real, raw fear that shot through their chests like ice.

They didn’t see Yoongi yet.

He was hidden beneath the bed, crouched in the shadows. His knees pressed to his chest, pistol steady in his hand. Silent. Still. Waiting.

The first man stepped forward, cautiously, barking orders at the dead. His boot heel thudded just inches from Yoongi’s face.

Bang.

A clean shot to the chest. The sound cracked through the air like thunder. The man dropped instantly, a startled gasp leaving him as he flailed briefly before crumpling onto the marble floor. Blood pooled beneath him.

The second man reacted in panic, shouting and lunging toward his gun.

Yoongi was faster.

He rolled left, coming up on one knee, and fired twice.

Bang. Bang.

The first bullet ripped through the man’s throat, the second hitting him in the shoulder mid-fall. He spun into the doorframe, hitting it hard, and slumped to the ground, coughing up blood. His body twitched once, then stilled.

Yoongi stood slowly, his movements controlled, calm. There was no thrill in his actions, just the weight of inevitability. The pistol hung loosely in his hand, blood drying on its grip. In his other hand, the knife remained, still warm and dripping.

His breath was steady, his eyes cold. No fear. No exhilaration. Just motion.

The suite was filled with the scent of death now. The thick, coppery smell of fresh blood mixed with sweat and fear—fear that filled the air with every dying breath. It clung to the velvet curtains, soaked into the carpet, streaked across the cream-colored wallpaper like blood-written script.

Yoongi moved through the rooms methodically. He knew this place. He knew the layout. The blind spots. The shift changes. He’d memorized everything.

The guards were nothing. Complacent. Half-drunk. Slumped in side rooms, slack faces illuminated by the glow of TV screens. He ended each of their lives with the same quiet efficiency. A gun to the head. A knife to the throat. No cruelty. Just necessity.

There were no screams. No pleading. Just footsteps, soft thuds, a few strangled gasps—and then silence.

When it was over, the suite was still. Nine dead. One boy standing. Yoongi didn’t pause to admire it.

He moved through the same route he had come in: down the hallway, past the empty kitchen where the cooks had abandoned their posts, through the swinging back door that led to the stairwell. He descended three flights in silence.

No one stopped him. No one even looked. The staff knew enough to avoid the scene. Whatever had happened in that room, it was better left unseen.

He stepped out into the alley just as the rain began to fall again. Soft, warm drops washing away the blood from his bare calves but not from his hands. A cab waited at the curb, just as planned.

The driver didn’t ask questions.

Yoongi slid into the back seat, the worn leather sticking to his bloodied thighs. The wig, matted and soaked, was shoved into a plastic bag beside him. His socks were damp, crusted with blood, but his eyes were clear. Sharp. Focused. He sat still, watching the rain blur past the window as the cab pulled away. Tires hissed on wet asphalt.

He didn’t look back. Not once.

There would be no news reports. No police inquiries. No rumors of retribution whispered through the backrooms of politicians or mob bosses. Boss Shin had surrounded himself with loyal men—men willing to die for him, and the ones left standing would know the cost of speaking his name. It was a code. A simple one. You spoke his name, you joined him in the grave.

Justice, as Yoongi understood it, had been served. Not through courts or lawyers or long, drawn-out appeals. Not behind prison walls or slow deaths at the hands of officials. No, it had come in the form of a blade, a gun, a thirteen-year-old boy, and a vow whispered in the dark. Simple. Final.

And yet, as the city lights flickered by, streaked across the rain-smeared window, Yoongi didn’t feel peace. He didn’t feel anything at all. The blood had been spilled, and the world had kept turning, indifferent to what had been done. To what he had done.

By the time Yoongi Min turned twenty, his name had become an echo, heard only in the darkest corners. His name wasn’t on any official documents. It wasn’t part of any police briefings or secret intel files. It didn’t show up in headlines or trending topics. Yoongi’s name existed in whispers, passed between powerful men who only ever spoke of him in shadows. They never looked at him directly, never dared to. They only saw the consequences of his presence—the bloodshed, the chaos, the power shifts that seemed to follow in his wake.

Yoongi didn’t have a country. No flag to swear loyalty to. No passport, no fingerprints. He had no past anyone could prove. But he had a record. Not an official one. No papers to file. His record was a trail of disappearances, accidents, and sudden, unexplained shifts in power. A collection of bodies scattered across continents. And those who saw Yoongi Min knew it was already too late. Those who didn’t? They were the ones he preferred.

He was a ghost with a pulse. A master of stillness, of precision, and of murder. The kind of man who didn’t need orders. He needed only coordinates.

On a rooftop in the blistering heat of a Central American capital, Yoongi lay flat against the sun-baked concrete. He had been there for hours, and he would stay as long as it took. Sweat trickled down his face, caught by the bandana beneath the brim of his cap. His black-gloved hands gripped the matte body of a custom-built sniper rifle, the stock pressed tight against his shoulder. The barrel extended out beyond the ledge, covered with a heat-shielded tarp that blended seamlessly into the rooftop’s gravel.

The scope was adjusted with practiced precision. The crosshairs found their target without hesitation. Yoongi didn’t guess. He calculated. Every move, every angle, every second was mapped out in his mind before he made it.

Three stories below, a silver SUV inched through midday traffic, its armored exterior reflecting the sunlight. The SUV was flanked by two motorcycles, the lead bike carrying two men in mirrored sunglasses, the second one already scanning rooftops too late. Yoongi watched as the SUV slowed to a stop at a red light. The noise of the street, the shouting of a vendor trying to sell mangos, the squawk of a parrot from a balcony, all of it faded into the background. It was chaos, a mix of life, sound, and color. But in the scope, there was only stillness. Only precision.

The backseat window caught the sky for a split second before dipping down, revealing his target: General Ernesto Gaviria. Former intelligence chief turned cartel-backed politician, with private prisons and private armies to his name. He’d once been a revolutionary. Now, he was just a parasite feeding off the system he helped create.

Gaviria was laughing, his head tilted back, his stomach heaving in amusement, a man who hadn’t fought a battle in years—or perhaps never had. Two women sat beside him, their bodies rigid and poised in a way that made it clear they were well-practiced in the art of silence and beauty. Miss Panama and Miss Venezuela. Their sashes shimmered under the light, the fabric clinging to bodies sculpted with wealth and threats.

The general's hands rested casually on his knees, a pose of entitlement, the kind of careless dominance that came from too much power. Yoongi exhaled slowly, his breath measured, pushing out the heat, the noise, the weight of the past. His finger found the trigger. It curled around it like a whisper, soft but steady.

And then, with the crack of the rifle, it all shattered.

The sound was sharp, godlike, a roar that cut through the thick, humid air. The shot sliced the afternoon in half. Inside the SUV, the top of the general’s skull disappeared in a burst of red mist, a violent bloom of blood, bone, and gray matter that exploded upward, splattering the ceiling with gore. The noise was muted by the glass, but the image—crystal clear, forever etched—would never fade.

The woman to his right screamed, recoiling as if struck. The other froze, her mouth open, eyes wide with the horror of what she'd just witnessed. Yoongi didn’t watch. He didn’t need to. He was already moving, his body in motion before the chaos began to unfold below him.

The casing rolled near his elbow, catching a brief flash of sunlight before falling silent on the rooftop. He dismantled the rifle with mechanical precision, his movements smooth, practiced. Each action was like muscle memory—barrel unscrewed, stock folded, scope detached and secured. The rifle slid into a slim, matte-black case, nondescript, efficient, forgettable.

He didn’t confirm the kill. He never did. He knew.

By the time the chaos bloomed beneath him—sirens wailing, screams cutting through the air, armored boots pounding against pavement—Yoongi was already gone. He was down the stairwell, through a service door, and around a corner into the skeletal remains of an abandoned church. The cameras never worked there. It was a place no one could trace.

In less than sixty seconds, Yoongi changed clothes—dusty jeans, a bleach-stained T-shirt, a cheap knockoff Dodgers cap. He walked into the market square like he belonged, just another face in the crowd that moved like water, undisturbed by disaster.

The cab that picked him up blended in, too. The driver said nothing. The cash was exact. The route was direct. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Yoongi was already out of the city, no trace, no trail. He didn’t leave behind a name spoken aloud or a footprint anyone would follow. He was just another ghost, fading into a world full of them.

Another job done. Another name crossed off a list no one would ever see.

For Yoongi, it wasn’t personal. It never was. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel something. In the space where others might find relief, guilt, or satisfaction, Yoongi Min felt only one thing: momentum. And it was pushing him somewhere darker.

At twenty-three, Yoongi Min became the latest name on an infamous ledger—a list that didn’t exist on paper, kept out of sight in rooms the world preferred to pretend weren’t real. It wasn’t an organization, not really, but a design—precise, efficient, built for one purpose: death. Officially, they were known as the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad, but in the underworld, they were simply called the Vipers. A name that spread like poison through intelligence channels, whispered in black-market ports, and muttered by the dying who understood what it meant to be hunted by one of them.

Now, Yoongi stood in a windowless room, somewhere outside any country that mattered. The space around him was cold and sterile—unpainted concrete walls, a single overhead light casting long, calculated shadows. There was no clock, no insignia, no way to tell if they were underground or above the clouds. The silence hung heavy, pressing against the air like it carried weight.

Yoongi didn’t break it. He stood alone at one side of the table, still and deliberate. His frame was narrow but lean, his body honed, not hardened. Black boots, black pants, black shirt—no adornments, no flash. He didn’t look dangerous in the way most people would imagine. He looked precise, like a man who knew the exits before he entered the room, who understood the angles and could turn anything into a weapon if needed. He wasn’t there to impress anyone. He was there to belong.

Across from him sat Taehyung. Older, with sharp features and a clean-cut look that seemed timeless. He looked like he belonged to every decade and none at all. His eyes, however, were sharp and studying, as if he could see through Yoongi and straight into his bones. He sipped tea from a porcelain cup with a calmness that suggested he’d ended more lives than heart disease. His suit was dark and crisp, but unbuttoned—relaxed, but not in a way that suggested comfort.

“I’ve heard stories,” Taehyung said at last, his voice smooth, warm, and quiet enough to pull attention. “I don’t usually believe them. People romanticize this work too much. But your record?” He gave a small, appreciative nod. “That—I believe.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. He just watched—his silence as controlled as the room was filled with power.

Beside Taehyung, Y/N leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. She was younger then, early twenties, her jawline still sharp with defiance. The blood on her hands hadn’t yet dried into ritual. Her hair was longer, tied back loosely but with intent. She wore scuffed boots, a jacket two shades too dark for the room, and eyes that didn’t stray from Yoongi. There was no warmth in her gaze, no judgment. Just calculation. She wasn’t impressed, but she wasn’t dismissive either. She was reading him, watching every muscle shift, every subtle movement.

After a moment, she tilted her head and spoke, her voice dry. “He doesn’t talk much.” She paused, then added, “Is that part of the act, or do you just enjoy being cryptic?”

Yoongi’s voice, when it came, was low—measured and quiet, almost like the tail end of a threat that hadn’t been fully spoken yet. “I talk when it matters.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in challenge, but in recognition. She knew exactly what kind of man stood before her.

Across the table, Taehyung let out a slow exhale, his eyes glinting with something that might’ve been amusement. He set his teacup aside and leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his posture casual but calculating. “Cold,” he said, eyes never leaving Yoongi. “Controlled. Surgical. But you’ve never worked on a team. Not like this.”

Yoongi nodded once, the gesture brief but firm. “Then I’ll adapt.”

There was no arrogance in his voice. Just a quiet certainty. A fact.

Taehyung glanced sideways at Y/N, as though looking to her for confirmation. She didn’t break her gaze from Yoongi, not a blink, not a shift. The air between them was thick, charged, but she remained silent.

Taehyung turned back to Yoongi. “He’s fast,” he said, a statement that seemed almost to float between them. “Not emotional. Not reckless.”

There was a beat of silence, then Y/N gave a small, reluctant nod, just enough to signal that she had made up her mind. “Then give him a name.”

Taehyung didn’t hesitate. “Cottonmouth.”

The name landed in the room like a verdict, heavy and sure. Yoongi didn’t flinch. He didn’t acknowledge it with any outward response. It didn’t matter. The name slid into him, as if it had always been there, waiting to be said. He accepted it without question, without ceremony.

No formal welcome. No applause. No blood oath. Just a room full of silence. And a name.

And a shift.

By the end of the week, Yoongi had a new passport, new directives, and a kill list that spanned five continents. His first target was dead in three days. His second never even made it off the runway. No one ever saw his face, but governments knew when he passed through. They just didn’t know how to prove it.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t leave traces. He didn’t miss.

He left for Korea after that, and Y/N was sent to him a few months later. Taehyung had been too busy to teach her about swords and Yoongi had taken her under his wing. Within the six months she was there, their relationship went from nothing to meeting up in his bath room. They would explore one another for hours, and Yoongi made her feel good.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that.

There were no declarations, no promises, no softness. Just need. Just impulse. Just adrenaline, control, and something neither of them ever bothered to name. It didn’t matter that she belonged to Taehyung’s crew. At that point, she didn’t belong to anyone.

She was his Rabbit, and over the years they’d grown an understanding. Taehyung sent them on missions together frequently after her time with Pai Mei the year after she’d left Busan. In those hotel rooms she’d find herself able to slip away from being Black Mamba. With Yoongi, she’d felt like she was back home in Abbeville and he looked at her the same way Sam Wallace had before he’d died.

One of her favorite memories came without much effort.

In an out of the way hotel room overlooking a vantage point, Y/N clutched the bedsheets as she was pounded from behind by a smirking Yoongi. Y/N fought down her groans, not wanting to give her showman a teammate the satisfaction of vocalizations, even though she knew that Yoongi could feel how wet she was and how deep he was getting hit.

"Anata no soba---" Yoongi began before clearing his throat, pulling out. "Get on your side."

Y/N sighed at the unwelcome interruption as she lied on her hips, raising her leg like a tame dog as Yoongi entered her again, torturously working back up to his original tempo as Y/N fought to keep her breathing under control, the disappointment and anticipation being all a part of the kill for her friend. She found her right breast being squeezed as he began to pick up speed, sneaking there when she was distracted.

"Tch!" Y/N betrayed her surprise as Yoongi kept hammering away in her, tweaking her erect nipple in between his fingers. Y/N gave up, letting out a subdued moan as she came. Yoongi, not really surprised in any sense of the word, turned his head to pridefully peck her on the lips.

Afterward, Yoongi moved with the quiet finality of a man who was used to following through. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush—just slipped out of bed, his bare feet barely making a sound against the worn hotel carpet. The room, dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, felt still in his absence. The click of the bathroom door, followed by the soft hiss of running water, filled the space between breaths.

Y/N lay on her back, her eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling like they might somehow form a map of something that made sense. Her chest rose and fell slowly—not from exertion, but from the familiar weight of being close to someone and still feeling the air too thick to fully exhale. Her skin hummed, warm and flushed, but not from love, not from longing—just connection. The kind that lingers long after the adrenaline is gone.

The faucet stopped. A moment later, the door creaked open. Yoongi returned with two bottles of water—one of which he tossed to her without needing to say anything. She caught it mid-air, cracked the seal, and drank deep. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice a low hum of acknowledgment.

He slid back into the bed beside her with the ease of someone who had long since mastered the art of not being noticed. His skin was cool from the tap, and when his arm brushed hers, she shivered just slightly. He was already folding into the sheets like he’d always belonged there.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice low and nonchalant. The kind of check-in between old friends who’d long stopped asking just to be polite.

She smirked. “I’m good.”

They lay there in the quiet for a moment—just the hum of the city seeping through the barely working air conditioner, the occasional honk from traffic five floors below. Then Yoongi turned toward her, propping his head up on his arm, eyes catching hers in the dim light.

“Your breathing was off,” he said, his tone almost casual.

Y/N gave him a sideways glance. “You keeping stats on me now?”

“Maybe,” he said, his eyes flicking to her with an almost imperceptible smile. “You usually exhale on the upstroke.”

She snorted. “Creep.”

He shrugged. “Observant.”

A quiet laugh passed between them, easy and familiar. She nudged his shoulder with hers, and he leaned into it slightly. Their bodies fell back into the same rhythm they always had—no tension, no need. Just proximity. His hand settled on her waist, fingers drumming lightly against her hip.

“You ever gonna tell me what you think of Taehyung?” she asked, not bothering to look at him.

Yoongi sighed through his nose. “He’s interesting. Don’t care for him much outside of work.”

“You jealous?”

He scoffed. “No. He’s not my type. I like pretty boys, baby.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think I’m gonna sleep with him?”

“I think you might,” he said, his voice unexpectedly honest. “But not for the reason you think.”

“Oh?”

“You’re strategic. You don’t get close unless you mean to. But with him... I don’t know. Maybe it would just feel easy. Wouldn’t be for love, I could tell you that right now.”

She was quiet for a long moment, fingers absently tracing the ridge of his forearm. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. “You think I’m trying to survive him?”

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. He studied her face in the dim light, then reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with unexpected tenderness.

“I think you survive everyone,” he said, his words settling between them. “Even the ones who don’t want you to. Even me.”

Y/N blinked, then looked away, irritated with herself for the way his words hit too close to home. She hated it when he said things like that—too real, too quietly, like he didn’t mean to drop it in her lap but couldn’t help himself.

She liked to think herself in love with Taehyung Kim. Why else would she put up with his ass? It’s obviously real love because he disgusts her and puts up with him willingly when not many others would. Maybe Brandi would, but Brandi was insane and didn’t care about his more… unsavory traits. At least, none that she ever showed. She had to be in love with Taehyung. It was the only way any of this made sense. Even when she stopped thinking about him the second Yoongi came to visit, she knew that she loved him.

Y/N did not want to think about it anymore. It was too confusing.

She rolled toward him, curling into his side until her forehead pressed gently against his collarbone. He didn’t flinch. He just adjusted the blankets with one hand and wrapped the other around her back.

“You’re warm,” she mumbled.

“You’re cold,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

They stayed like that for a while—tangled in sheets and silence. No urgency. No plans. Just the kind of closeness that comes from knowing someone too long and too well to lie to them.

Y/N felt his breathing start to slow beneath her cheek. His hand continued its slow rhythm against her back, each gentle motion lulling her closer to sleep.

“Yoongi?” she whispered.

“Mmh?”

“Thanks.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just kissed her hair again, slower this time.

“For what?” he murmured.

“For always coming back.”

He was quiet for a moment before pulling her a little tighter. “Where else would I go?”

Y/N smiled, her eyes slipping closed. She didn’t know what this was between them, and she didn’t need to. Not that night or any other night.

Their relationship ended three years later, when Y/N and Taehyung started seeing each other differently. Or, as Taehyung had put it, she began acting like a grown woman. The others said he’d just waited until she was old enough to avoid looking like a creep. Y/N didn’t dwell on it. She’d always been with older men. This wasn’t new.

Yoongi, ever practical, accepted the shift, acknowledging their sexual relationship had run its course. Lynn Easton, his longest friend and most prized possession, swooped in to care for him like a mother. She was glad to be rid of Y/N’s presence. Jealous little rat. They left Mexico for Korea, returning only for missions tied to Taehyung’s operations. The bond between Yoongi and Y/N wasn’t the same, but it remained, still strong despite the distance. Y/N cared for Yoongi, and she knew he felt the same.

Four years ago, in the year 2000, on a West Texas morning beneath a bleached sky, a wedding turned into a massacre. It was meant to be quiet, intimate—far from politics, cameras, and consequence. The chapel, small with whitewashed walls and hand-carved pews, was made for whispered vows and fragile beginnings. The bride chose every detail: pale ribboned flowers, a sun-worn guitarist in the corner, an officiant who spoke briefly, knowing this was something sacred, not to be overstretched.

There were only a handful of guests—people she trusted, loved. No reporters. No guards. Just light spilling through stained glass, the faint hum of music threading through the silence. Everything was still. And then, the doors opened.

The gunshots were everywhere. In less than a minute, eight people were dead: Tommy’s parents, his sister, a last-minute college friend, the guitarist who didn’t even drop his instrument before he fell, the man with the Bible who’d asked them to join hands. And then Tommy himself.

The bride, dressed in white, life growing inside her. She didn’t see who fired first, only felt the light leave her and something tear through her chest like fire. The impact folded her in half. Her knees buckled, fingers reaching for something that wasn’t there.

She fell hard, stained-glass light still dancing around her as she hit the floor. Blood soaked her lace midsection, blooming quickly—bright at first, then darkening, the white dress drinking it in. From the floor, she saw him.

Not the one who shot her. That was Brandi—smiling like she was doing God’s work. No. It was the other one. The one who didn’t smile. The one who moved like smoke.

Yoongi Min.

He hadn’t fired the shot that dropped her, but he had ensured no one else could rise to stop it. His job was taking out her groom. Silenced pistol in hand, he moved through the chaos with the precision of someone far removed from it all. No tremor in his hand. No hesitation. He stepped over the dead without a glance.

When she writhed on the floor, bleeding, breathless, Yoongi held her down. He didn’t spit at her, insult her, or speak. He just pinned her shoulders to the blood-slick wood while Brandi Phoenix did what she did.

None of them expected a heartbeat to survive that day. They didn’t rush to leave. No panic. No second glances. No double-checking for survivors. They were professionals. The job was done. Eight confirmed kills. One silenced chapel. No cries. No movement.

They should’ve killed nine, but they didn’t. Because Y/N didn’t die.

She remembered everything. Not in flashes, not like a dream, but in brutal clarity. The crack of gunfire echoing off vaulted ceilings. The splintering pews. The sound of bodies hitting the floor. Her own strangled gasp as the bullet hit, knees buckling like broken beams.

She remembered the color of her blood, soaking through the lace of her dress—bright at first, like a flare, then darkening. The smell—the mix of roses, gunpowder, and iron. The weight of another body near hers, warmth spilling onto her bare shoulder. The sticky wetness. The stillness.

Yoongi Min stood over her, not a drop of blood on his face. Blood caked her lashes, but she saw him clearly. His face unreadable, no curiosity, no cruelty—just focus. He didn’t look at her like a woman or a target. He looked at her like a loose end. He helped the others finish her off once the others were taken care of.

Then came the darkness.

Four years. Four years of machines, wires, and strangers’ prayers. Two times, she was declared brain-dead. Two times, a doctor marked the time on a clipboard and walked away. She was kept alive by a nurse’s pity—hidden, forgotten, buried alive. Until the moment she started to wake.

It wasn’t pretty. It didn’t come all at once. It was slow, violent, like pulling herself from wet concrete—blind, gasping. Her mind clawed its way back long before her body did, trapped inside, screaming silently.

Now, she lay curled in the backseat of a stolen truck beneath a blanket that smelled of engine grease and stale air. Parked between desert scrub and rusted fences. The road behind her was gone, the road ahead uncertain. Her body was broken—foreign. Her skin too tight in places, numb in others. Her muscles sagged, deflated. Her legs, stiff as wax, stretched out. Her fingertips tingled. Her breath shallow, lungs relearning survival.

But her mind—her mind was wildfire.

She could feel the hum of memory beneath her skin, relentless and alive. Her pulse thudded in her neck, fast and heavy, reminding her she was alive. She couldn’t remember her face anymore, couldn’t picture her reflection. But she remembered everything else. The echo of her name, shouted just before it was drowned out. The scrape of her nails against the chapel floor, as she tried to crawl. The flutter beneath her ribs—her child—growing still. And Yoongi Min. Silent. Still. Pressing her down while someone else tore her apart.

She hadn’t died. And because of that, because they hadn’t finished the job, they would all pay.

Her body lay in the dark, breath shallow, skin slick with sweat gathering in the hollows of her spine, soaking into the seat beneath her. The air in the truck thick—humid with oil, dried blood, and the sour scent of fading adrenaline. Outside, the desert heat pulsed like a living thing. Inside, time collapsed into nothing but stillness and breath.

Her eyes drifted down her body. Slowly. Deliberately. Past the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Down to her right foot, unmoving. Pale. Slightly curled at the toes. Still. Dumb. Useless.

It looked like it belonged to someone else—like it had been sewn onto her by mistake.

Her jaw tightened, and her hands curled into loose fists on her thighs. Every nerve in her body screamed with confusion, as though someone had rewired her and then left without a trace. She took a slow, steadying breath, thick with resolve. Whatever had been done to her, whoever had taken control of her body, they would pay. She would walk again. She would hunt them down. And when the time came, there would be no mercy. Yoongi might have been the shadow in the chapel, but she was the fucking hurricane.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if the simple command could bridge the distance between her and the action she craved.

Her eyes narrowed, focus tightening like a vice. She stared at her foot, willing it to move, as if sheer force of will could make it obey.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she repeated, louder this time, her voice sharp with impatience.

Still nothing.

Then—

A tremor.

Just a flicker. A subtle, almost imperceptible twitch that disturbed the dust on her skin.

She blinked hard, heat rushing behind her eyes, the sting of tears threatening. Her throat tightened. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle around her, like the stillness after an explosion.

The toe had moved.

And that was enough.

Her cracked lips parted, voice raw and thin. “The hard part’s over,” she muttered to herself, her words barely a rasp. “Now let’s get the rest of these piggies moving.”

It took an hour just to sit up.

Every second felt like war.

Her arms trembled beneath her, muscles unfamiliar and weak. Her shoulders burned, her breath shallow and frantic. Sweat dripped into her eyes, but she didn’t blink it away. She focused only on the task ahead: moving. Dizziness pulled at her, nearly swallowing her whole. Twice, her vision blurred, her fingers going numb. But she kept going. One breath at a time.

Finally, after what felt like forever, she was upright.

Slumped forward, shaking, soaked in sweat, gasping like she'd been pulled from the sea. Her hospital gown clung to her, a reminder of the fragility she still carried. But she was sitting. That was something. That was power.

She let her head fall forward, staring at her left leg.

“Your turn,” she whispered.

She focused, hard. Her body wasn’t responding; it was remembering, like each limb needed to reacquaint itself. Her left foot didn’t move at first. Then, a twitch. A faint tremble in her calf. A sudden jerk in her thigh, more seizure than progress.

But it was something.

“Again,” she murmured, voice shaky. “Come on.”

Her hand gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white. She slapped her thigh—once, twice. Hard. Not out of frustration, but command.

Another minute passed.

Another tremor.

She let out a breath that caught in her throat, threatening to choke her before she smothered it with the back of her hand. She couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. But the tears came anyway. Not from fear or pain, but from the weight of it all. Years of silence, stillness, being trapped in a body that didn’t obey. She breathed through it, let the tears fall, wiped them away, and kept going.

By hour seven, the tremors were constant, though still uncoordinated and unpredictable. Her limbs were waking up in fits and starts, like a machine that hadn’t been used in years, sputtering to life. Her muscles spasmed, kicked, locked up, then released. At one point, she reached for the window frame for balance, but instead collapsed sideways, her shoulder slamming into the door, rattling the hinge. She gasped, cursed, and kept going.

By hour ten, one leg dangled over the side of the seat, scraping the truck floor uselessly—a dead weight. But it was down. It was gravity. It counted. Then, with a grunt, the other leg followed—slow, twitching, her breath ragged as she forced it over the edge. Her body ached like it had been beaten from the inside out, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

By hour thirteen, she was ready. The truck was stifling, the air thick with heat and the smell of sweat. Her gown clung to her skin, her back soaked through, hair matted to her forehead. The seat beneath her was stained with sweat and grit from where she’d braced herself. Her hands were filthy, coated in dirt from every inch of the cab she’d used to steady herself. But now, she had two feet on the floor. Her heart pounded in her chest, a warning reverberating in every bone.

She took a shallow breath—pained, but enough—and then she pushed.

Her legs shuddered beneath her, like old, rusted machinery fighting to move. Her thighs jerked with violent tremors. Her knees buckled—not from her weight, but from the shock of standing. Her back arched, muscles protesting. Her fingers dug into the seat, nails biting into the leather, arms straining to keep her upright. Every tendon screamed. Every nerve burned.

Her breath caught, high in her chest. Her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, urging her back to the place where nothing moved, and everything was still. But she didn’t let it. She fought it.

She stood.

Her body bent forward like a reed battered by a storm, elbows locked against the truck seat, spine curved with the strain. Her legs shook violently, unfamiliar with their own weight, but she was up. Her eyes fluttered closed, sweat soaking her lashes. Her lungs rasped, desperate for air. Her body swayed once—enough to threaten collapse—but she caught herself, held steady by willpower alone.

With a voice cracked from hours of silence, she whispered, "The hard part’s over."

There was no triumph in her tone. No victory. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a vow. Then, she smiled. Not wide. Not bright. It was a smile forged from iron and exhaustion—bent at the corners, all teeth and rage. A smile born from blood and memory. A smile no one had seen in four years. A smile like steel pulled from fire. And now, she was fire.

When the first light of morning touched the horizon, soft and golden against the desert, Y/N swung open the backseat door. The hinges groaned under the weight of the moment, and the air outside smelled of dust, fuel, and the heat to come. Her bare foot hit the pavement first, the shock of raw skin against gravel stinging. She winced. The earth was tender, soft like it had never been touched, but she didn’t stop. She settled her heel, then her arch, then her toes. She hissed through her teeth, then brought the other foot down beside it.

Both feet. On the ground. Standing.

She took a breath. It hurt. Her ribs protested, her chest constricted, but it was a breath nonetheless.

And then, she began to walk.

Her gait was uneven, her balance uncertain. Her knees locked at odd angles. Her arms reached for anything to steady herself. She looked like a newborn deer—legs and uncertainty, driven by furious determination. Each step was a silent scream. Each second, a battle. But she kept going. Around the truck, her hand dragging along the scorched metal, her palm leaving a smear of sweat against the door. She reached the driver’s side, gripped the hot steel with one hand, and reached for the handle with the other.

She pulled the door open and climbed in.

The seat was too high. Her hips protested. Her back pulled tight with the warning of strain. But she got in.

It felt surreal—sliding into that seat again. A place that once belonged to someone else, someone cruel, someone arrogant. Someone whose blood still stained the floorboards beneath her bare feet. She could still smell Buck—cologne of bad whiskey and burnt plastic. Fast food wrappers rotting in the door pocket. Cigarette butts jammed into the ashtray.

The keys were still in the ignition, dangling from the garish yellow “PUSSY WAGON” tag. She reached for them, fingers closing tight around the plastic. The key turned with a low mechanical thunk.

The engine coughed to life, then roared—a deep, guttural sound, like an old beast shaking off its sleep. The dash lights flickered, and the vents blasted warm air into her face. The whole truck vibrated beneath her.

She gripped the steering wheel, hands steady for the first time in a long while. Her gaze flicked to the dashboard, where a pair of sunglasses rested, shoved against the edge of the windshield. Plastic. Cheap. Gold-rimmed knockoffs. Elvis-style. Gaudy. Stupid.

Without thinking, she reached for them, turned them over in her hand, then slid them on. They sat crooked. She adjusted them, fixing the angle until they felt right. Now, they were perfect.

She glanced up into the rearview mirror. The woman staring back wasn’t the one who’d bled out in a wedding dress. She wasn’t the one who had cried silently in a coma or been broken into pieces.

No, this woman had bruises under her eyes, chapped lips, skin stretched tight against bone. A large scar on her forehead where they’d taken the bullet out. But her eyes—they were alive. They were awake, alert, burning with something cold and sharp.

Y/N reached for the gearshift. Her hand didn’t shake this time. She dropped it into drive, the truck lurching forward with a growl as gravel kicked up behind her.

It was time to start the list. Eight names. One by one. And the first name was Yoongi Min.

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stylesispunk · 1 year ago

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'I love you, it's ruining my life' | Part iv.

Joel Miller x f!reader

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Summary: You and Joel have your happy ending. w.c: 6,7k>

warnings: smut (sorry I'm not the best at writing smut), fluff, angst. time jump. Perhaps grammar mistakes because I didn't check grammar. Not the best piece of writing but now my mind is wandering on another story.

a/n: Part 4 and last one is here! Thank you so much for all the love you gave to this one, I'm really happy you loved it despite the messy writing. I may write for these two to clarify some things, or some details of their lives after this ending. If you have a suggestion, question, or want to talk to me, you can come to my dms or ask! Happy reading 💌 dividers by @/saradika-graphics

"I promise, I'll do everything I can to make this right," he said softly, his thumbs gently caressing your cheek.

You nodded, a tear escaping down your cheek as you smiled up at him. "I believe you, Joel. And I want to try too. I want us to be together.

He pulled you into another embrace, his arms wrapping around you securely. "We will," he whispered into your hair. "We'll take it one day at a time, but we'll do it together."

For a while, you simply held each other, finding solace in the closeness. Eventually, you led Joel to the couch, where you both sat down, still reluctant to let go.

"I've missed you so much," you admitted, leaning to kiss his cheek. "Every day felt incomplete without you."

"I missed you too," he replied, his voice tender. "Every day I thought about you, regretting the decisions I made that pushed you away." Joel smiled—a genuine, heartfelt smile that made your heart swell. "Agreed," he said. "We'll make it right this time." He said, capturing your lips with a feverish kiss.

As Joel's lips met yours in a feverish kiss, a rush of emotions swept over you. It was a kiss filled with longing, passion, and the promise of a new beginning. In that moment, all the pain and heartache of the past seemed to fade away, replaced by the warmth and intensity of Joel's love.

You melted into the kiss, savoring the feeling of his lips against yours and the taste of his love filling your senses. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, conveying a silent vow to make things right and to never let go of each other again.

As you pulled away, breathless and flushed with emotion, you looked into Joel's eyes and saw a reflection of your own feelings mirrored back at you. He clutched your hips and pushed you against the door, shutting your mouth with his own for a hungrier kiss as if he wanted to devour you right here. Your fingers tangled into his dark locks, and he seemed to enjoy it because he released a heavy groan into your mouth, and you drank all those heavenly sounds with pleasure.

“I’m just gonna eat you,” he said, laughing, biting your bottom lip as you laughed lowly.

“That’s what I’m waiting for” you replied.

Both of you were out of breath as he cupped your face and brushed his thumbs against your cheeks like he was the most delicate thing he’d ever held.

Everything happened so quickly that neither of you realized how you'd gotten rid of your clothes, but you missed each other too much to even consider how this might have happened. He held you up against the wall, both of your legs wrapped around his waist so he could thrust fast into you while biting onto your collarbone. you were now moaning. Your head tossed back, and your nails left clear lines of red on his bare back, but this only fueled him, allowing him to pound his hips with greater urgency.

His hands were strong, but his touch was gentle. It was all over you including her face, chest, heart, and mind fantasies.

He was everywhere. You were battling to breathe while simultaneously feeling extremely lively. His fingertips touched your hot flesh, grazing with flames. Even as you burned, you clung to him like he was your lifeline.

He grasped your waist and continued to rock into you. The sound of your name slipped through his lips, mingled in with the groans and nasty words that made your cheeks flush and your eyes roll in delight. But in between the passion and filth, he expressed how much he loved and missed you.

You tried not to pay attention to those words as you tossed your head back, gasping for air, feeling your climax grow so close that your body began shaking against his. Your thoughts quickly went blank, and your toes curled as you shouted out his name, feeling his release not long after you ended. His thrust became sluggish and slow. It wasn't until he stopped that you fell back into reality.

He kissed the corner of your lips tenderly once you both had regained your breathing pace. He opened his eyes to yours. The gentleness of those brown eyes left a lump in your throat as he walked you over to your bedroom to lay you down on your bed.

“I love you so fucking much.”

Those words came again. He sounded out of breath when he spoke, and the raspiness of his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

“I love you,” he mumbled again, this time crashing his lips with yours for what felt like a thousandth time. You then lifted your leg to his hips as you reached down to take him in your palm, and that sudden movement made his breath hitch.

He closed his eyes and buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent, as if it could serve as a reminder that you were now each other's half.

He began caressing your breasts while inhaling fiercely into your exposed shoulder, dragging his hands down your hips to your stomach. You scorched your back, moaning his name, and he felt like he was going insane at the sight of you under his gaze, like this. His body between your legs offered him easier access to the image he wanted to keep in his thoughts every day.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt his finger go down your body to the spot you wanted him the most. You were soaked, and he lost control of the sensation of you gripping around his digits. He attached your lips, groaning into the kiss, and began pumping his fingers, gradually increasing the pace as well. You had your hand behind his neck, panting for air but maintaining eye contact, watching him go insane at the sight of you.

"Joel, I…"

"I know baby… I know…" He breathed into your mouth and pulled out his fingers, causing you to gasp at the loss of his touch. In a short second, he managed to go down and kiss every single inch of kissing every inch of your body, till he reached your tights and placed his tongue on your core. You moaned loudly, arching your back and slowly moving your hips into Joel's tongue.

The bedroom swiftly became crowded with your moans and Joel's tongue lapping at your drenched pussy. He groaned beneath you.

Your fingers grasped his hair locks

"Good girl," he replied.

"Fuck! I'm.." You stuttered. He accelerated his rhythm and sucked as if it were his favorite thing in the world.

Soon after, you came. He licked you clean before slowly licking his way back up your body. Until your lips met in a wet kiss.

"You're my favorite person," he replied, a satisfied smile falling off his lips. He lay next to you in bed, and you both glanced at each other.

"Let's do it again sometime?" You made a joke.

"Why not now?" He asked.

You let him kiss you again, and your hands traveled to his neck once again.

Waking up next to Joel felt strange, not for the wrong reasons or the rust that had grown between you after a year of no communication, but because this time you allowed yourself to be his. The vulnerability was both exhilarating and terrifying.

The smell of his cologne lingered on your pillow, a comforting reminder of his presence. You reached out to touch the space where he had been, but the warmth was fading. Fear crept within your body, a gnawing anxiety that whispered, "What if he regretted and left?"

Your heart pounded as you sat up, scanning the room for any sign of him. Panic began to settle in until you heard the faint clinking of dishes from the kitchen. You slid out of bed, the cool floor beneath your feet grounding you as you made your way towards the sound.

In the kitchen, Joel stood by the stove, his back to you, humming softly as he cooked breakfast. Relief washed over you, bringing tears to your eyes. He hadn’t left.

There he was, only in a pair of jeans, in the middle of your kitchen, preparing breakfast for the both of you.

He turned, a smile breaking across his face, when he saw you. "Morning, baby," he said, his voice warm and inviting. "I thought I’d make us some breakfast."

You walked up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind and resting your cheek against his back. "I was scared you’d gone," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel turned in your arms, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I’m not going anywhere," he said firmly, tilting your chin up to look into your eyes. "I’m here”

Do you think I am a bad person?" You asked, your voice muffled as you hid your face against his neck.

Joel's body stiffened, and he gently pulled back to scan your face, his expression a mix of confusion and concern. "Wha—oh my god, what are you talking about?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for understanding.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the emotions swirling inside you. "I mean, we both did things. Tess, my boyfriend...”

Joel shook his head, his grip on you tightening. "You did nothing wrong," he interrupted firmly, his voice leaving no room for doubt. "We were both trying to navigate a difficult situation, and we made mistakes, but that doesn't make you a bad person."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at him, his unwavering support and love bringing a sense of relief you hadn't felt in a long time. "I just... I feel so guilty," you admitted, your voice cracking. "For hurting others, for leaving you without a proper goodbye.” You paused for a moment. “I wasted a whole year, Joel.”

Joel’s gaze softened even more, and he pulled you into a tighter embrace. “You didn’t waste anything,” he said, his voice filled with conviction. “We both needed that time to understand what we truly wanted and to realize how much we meant to each other. That year apart was hard, but it brought us here to this moment.”

You sniffled, burying your face in his shoulder. “But it hurts knowing I left like that. I should have stayed and fought for us.”

He gently lifted your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up over it. We both made mistakes. But what matters now is that we’re here, together, and we have the chance to make things right. We can’t change the past, but we can shape our future.”

You nodded, the tears slowing as you felt a sense of peace wash over you. “I want that, Joel. I want to build a future with you.”

Joel smiled, his eyes shining with a mixture of relief and love. “Me too,” he said softly. “And we’ll do it, one step at a time, together.”

You leaned in, capturing his lips in a tender kiss, sealing the promise of a new beginning. As you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath match your own.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the weight of your guilt and fear beginning to lift. “For loving me,” you said, your voice steady and free from the guilt and fear that had once plagued you.

Joel's eyes softened, and his expression filled with warmth and understanding. “Always,” he replied, his voice a gentle promise. “Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

You both stayed silent for a while, savoring the closeness and the unspoken bond that had grown even stronger through your trials. The sun began to rise, casting a soft, golden glow into the room, and with it, a new day began—a day filled with hope and the promise of a love that could weather any storm.

As you nestled closer to Joel, you felt his arms tighten around you protectively. “Can you go back to bed, please?” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

You chuckled. “Why?”

“I actually planned to bring you breakfast in bed, and you kind of ruined my surprise,” he said humorously, a playful glint in his eyes.

A warm, genuine laugh bubbled up from within you. “Oh, did I now? I guess I can pretend to be asleep,” you teased, your smile widening.

Joel grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s the spirit. Now, back under the covers, and no peeking.”

You playfully rolled your eyes but complied, snuggling back into the warm bed. “I’m not peeking, promise,” you called out, feigning a yawn for good measure.

Joel kissed your forehead before slipping out of the room. You lay there, a smile lingering on your lips, feeling a sense of joy and contentment you hadn’t felt in a long time.

A short while later, you heard the sounds of clinking dishes, the faint aroma of coffee, and something delicious wafting from the kitchen. You closed your eyes, savoring the moment, knowing that this was just the beginning of a new chapter for both of you.

Finally, you felt the bed dip slightly as Joel returned, a tray in his hands. “Breakfast is served,” he announced softly.

You opened your eyes to see him setting a tray laden with pancakes, fresh fruit, and coffee on the bed. Your heart swelled with affection as you took in the sight.

“This looks amazing, Joel,” you said, reaching for his hand.

He sat down beside you, a contented smile on his face. “This is only the first breakfast of the million I’ll give to you.”

Three years later, Joel and you were happily married, living a life filled with love, laughter, and countless shared memories. On the morning of Joel's 35th birthday, he woke up around 5 a.m., immediately noticing your absence. The usual warmth of your presence beside him was missing, and concern tugged at his heart.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and listened. The faint sound of retching came from the bathroom. Alarmed, he quickly got out of bed and headed towards the sound. He found you kneeling in front of the toilet, your face pale and sweaty.

"Hey, what's going on?" Joel asked, his voice filled with concern as he kneeled beside you.

You looked up at him with a weak smile, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Happy birthday," you said softly, trying to inject some cheer into your voice despite feeling miserable.

Joel frowned, his worry deepening.

Joel’s concern didn't waver. “Then can you go back to bed and rest?” he pleaded.

You shook your head. “No, I should start getting ready for work.”

Joel's brow furrowed with worry and frustration. “Can you find a substitute?”

“Sure, at 5 a.m.,” you replied with a weak chuckle.

Joel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Please, just try to rest a little longer. We can figure out work later.”

You nodded, feeling the exhaustion creep over you. “Okay, I’ll lay down for a bit.”

Joel helped you to your feet and guided you back to the bed, tucking you in gently. He kissed your forehead, his worry evident but tempered by the love in his eyes. “I’ll make you some tea,” he said softly.

As you lay back down, you watched Joel move around the room, his concern for you touching your heart. Despite feeling miserable, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for his unwavering support. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Joel turned to you, his eyes softening. “Anything for you,” he replied.

Later that morning, you both woke up to the sound of Sarah yelling from downstairs. “Dad! Breakfast is ready! Come on, it's your birthday!” Her voice carried a mix of excitement and impatience.

Joel stirred beside you, groaning slightly as he rubbed his eyes. “Guess we better get up,” he said, his voice still heavy with sleep.

You bolted upright, suddenly alarmed. “Oh my God, I’m late for work!” You scrambled out of bed, panic setting in as you realized how much time had passed.

Joel reached out, grabbing your arm gently. “Hey, take it easy. You’re not feeling well, remember? Just call in sick today.”

You hesitated, your mind racing with the thought of your responsibilities. But Joel's steady gaze and calming presence made you pause. “I wish I could, but I can’t; I don’t have a substitute.”

Joel sighed, understanding the weight of your responsibilities but still worried about your health. "I know it's tough, but your health is more important right now. You can't take care of others if you're not taking care of yourself."

You bit your lip, torn between your sense of duty and Joel's concern. Finally, you nodded reluctantly. "Okay, I'll call in and explain. Maybe they can find someone to cover for me."

Joel smiled, relieved. "Good. Let's go downstairs and have breakfast with Sarah first, then you can make that call."

You both got out of bed and made your way downstairs, where Sarah was already seated at the table, beaming with pride over the breakfast she had prepared.

"Happy birthday, Dad!" Sarah exclaimed, bouncing in her seat. "I made your favorite!"

The smell of pancakes and bacon filled the air, making you twist and feel nauseous. Before you even realized it, you ran towards the bathroom.

Joel's eyes widened in concern as he watched you bolt towards the bathroom. He quickly turned to Sarah, giving her a reassuring smile. "Hey, sweetie, can you wait here for a minute? I'll be right back."

Sarah nodded, her excitement dampened by worry. "Is she okay? But she loves the pancakes I make."

"She does," Joel said, trying to sound confident. "Just stay here and enjoy breakfast for now, okay?"

He hurried to the bathroom, finding you hunched over the toilet, retching. He kneeled beside you, rubbing your back soothingly. "Hey, it's okay. Just breathe."

You gasped, trying to catch your breath between bouts of nausea. "I'm sorry, Joel. I don’t know what’s wrong with me this morning.”

Joel shook his head, his voice gentle but firm. "Nothing is wrong. Just rest, okay?"

After a few minutes, the nausea subsided, and you leaned back against the cool bathroom tiles, exhausted. Joel handed you a glass of water, and you took a few sips gratefully.

"I really think I wasn’t able to go to school” you admitted, your voice shaky. "But I feel so guilty."

Joel brushed a strand of hair from your face. "Don't. You need to rest and take care of yourself. I'll explain things to Sarah.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. "Okay.”

Joel helped you to your feet, and you slowly made your way back to the bedroom, where you sat on the edge of the bed while Joel returned to the kitchen to talk to Sarah.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, sitting down beside her. "Mom's not feeling well, so she needs to rest today.”

“I could stay to take care of her, you know?”

“Oh no. You’re not missing school lady”

Sarah looked a bit disappointed but nodded in understanding. "Okay, Dad. I just hope she feels better soon."

Joel smiled at her. "She will, thanks to your great breakfast. Now, finish up and get ready for school."

As Sarah ate her breakfast, the front door opened, and Tommy walked in, carrying a bag of groceries. "Morning, everyone!" he called out cheerfully. But his smile faded as he noticed the tension in the room. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

Joel stood up, walking over to his brother. "Hey, Tommy, missus is not feeling well this morning."

Tommy's concern was immediate. "Is she okay? Do you need me to take Sarah to school?"

Joel shook his head. "As much as I would love to stay, we need to work Tommy “

Tommy set the groceries on the kitchen counter and turned to Sarah, giving her a warm smile. "Alright, kiddo, grab your stuff. We need to go."

Sarah beamed.

Joel watched them for a moment. He then made his way back to the bedroom, where you were lying down, looking pale but resting.

"Hey, Tommy arrived. We’re leaving” Joel said softly, sitting down beside you.

You nodded. "Okay”

Joel took your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Just rest now. Call me if you need anything”

As you closed your eyes, Joel stayed by your side. A short while later, the door creaked open again, and Joel looked up to see Tommy poking his head in. "Hey, everything okay in here?"

Joel nodded. "Yeah, she's resting.”

Tommy stepped into the room; his expression serious but supportive. "Anytime. Does she need anything else? I can stick around, run errands, whatever you need."

Joel shook his head, grateful for his brother's offer. "We're good for now. Just knowing you're around is enough."

Tommy smiled. "Alright. Let’s go”

As Tommy left the room, Joel turned his attention back to you. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, watching as you slowly drifted off to sleep.

Joel lingered by your side for a moment, his hand gently caressing your hair. He pressed a soft kiss on your forehead, whispering, "Bye, love. Get some rest." He stood up, quietly exiting the room to give you the peace and quiet you needed.

In the kitchen, Tommy was waiting, leaning against the counter. "You sure you’re, okay?" he asked, his concern evident in his voice.

Joel nodded, though he still looked worried. "Yeah, just trying to keep everything together. Let’s go.”

In the afternoon, you and Joel found yourselves at the supermarket, browsing the aisles to pick up a few things for his birthday. You had insisted you were feeling better, but Joel remained cautious, frequently reminding you to take things slow.

"How about we get some of that fancy cheese you like?" Joel suggested steering the cart towards the dairy section.

You smiled, appreciating his thoughtfulness. "Sure, that sounds great."

As you turned the corner into the produce aisle, you suddenly came face-to-face with Tess. She looked as surprised to see you as you were to see her.

Tess's eyes widened in surprise as she spotted you and Joel, her gaze flickering between the two of you. She was holding a child in her arms, and for a moment, you felt a pang of insecurity as you noticed how fondly Joel was looking at the little one.

"Hey," Tess said, her voice tinged with awkwardness. "I didn't expect to run into you guys here."

You forced a smile, trying to mask your own discomfort. "Yeah, same here. How have you been?"

"I've been good," Tess replied, her smile genuine as she glanced down at the child in her arms. "This is Max, my son."

You couldn't help but notice how Joel's expression softened as he looked at the child. It made you wonder—had you and Joel ever talked about having children? Or how you ruined his chance of having children with Tess when you decided to confess your feelings those years ago.

Tess continued, oblivious to your inner turmoil. "I have been in a relationship for 2 years now," she added, almost as an afterthought. "Things have been going really well."

You nodded, trying to keep your composure. "That's great to hear."

Joel spoke up, his voice warm, as he addressed Tess. "Congratulations. I'm happy for you."

“I see you are still pretty close friends,” she said. A hint of venom taunted you as she looked at you, then back at Joel.

Joel's expression remained composed as he reached for your hand, responding to Tess's remark. "Actually, we are married.”

Tess's eyes widened in surprise, and you could see a flash of disbelief cross her face before she quickly composed herself. "Oh, I see," she said, her tone masking any hint of her true feelings. "Congratulations."

You felt a surge of relief knowing that Joel had made it clear that you two were more than just friends. But the mention of Tess's son and her long-term relationship stirred up a mix of emotions within you.

Joel glanced at you, silently communicating his support, before turning back to Tess. "It's been good running into you, Tess. Take care."

With that, Joel steered the cart away, leaving Tess behind in the aisle. You followed silently, feeling a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions swirling inside you. It was clear that seeing Tess and her son had brought up some unresolved feelings and questions, ones that you knew you needed to address with Joel.

The children, how could life have been if you hadn’t told Joel you loved him that night?

As you both walked back home in silence, Joel couldn't help but notice the weight of your silence. He glanced at you from time to time, concern etched in his features.

"Hey," he said softly, breaking the silence between you. "Are you okay?"

You looked up, meeting his gaze, and forced a small smile. "Yeah, I'm fine," you replied, though the tension in your voice betrayed your true feelings.

Joel stopped walking, turning to face you fully. "You don't seem fine," he said gently, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. "Is something wrong with you? Are you feeling nauseous"

“Are you sure?” he asked, once again.

“Yes.”

The evening was filled with laughter and chatter as friends and family gathered in your cozy living room. It was a celebration for Joel's birthday. The room was adorned with balloons, and the air was filled with the aroma of home-cooked food and the clinking of glasses.

Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time, catching up with one another, and sharing stories from years past. But amidst the joyous atmosphere, you couldn't shake the feeling of being lost in your own thoughts.

As you moved from group to group, exchanging polite smiles and engaging in light conversation, your mind kept drifting back to the conversation you had with Joel earlier that day. The mention of children had opened a floodgate of emotions, leaving you feeling uncertain and apprehensive about the future.

You tried to push aside your worries and focus on the festivities, but with each passing moment, the weight of your thoughts grew heavier. You felt like an outsider, disconnected from the joy and camaraderie that filled the room.

Amidst the laughter and merriment, you found yourself retreating into the corners of your mind, grappling with the decisions that lay ahead. Would you and Joel be able to find common ground on such a significant issue? And what would your future look like if you couldn't?

As the evening wore on, you excused yourself from the lively gathering, needing a moment alone to collect your thoughts. You slipped away to the quiet solitude of your bedroom, hoping to find clarity amidst the chaos of your mind.

As the night wore on, Joel couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. Despite the lively atmosphere downstairs, a sense of unease gnawed at him, fueled by the memory of your quiet demeanor earlier in the day.

Excusing himself from the gathering, Joel made his way upstairs, a nagging worry tugging at his heart. He checked each room, calling out your name in a hushed tone, but there was no response.

Finally, he reached the bedroom and found the door slightly ajar. Pushing it open gently, he stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of you.

There, in the dim light filtering through the curtains, he spotted you sitting on the edge of the bed, your expression pensive and distant. Concern flooded Joel's heart as he approached you quietly, careful not to startle you.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice filled with warmth and concern. "Are you okay?"

You looked up at him, your eyes reflecting the turmoil within. "I'm fine," you replied, but the tightness in your voice betrayed your words.

Joel moved closer, taking a seat beside you and reaching out to gently grasp your hand. "You don't seem fine," he said gently. "Is there something on your mind?"

For a moment, you hesitated, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you. But then, as you met Joel's gaze, you felt a sense of reassurance wash over you. You knew that no matter what you were facing, you didn't have to face it alone.

"I've just been thinking," you began, your voice wavering slightly. "About us and our future."

“Oh, please don’t tell me you want a divorce on my birthday.” He said this, lifting his hand to his chest.

You chuckled.

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips as you reached out to cup Joel's cheek. "No, not at all," you reassured him, your voice softening. "I was just... reflecting, you know?"

Joel's expression softened; a hint of relief was evident in his eyes. "Reflecting on what?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"On everything," you replied, your gaze searching his. “I mean, we ran into Tess today, and I couldn’t help but imagine that I stopped you from having a big family.” You paused. “What if I can’t have children, or what if you don’t want to have them with me?”

Joel's expression softened further; his eyes filled with understanding as he listened to your concerns. He reached out, gently caressing your cheek with his thumb. "Hey, listen to me," he said softly. "I understand why you're feeling this way, but I need you to know something."

You looked at him, your heart racing with anticipation of his words.

"I love you and Sarah more than anything in this world," Joel continued, his voice filled with sincerity. "And while I may have imagined a different path for us at one point, what truly matters to me is being with you, no matter what."

Tears welled up in your eyes as his words washed over you, soothing your fears and uncertainties.

"I don't care about having a big family or whether we can have children," Joel said, his gaze never leaving yours. "All I care about is building a life with you.”

You felt a weight lift off your shoulders and a sense of peace settle over you as you realized that Joel's love for you transcended any external expectations or desires.

"I love you, Joel," you whispered, your voice filled with gratitude.

"And I love you, more than you'll ever know," he replied, pulling you into a warm embrace as he cupped your face on his hands. “And if you want a baby, let’s make one right now, and I’ll send all these people away,” he leaned, kissing you softly.

"I love you too," you murmured against his lips, savoring the warmth of his embrace.

The idea of starting a family together filled you with excitement and anticipation. With Joel by your side, you felt ready to embrace whatever the future held, knowing that together you could overcome any challenges and celebrate life's greatest joys.

With a playful grin, you leaned in to meet Joel's kiss, feeling a surge of happiness coursing through you, but the smell of alcohol on his lips made you stand up and run to the bathroom, once again to throw up.

Joel's concern was evident as he followed you to the bathroom, his brow furrowed with worry. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice laced with concern as he kneeled beside you.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as the nausea subsided. "I don't know," you admitted, feeling a sense of unease settle over you. "I've been feeling off lately, and this just... I don't know what's wrong."

Joel reached out, gently rubbing your back in a soothing gesture. "Maybe you're coming down with something," he suggested, though his tone betrayed his uncertainty.

You nodded, trying to push aside the nagging suspicion that had been growing in the back of your mind. "Maybe," you agreed softly, though deep down, you couldn't shake the feeling that something more significant was going on.

As Joel looked at you, concern etched into his features, he couldn't help but notice a certain glow on your face. It was subtle, but unmistakable—a radiance that seemed to emanate from deep within.

A thought began to form in Joel's mind, one that he couldn't quite shake. What if...?

His heart skipped a beat as he considered the possibility. Could you be pregnant?

The idea sent a surge of excitement coursing through him, mingled with a hint of apprehension. He knew that starting a family was something you both had talked about, but the idea of actually becoming parents was both thrilling and terrifying.

But as he looked at you, his mind flooded with images of a future filled with laughter, love, and the pitter-patter of tiny feet. And suddenly, the uncertainty faded away, replaced by a deep sense of hope and anticipation.

Taking a deep breath, Joel pushed aside his doubts and fears, focusing instead on the overwhelming love he felt for you and the possibility of a new life growing within you. He knew that whatever the future held, as long as you were by his side, he was ready to face it with open arms.

With a tender smile, Joel reached out, gently cupping your face in his hands. "Hey," he said softly, his voice filled with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. "I know this might sound crazy, but... what if you're pregnant?"

Your breath caught in your throat at Joel's words, the possibility hanging in the air between you. For a moment, you were speechless, the weight of the idea sinking in.

"Pregnant?" you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel nodded, his eyes searching yours for any sign of confirmation. "Yeah," he said, his voice tinged with hope. "I mean, it's just a thought, but... you've been feeling off lately, and the way you've been glowing... I don't know; it just got me thinking."

You took a moment to process his words; the reality of the situation was slowly sinking in. The idea of being pregnant fills you with a mix of excitement and uncertainty. It was something you had hoped for and dreamed about, but now that it might actually be happening, it felt almost surreal.

“Let’s go to the pharmacy.”

“What?! Now?” you asked, widening your eyes.

“Let’s buy a test; consider it a birthday present,” he said, already walking out of the bedroom, but you grabbed his wrist.

“But what if it comes negative?” You asked; fear was already creeping in.

Joel turned back to you, his expression softening with understanding. "Then we'll try again," he said, his voice gentle. "We'll keep trying until we get the result we want. But right now, let's just take the first step and see what happens."

He grabbed your face delicately. “And if you think I’m scared for what happened before... I know Sandy will protect you from above because you loved Sarah as if you were her mother, and I will not lose you, never.”

His words filled you with a sense of reassurance, and you nodded, feeling a surge of determination washed over you. "Okay," you said, your voice filled with resolve. "Let's do it."

The party was still in full swing when you and Joel returned, the sound of laughter and chatter filling the air. Tommy spotted you both entering and quickly made his way over, a curious expression on his face.

"What's going on with you two?" he asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

You exchanged a quick glance with Joel, the excitement and nerves bubbling up inside you. "We'll tell you later," Joel replied with a grin, his eyes twinkling with anticipation.

Before Tommy could press further, you grabbed Joel's hand and gave him a knowing look. "Let's go," you whispered, your heart pounding with anticipation.

With a shared smile, you and Joel hurried upstairs, the excitement building with each step. As you reached the bedroom, Joel wasted no time in tearing open the packaging of the pregnancy test, his hands trembling slightly with anticipation.

You followed suit, your heart racing as you carefully followed the instructions on the box. With bated breath, you both waited for the results; the tension in the air was almost palpable.

And then, finally, the moment of truth arrived. As you stared down at the test in your hands, your heart skipped a beat. Could it be? Was this really happening?

You exchanged a hopeful glance with Joel, his eyes shining with anticipation. With shaking hands, you picked up the test and examined the result.

“I can’t watch,” you said, pacing back and forth.

As you paced back and forth, the tension in the room palpable, Joel reached out, gently grasping your hand to offer you reassurance. "It's going to be okay," he said softly, his voice filled with confidence. "No matter what the result is, we'll face it together."

You nodded, trying to steady your trembling hands as you continued to stare at the test in your grasp. With a deep breath, you finally mustered the courage to look at the result.

And there it was—the moment you had been waiting for—the positive sign you had hoped for. Tears of joy welled up in your eyes as you looked up at Joel, your heart overflowing with emotion.

Joel's eyes lit up with joy as he pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you protectively. "I can't believe it," he murmured, his voice filled with wonder. "We're going to have a baby. My baby is having a baby”

Feeling overwhelmed with emotion, you melted into Joel's embrace, your heart swelling with love and gratitude. "Our baby," you whispered, your voice choked with tears of happiness. "We're going to be parents."

Joel held you close, his touch gentle yet reassuring. "I couldn't be happier," he said, his voice filled with awe and wonder. "This is the best birthday gift I could ever ask for."

As you and Joel stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, the sound of knocking on the door broke the moment of quiet intimacy. You exchanged a glance with Joel, both of you momentarily lost in your own thoughts, before realizing that Tommy and Sarah must be looking for Joel to sing happy birthday.

Joel gently released you from his embrace, his eyes still filled with wonder and excitement. "I'll go get the door," he said softly, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before making his way to the door.

You took a deep breath, wiping away the tears that still lingered on your cheeks as you tried to compose yourself. The news of your pregnancy still felt surreal, but the joy and happiness it brought were undeniable.

As Joel opened the door, Tommy's and Sarah's voices filled the room with cheerful birthday wishes. But their smiles faded as they took in the sight of you and Joel standing together with tears in your eyes.

"Hey, what's going on?" Tommy asked, concern etched in his voice as he glanced between you and Joel.

Joel's smile widened, unable to contain his excitement any longer. “We have some news," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "We're going to have a baby."

As Joel's words hung in the air, the room seemed to hold its breath. You watched as Tommy and Sarah's expressions shifted from confusion to realization, their eyes widening with disbelief and joy.

"We're going to have a baby," Joel repeated, his voice thick with emotion as he reached out to take your hand, squeezing it tightly.

Tears welled up in Sarah's eyes as she let out a gasp of joy, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. "Oh my God," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "That's incredible!"

Tommy's eyes sparkled with excitement as he pulled both of you into a tight embrace, and his voice choked with emotion. "Congratulations, you two. This is amazing news."

In that moment, surrounded by the love and support of your family, the reality of the situation hit you like a wave. You were going to be parents—a thought that filled you with a profound sense of gratitude and awe.

Loving Joel didn’t ruin your life.

With tears streaming down your cheeks, you exchanged tearful hugs with Tommy and Sarah, feeling overwhelmed with joy and gratitude. This was the beginning of a new chapter in your lives, and you couldn't wait to embark on this journey together, hand in hand, with the love of your life by your side.

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