#pulling like a merciless tide

[lovemni]

the way , i love you

[ 필릭스 ] ✷ ‎aftercare with your boyfriend !

۫ 𖨂 𓈒 𝑖dol𝑏f!felix ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. domestic fluff , established relationship. 9OOw. ⎯⎯⎯ LIBRARY ⟢ cw. suggestive , kisses , close proximity , intimacy. ┆ 🖇️ ⋮ [ 6 / 8 ] drabble .ᐟ ֹ ₊

yani's note 𑁍ࠬܓ comments, likes, req./asks and reblogs are always appreciated <3 asks are only open until the last week of february, so please read my guidelines beforehand !! send in a dm, reply or an ask if you want to be in my mastertag, or my individual series' taglists. happy reading <3

the warm glow of the bedside lamp casts a soft, golden haze over the room, pooling in honeyed ribbons along the sheets, the walls, the tangled mess of limbs still recovering from the storm of passion moments ago. the air is thick with the scent of vanilla and faint traces of your boyfriend's cologne, mingling with the lingering warmth of skin against skin.

his breath is steady, deep—like the rolling tide pulling back from the shore—his chest rising and falling in tandem with yours as he holds you close, the quiet aftermath settling over both of you like the softest lullaby.

but his mind? oh, it’s a storm of worry.

"did i hurt you?"

he whispers, his deep, accented voice brushing against the shell of your ear, laced with genuine concern. his arms tighten around you just a little, as if anchoring you back to him. "tell me honestly, please. if i was too much, i—"

"you were perfect," you mumble, your voice drowsy, melting into his hold.

felix exhales, relieved, before pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "good," he murmurs against your skin, lips warm and reverent.

"because i really, really like making you feel good. like, a lot. i think it’s my new favorite hobby."

a tired, breathy laugh escapes you. "it’s been your hobby for a year, lix."

"okay, but now i take it very seriously. like, professional level," he counters, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "might start a club. 'felix’s lovers of the year' club. but there’s only one spot available, and it’s exclusively for you."

you huff, burying your face against his collarbone. "that was terrible."

"yeah, but did it make you smile?" he peeks down at you, expectant, hopeful.

you try to fight it. you really do. but the way he’s looking at you—with that stupidly bright, gummy smile and those galaxy-swirled brown eyes—makes it impossible.

"maybe," you admit, soft and quiet.

felix grins, victorious. "mission accomplished."

his fingers start trailing slow, absentminded patterns over your back, gentle and soothing. he’s always like this after—the perfect mix of soft and playful, as if making sure you know how much he loves you in every way possible.

then, suddenly—

"oh my god, you're so warm," he groans dramatically, shifting slightly. "like a human heater. i think i’m melting. i’m dying. this is the end for me. tell my members i love them."

you snort. "you’re the one clinging to me."

felix gasps, betrayed. "how dare you? i am protecting you. keeping you safe and loved and cozy. it's my duty as your incredibly hot and responsible boyfriend."

"incredibly hot and responsible?"

"yeah," he says, grinning as he nudges his nose against yours. "and sexy. don’t forget sexy."

you roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the way your lips twitch. "you’re ridiculous."

"and yet, you love me."

"unfortunately."

felix lets out a loud, exaggerated gasp before launching a merciless attack of feather-light kisses all over your face. "take that back!" he demands between kisses. "take! it! back!"

you squirm, giggling. "lix—stop!"

"never," he declares dramatically, but his kisses slow, turning softer, lingering—one on your cheek, one on your nose, another ghosting over your lips before he finally presses a deep, warm kiss to your forehead.

silence stretches between you for a moment, comfortable and laced with something tender.

then, felix sighs, pulling back just enough to study you. "you’re really tired, hm?"

you nod sleepily, and his expression softens even more.

"stay here, i’ll clean you up," he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face with the utmost care. "i'll get you water, too. and snacks, in case you’re hungry. and a blanket, even though you’re already roasting me alive."

"felix, you don’t have to—"

"ah-ah-ah." he presses a finger against your lips. "let me spoil you, baby. just this once. or actually, every time. no takebacks."

you give him a sleepy, fond look, too tired to argue, and he grins before slipping out of bed. the room feels colder without him, but the sound of him humming softly as he pads around—his deep, velvety voice weaving through the space—is comforting.

a few moments later, he returns, armed with a warm towel, a glass of water, and a packet of biscuits.

he sets everything down carefully, then kneels beside you with a comically serious expression. "okay, love, time for your felix-certified aftercare package. step one, hydration." he hands you the water.

you take a slow sip, and he nods approvingly.

"step two, gentle clean-up." he dabs the warm towel against your skin, so careful, so attentive. his lips twitch into a playful smirk as he wipes your thigh. "damn, i really did a number on you, huh?"

you groan, swatting at him weakly. "shut up."

he cackles but finishes up with feather-light touches, pressing a kiss to your knee for good measure.

"step three, snacks, in case my lovely, adorable, stunning baby is hungry." he offers you the biscuits with an expectant look.

you take one, nibbling on it slowly. "thank you, muffin man." you laugh.

"anytime, only the best for my baby," he murmurs, before climbing back into bed and pulling you close again, this time wrapping you entirely in his warmth.

his lips graze your temple, soft as a whisper. "step four, cuddles. and kisses. and telling you how much i love you until you fall asleep."

you hum contentedly, feeling sleep tug at you. "sounds like the best step."

felix grins, stroking your hair gently. "mhm. now, for my final and most important job…" he leans in, lips just brushing your ear before whispering in the deepest voice he can muster:

"sleep well, pretty."

and just like that, wrapped in his warmth, surrounded by his love, you do.

mastertag ୨୧ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @bddaramjis @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @ashtxrie @sxungchqn @minlixyaoi

guess who almost lost track of the mastertag adds !! not me

[youthguk]

Black Ribbon Bride Finale ۶ৎ | jjk (m)

Mafia AU · Dark Romance · Arranged Marriage · Angst · Smut ·

“I want this one,”he said, eyes on you like a predator. A marriage sealed in diamonds and blood. You were supposed to hate him, but monsters don’t let go of the things they’ve claimed.

⚠️ explicit smut, dom!Jungkook, kidnapping, torture (non-explicit), murder, gun violence, morally grey characters, mafia themes, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, toxic dynamics, angst, betrayal.

This is part 2 to this, read part 1 first!

You wake to the sound of water dripping - rhythmic, slow, and merciless. Your body registers sensations in fragments: metal biting into your wrists, a chill creeping down your spine, and a throbbing temple that feels heavier than mere pain. The surface beneath you is stone, damp and cold.

Darkness envelops everything, bringing with it the acrid smell of rust and rot. For a moment, you wonder if this is just a fever-dream, perhaps brought on by too much wine, or a cruel hallucination woven from fear. But when you attempt to move, the sharp restraints around your wrists provide cruel clarity - this is neither dream nor nightmare. This is reality.

Your breath catches as panic builds slowly from your core, rising like an unexpressed scream caught in your throat. Then you hear it - footsteps, measured and confident, followed by a voice as smooth and dry as dust on marble. "Sleeping beauty wakes."

You remain silent, letting the stillness become your armor. A match strikes, its sudden flare piercing the darkness just enough to reveal half his face in shadow - Leo Maranzano. The man who ruined your wedding stands before you, wearing gloves and a patient smile.

"You know," he muses with a slight tilt of his head, "I expected more fight."

Struggling to sit up, your body protests with every movement. The effort only draws an amused laugh from him.

"Don't worry," he says, crouching beside you. "You're not here for long. Just long enough to understand something."

He keeps his distance, knowing his presence alone is a form of torture.

"I'm going to tell you a little secret," Leo murmurs, his tone dripping with venom-sweet malice. "Your brother sold you. Cheap, too. Barely put up a negotiation."

Each word seeps into your bones like poison. You shake your head in denial, but he continues, each syllable a calculated strike.

"Families are funny that way," he says. "They'll protect their blood... until something more valuable comes along."

Somewhere, a door creaks open, then slams shut. The temperature plummets as cold water traces down your neck from an unseen source. In the consuming darkness, only his voice remains - that haunting echo and the ice settling deep in your chest.

"You thought being Jeon's wife meant something, didn't you?" he says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Poor girl. You really thought monsters could love."

His footsteps retreat like a tide pulling back before a tsunami, leaving only his final words hanging in the air: "Let's see how long that faith lasts. Welcome to the dark."

Then he vanishes into the shadows, his presence lingering like a ghost. The darkness wraps around you like a shroud, bringing with it a bone-deep cold and the hollow echo of your heart shattering in the silence. You are completely, utterly alone.

And this is only the beginning.

────୨ৎ────

The steady dripping of water marks time like a cruel metronome as you lie there, unable to measure how long Leo has been gone. Time loses meaning in the darkness.

Despite the burning in your wrists and the aching of your body, your mind remains sharp and focused. You hold onto something deeper than hope - a crystalline clarity that refuses to be extinguished.

When the door finally opens and Leo's silhouette appears in the frame, you remain steady, watching him through the darkness like a flame that refuses to die out. He moves with deliberate steps, claiming the space as his domain with each measured movement.

The soft clink of glass being set down breaks the silence, followed by the harsh scrape of a chair. His voice cuts through the darkness with calculated precision: "Did he ever tell you how many people he's buried beneath his empire?" he asks, the words hanging heavy in the air. "Your husband."

The word "husband" tastes like ash in your mouth as you remain silent, refusing to give Leo the satisfaction of a response.

Leo's smile grows faint as he leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "You wear diamonds paid for in blood, and still — you looked at him like he was your savior."

Your continued silence seems to crack something in Leo's composure. "He took everything from me," he says, his voice turning cold and bitter. "My father. My legacy. My place in this city."

You glance down at your bound wrists before meeting his gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. "Then you chose the wrong time."

Leo stills at your words as you continue, voice trembling yet resolute. "I left him. Walked away. Told him not to come after me."

He studies you with calculated intensity, his smile transforming from amusement to pure cruelty. "Let's see if monsters like him can love."

Rising to his full height, his shadow stretches menacingly across the floor. "Or perhaps you believe monsters like Jeon are capable of letting go?"

────୨ৎ────

Jungkook finds your letter placed neatly on the black marble table, waiting in silence like an unwelcome prophecy. One look at the handwriting and something in his chest coils, sharp and tight. He reads it three times, each pass more desperate than the last, until he finally crumples it in his fist with the violent urgency of someone searching for a pulse that's already gone. The silence that settles in the penthouse isn't peaceful - it's surgical, precise in its emptiness.

His breathing shifts first. Then the glass of whisky he'd been pouring doesn’t even make it to his lips — he hurls it across the room. The shatter is so loud it echoes through every inch of the space you used to fill. Your perfume still lingers in the air. Peach and warmth and something soft he never had a name for.

He tears through the apartment methodically yet frantically - flinging open doors and ransacking closets in the bedroom, bathroom, and terrace. Some desperate part of him hopes to find you tucked away in some small corner, waiting to be found.

"Y/N!" The rawness in his voice echoes through empty rooms, met only with silence.

His hands shake as he dials your number repeatedly, each call going straight to voicemail after a few hollow rings. Desperate calls to Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jimin yield nothing - no one has seen you, no one knows where you've gone. You've simply vanished.

Jungkook finally stills, the pain inside him crystallizing into an arctic coldness that seeps through his veins, corroding everything it touches.

And in that stillness, surrounded by shattered glass and the black ribbon tangled in the sheets you left behind, Jungkook's voice breaks the silence with a hoarse whisper: "You said don't come after you." His eyes close as his jaw clenches before he growls, "Fuck that." After all, monsters never let go of what they've claimed.

────୨ৎ────

Jungkook storms into your family's estate without warning, the door slamming open with thunderous force. The sound echoes through the decaying house, where half-finished renovations barely mask years of neglect. A dissonant mixture of wet paint and rotting plaster mingles with expensive cologne and rising panic.

His footsteps resound through the once-silent front hall as he strides past the stammering butler, claiming the space as his own. And it is his, in a way - every restored ceiling, every gilded molding, every attempt to hide this family's rot was paid for with Jeon money. Your husband's money.

And now his wife is gone.

"You let her leave?" The words crash into the room like breaking glass.

Your father stands frozen, mouth working silently before managing, "What are you talking about?"

"She's gone." Jungkook's voice trembles with fury beneath his grief. "Left a note, took nothing - no phone, no guards. No one's seen her. And here you all sit, acting like nothing's wrong."

"She—she wouldn't—" your father stutters. "No. She wouldn't be so foolish."

Jungkook's laugh cuts through the air like a blade.

"Foolish?" In one fluid motion, he seizes a priceless vase and hurls it against the wall. The crash echoes through the room as shards scatter across marble. "You threatened her, didn't you? Ordered her not to dishonor me?"

"She promised to behave," your father snaps, his composure finally cracking. "That girl—she was never supposed to embarrass us like this!"

"Embarrass you?" Jungkook's voice cuts through the air like ice. "She's missing and that's what concerns you?"

Your father's voice lowers, fear creeping in. "We told her to stay married. That was the deal—"

"That was your daughter," Jungkook hisses, his words dripping with venom. "And now she's gone."

He turns sharply to Luca, whose composure is unnaturally steady, face showing no hint of concern. "You," Jungkook says, advancing with predatory grace.

Luca's smile remains faint, mocking. "She's not a child, Jeon."

"No," Jungkook murmurs, "but you are a fucking liar."

The temperature plummets as Nora presses a trembling hand to her chest. Jungkook's voice grows colder, more lethal with each word. "Where is she?"

Luca's calculated shrug only fuels Jungkook's suspicion. "You think if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you?"

Jungkook closes the distance between them, his face inches from Luca's. The air crackles with tension as he studies the too-perfect composure in his brother-in-law's eyes.

"You didn't even flinch when I said she was gone," he observes, tilting his head slightly. "Did you help her run? Or did you sell her?"

Your father's sharp exhale and sudden pallor speak volumes. Jungkook's smile transforms into something terrible - all teeth, devoid of warmth.

"You have five seconds to tell me where your daughter is," he says with deadly calm. "After that, I stop asking."

────୨ৎ────

The silence hangs sharp and heavy as Jungkook stares Luca down, his jaw flexed and fists clenching rhythmically, barely containing his rage. The tension breaks when his phone buzzes - an unfamiliar number that makes his blood run cold. He answers wordlessly.

Static crackles through the line before a voice emerges, dripping with malicious satisfaction. "She'll look better pregnant," Leo Maranzano drawls.

Jungkook's entire being transforms in that moment - not frozen, but coiled like a predator about to strike, radiating a silence so dense it seems to bend the very air around him.

"Don't bother trying to trace this," Leo continues smoothly. "We both know how futile that would be."

Jungkook's voice emerges like ice wrapped around gunpowder. "You want blood? I’ll drown you in it"

In the weighted silence that follows, Luca shifts imperceptibly while your mother's face drains of color. Leo's soft laughter filters through the line, dripping with malice.

"Always so poetic, Jeon. So... predictable. You think the world will bleed for you, but what happens when the one you love bleeds for someone else?"

"Name your price," Jungkook demands, each word precisely carved. "Money? Territory? I'll destroy everything you've built before you touch her again."

Leo exhales with calculated disappointment. "I want what's impossible, Jeon - my father's life restored, my family's legacy rebuilt." His voice drops to a deadly whisper: "Since I can't have that, I'll have yours instead."

Jungkook's grip tightens around the phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure as Leo's words slither through the line.

"I'll marry your wife," Leo murmurs, soft as ash, "and knock her up with my heir."

The room plunges into deathly silence. Your father staggers back into a chair, all color draining from his face, while Nora's sharp gasp pierces the air. Even Luca, usually composed, pales visibly as his expression turns unreadable.

Jungkook closes his eyes for just half a second. When they open again, something fundamental has changed - he's no longer human, but something older, something ancient.

"If anything happens to her," he says, his voice quiet with reverent wrath, "I'll kill you. And every living Maranzano that crawls out of your grave."

"Big words from a man who just lost his bride," Leo hums mockingly.

Jungkook exhales once, trembling with barely contained rage, before saying softly, "You have sisters, don't you?"

Leo falls silent, his bravado slipping for the first time.

"Cousins. Nieces," Jungkook continues, a cold smile playing at his lips. "Sleep lightly." Without waiting for a response, he ends the call.

The air in the Amare house grows thick with tension as Jungkook turns, his lethal gaze settling on Luca. "Pray your sister is alive," he says, his voice dangerously low as he steps closer. "Because if she's not, I won't send you to prison - I'll kill you with my bare hands."

The silence that follows is deafening. As Jungkook moves to leave, he pauses at the door, looking back at Nora. "You were angry. Fine. But don't you dare say you loved her if this is how easily you turned your back." His words make her flinch.

"She saved me once," he continues, his tone softening with remembered gratitude. "Years ago when I was still bad at snowboarding. She doesn't even remember it was me, but I remember her. She gave me something no one else ever did - mercy."

After a weighted pause, he adds, "Maybe we were always going to end up here. Maybe that's what fate is - not clean, not kind, just inevitable."

With his hand on the door, he delivers one final truth: "You don't have to believe in love. But at least believe in the sister who never stopped believing in you."

And with that, he steps into the rain, ready for war.

────୨ৎ────

The rooftop is a stage of glass and steel, suspended above a city that doesn’t sleep — just watches, waiting. The wind slices sharp against concrete, pulling at coat hems and loaded holsters, as if the night itself senses what’s coming and wants to retreat.

Above the city, beneath a bruised sky veined with lightning, six black cars idle like hounds ready to devour. Their engines hum low, headlights cutting through the dusk like a premonition, restrained only by the men who command them. Jeon mafia assembles — suits pressed, weapons hidden, hearts armored.

Namjoon locks a magazine into place with quiet finality, sleeves rolled to the elbow, throat tight with tension. Beside him, Jin checks the radio frequencies, his gaze flickering once toward the skyline — toward the place they believe she’s being held. Hoseok straps a blade to his thigh, expression hollow, all his usual brightness buried beneath something colder. Jimin adjusts the cuffs of his jacket with the stillness of a killer in prayer, and Taehyung pulls his hair back with shaking fingers, eyes glittering with rage he hasn't yet learned to name.

Yoongi is silent. He always is, before blood.

And at the center of them all stands Jungkook — not their heir, not their prince, not their spoiled bloodline darling — just a man in a black suit that fits like a vow, trembling in places no one dares acknowledge.

His hands tremble with barely contained tension, an unprecedented sight among the Jeon legacy that leaves his men in reverent silence. These same hands that have dealt death with practiced ease, that have wielded both knife and power without hesitation, now betray a deeper truth - their leader is afraid.

Jungkook avoids their watchful eyes, his gaze fixed on the sprawling cityscape where, somewhere in its depths, you're being held captive. His mouth grows dry as his thoughts race louder than the approaching storm, each moment of separation feeling like a blade against his skin.

He remembers your eyes when you told him not to touch you, your voice trembling with the words "don't come near me." The memory of your retreating footsteps haunts him, along with the image of you shrinking away as if his every promise had been hollow.

And perhaps they were - not because he concealed his true nature, but because he foolishly believed that his monstrous side could deserve tenderness. That he could shield you while remaining unchanged. That you could withstand the darkness he carried.

He let his rage speak louder than your fear when he should have protected you. Now he faces the possibility of having to kill again, knowing the bloodshed will forever stain him in your eyes.

But you'll be alive.

He can accept a future where you never touch him again, where your voice falls silent around him, where you flee at his approach. He can survive all of that, but he cannot exist in a world without you.

Namjoon steps forward. "The convoy's ready."

Jungkook nods once, remaining silent as his trembling fingers clasp behind his back, curling into fists while he struggles to steady his breathing.

Taehyung murmurs low to Yoongi, "You ever seen him like this?"

Yoongi doesn't look away from the cars. "He's never had something to lose."

Jungkook lifts his head and adjusts the diamond cufflink on his left wrist — the one you once teased him for wearing like a crown. His voice carries clear authority as he addresses the group.

"I want clean entry. No noise until I give it. We don't spill unless we have to. We don't risk anything unless it's her."

The others nod in a silent, unified pact.

"I want Leo breathing," Jungkook adds, "just long enough to watch me burn everything he ever touched." His voice drops then, stripped of command and practiced arrogance — leaving only bone and soul and desperate love: "Bring her back."

As engines rumble to life, thunder rolls above them like applause for the damned. Jungkook lingers at the edge, his eyes fixed on the city skyline, heart in his throat. He doesn't pray — he doesn't believe in anything that ever refused to protect you. When he finally turns toward the convoy, his face unreadable and hands steady, he whispers into the storm: "This ends tonight." And then he disappears into war.

────୨ৎ────

The air inside the Maranzano estate reeks of rust and ruin, a stark contrast to its former splendor. Marble imported from Verona adorns the walls, while high ceilings showcase frescoes of indifferent gods, and chandeliers heavy with Bohemian crystal hang like frozen memories of old Italian guilt. Now the place stands as a tomb - a forgotten cathedral of betrayal awaiting fresh bloodshed.

Blackened windows cast the interior in shadow, while faulty electricity hums an ominous drone. The distant ocean crashes against the docks, and moonlight filters through a cracked skylight, casting fractured patterns across the dust-covered floor.

When the doors burst open, it's not with theatrical chaos, but with deadly precision - swift and silent as a guillotine's fall. Dark figures glide across the polished floors, their tailored coats rippling like liquid shadow, weapons at the ready. These aren't mere soldiers; they're Jeon men - predators whose very essence speaks of wealth and violence, purpose and unrelenting rage.

Namjoon takes point on the left, moving silent as a curse, while Jin covers the right with cold-eyed vigilance. Jimin and Taehyung follow, their steps ghosting across the carpet as golden chandelier light plays across their expressionless faces. Hoseok secures the stairwell as Yoongi dissolves into shadows, a lethal presence unseen until the moment of strike.

And at the center: Jungkook. He moves with deadly precision, as if the very air parts in fear of his advance. His black suit remains pristine, but his face betrays something beyond rage in his locked jaw and gleaming eyes - something far more dangerous. With bare hands and cold determination, he makes it clear that this night will end in blood.

A bullet pierces the silence like shattering glass, followed quickly by another. Screams echo through the corners as men shout in Italian and English, panic rising in their voices. The Maranzano guards, previously secure in their territory, find themselves unprepared for the wolves that have breached their sanctuary.

Chaos consumes the mansion as smoke bombs transform light into swirling fog. Gunfire reverberates against stone walls while someone desperately calls out Leo's name. But Jungkook remains focused, deaf to everything except his mission.

He moves through the space like death incarnate in his three-piece suit, evading bullets with fluid grace while returning fire with precise elegance. His shots are calculated - one to the neck, another to the thigh - each movement deliberately chosen to disable and disarm.

To punish.

He takes no lives unless they stand between him and you.

Locked behind a wrought iron door in a cold cellar two floors down, you feel the war before you hear it - a distant hum through the floor, screams vibrating through pipes, Leo's orders echoing from above as footsteps pound and lights flicker overhead. The chaos builds to a crescendo before everything suddenly stills, leaving only your thundering heartbeat in the silence.

Then the door slams open - not from the guards, but from him.

Jungkook enters the room with an almost supernatural presence, drawn to you as if by divine magnetism. His black shirt hangs open, blood staining his collar while his eyes blaze with intensity. Though chaos erupts behind him - screams and the heavy thud of falling bodies - his focus remains unwavering.

He only sees you - bound, bruised, with dried blood on your lip and raw wrists. Something within him fractures at the sight, a subtle but terrifying transformation. Kneeling before you in silence, his trembling fingers work to untie each rope with delicate precision, as though handling fragments of your broken trust. In this moment, nothing else in the world exists beyond freeing you from your bonds.

Your voice barely rises above a whisper. "You came…"

But before you can say more, he wraps you in his coat, presses your head to his chest. You smell smoke, sweat, blood, his cologne. His heart is pounding like it’s trying to break through his ribs to reach you faster.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The door groans open behind him, and Leo Maranzano steps into the cellar. His slow, mocking applause fills the space as he appears in the doorway with his gun raised. Blood spatter has already dried on the sleeve of his suit jacket, his tie hangs askew, and one side of his mouth curls like something sharp beneath silk.

“Touching reunion,” he drawls, stepping into the room like it belongs to him. “You made good time, Jeon. Was hoping you’d take a little longer. The real show’s always better with an audience, right, wifey?”

Jungkook’s body locks into stillness, but the rage in him surges like a tidal wave against its dam. He rises slowly, placing himself between you and Leo with terrifying precision, his voice ice-cold and taut. “Don’t speak to her.”

Leo smiles. “Why not? We’ve gotten so close, your little bride and I. Haven’t we, princess?”

Your fingers twitch where they rest on the floor.

“She’s untouched,” Leo continues, circling now, slow like a vulture. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I didn’t want to ruin the canvas before the artist arrived. Would’ve been such a waste to play with her while you were out in traffic. I wanted you here, Jeon. To watch. To beg.”

Jungkook doesn’t speak. He drops the coat from his shoulders and steps forward into the light. You watch the muscles in his back tense beneath the thin fabric of his dress shirt, now half-untucked and stained with dirt and blood.

“But look at you,” Leo muses, head tilting. “You’re rattled. Afraid. Has she already made a man out of you, Jungkook? Has she already softened the executioner?”

And that — that’s when Jungkook moves. Like lightning refracted through glass, he lunges forward, shoving Leo hard into the concrete wall. The gun clatters to the ground, metal screeching against tile, as fists replace bullets.

Their fight devolves into raw brutality, all calculated strategy abandoned for pure survival instinct. Leo lands a heavy punch to Jungkook's ribs, and Jungkook retaliates with a vicious blow that sends Leo reeling. When Leo draws a hidden knife from his boot and slashes upward, Jungkook barely manages to dodge, but the blade still finds its mark - tearing through his shirt and leaving a bloody gash across his shoulder.

Your heart races as you scramble to your knees, eyes fixed on the gun lying just within reach. Neither man has noticed it yet.

JJungkook slams Leo into the ground with crushing force. Leo twists and drives his thumb deep into Jungkook's wound, causing him to unleash a primal scream of pure fury. Without hesitation, Jungkook's elbow connects with Leo's temple before grabbing his collar.

Gunshot.

The sound of your scream fills the air as Jungkook staggers backward. Leo stands with the smoking gun, a cruel smile playing on his lips as blood trickles from his temple. Fresh crimson blooms across Jungkook's arm and shoulder.

Your body moves on instinct, hands finding the discarded weapon. The weight of it feels foreign yet decisive as you raise it with trembling fingers.

Leo's eyes meet yours from where he stands, his bloodied smile widening. "Now this... this is poetic."

Your entire body shakes with adrenaline, each breath a struggle.

"Don't," Jungkook pleads, his arm outstretched toward you. "Y/N—don't. You don't need to do this."

Seeing Jungkook wounded and bleeding weakens your resolve.

Leo's soft laughter fills the space. "Go on, sweetheart. Pull the trigger. Be a good wife."

Your finger trembles on the trigger as the world spins around you. When you finally pull, the bullet tears through Leo's thigh with a sickening crack. His scream echoes through the room as he drops to one knee, grasping at the wall for support. The gun slips from your shaking hands as you collapse to the floor.

"Fuck—" Jungkook crawls to you immediately, his good arm wrapping protectively around your waist. "Baby—hey, hey, look at me."

Through your tears, you can barely form words. "I didn't mean to—I thought—he—"

Jungkook reaches for the gun and fires a single shot through Leo's heart. Leo collapses instantly - face slack, eyes wide, gone. Jungkook exhales and pulls you into his lap, ignoring both blood and pain.

"You didn't kill him," Jungkook whispers, voice rough. "You didn't kill anyone. It was me. Look at me. It was me."

You press your face into his neck. “You’re bleeding—Jungkook—your shoulder—”

“I’m fine,” he breathes. “I’m fine. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

His breath catches as he cradles your face between his palms, handling you like the most precious thing in this burning world. "Don't ever run from me again," he pleads, his voice raw with emotion. "Don't ever doubt that I would tear everything apart to find you."

Trembling in his embrace, you watch as Jungkook Jeon does something he's never done before - he prays. Not for himself, but that he'll never again have to see such fear in your eyes.

With infinite care, he lifts you against his chest and carries you from the wreckage. His promises fall like whispered prayers: "You're safe now. No one will ever touch you again. You're mine." And despite everything you've witnessed today - the violence, the monster within him - you believe him completely. Because just as you belong to him, he belongs entirely to you.

────୨ৎ────

What depths of loyalty and sacrifice arise when we call something love? In those quiet moments before dawn, as memories of cold rope and smoke still linger, you contemplate how a single moment can transform everything.

The weight of the gun, the tremble in your hands, the look in Jungkook's eyes - it all comes back with haunting clarity. His plea for you not to shoot wasn't born from fear of Leo, but fear for your soul. While Jungkook had long ago accepted his capacity for darkness, you were still untouched by such choices.

He was a man who had made peace with being a monster. But you? You stood at the precipice between innocence and necessity, between who you were and who circumstances demanded you become.

Looking back, you're still uncertain whether pulling that trigger came from survival instinct, overwhelming fear, or fierce love. The line between those emotions blurs in moments of desperation. That night gave you a glimpse into Jungkook's world - the terrible choices and the weight they carry. Though his lifestyle remains brutal and dark, you've gained a slight understanding of what drives him.

────୨ৎ────

The air tonight tastes like peach blossoms and spring dust. The city is humming outside, but here in this little pocket of golden light and linen, the world feels slower, softer — like something on the edge of a fairytale.

Jungkook is asleep on the couch. Or half-asleep, you’re not sure. His head rests back against the cushion, long legs stretched out like he owns the entire room, which in truth — he probably does. One arm draped over his stomach, the other slack at his side, the sleeve of his thin black shirt pushed up, revealing the edge of gauze still wrapping his shoulder. He refused the hospital, of course. Said he’d had worse.

For a week now, he's been with you. Every second. Every breath. He hasn’t returned to the office. His phone only lights up when there’s something urgent, and even then he barely glances at it before silencing the screen. He walks with you in the mornings — silent, careful steps by the river. He reads beside you in the afternoons, chin propped on his hand like he’s memorizing every inch of your face. He touches you constantly. Not with greed, not with hunger, but with quiet worship — a hand at the small of your back, fingers brushing your jaw, a palm spread against your thigh under the sheets like a silent vow.

And in sleep, he clings. Wraps himself around you with the desperation of someone who knows what it means to almost lose something you weren’t ready to live without. You feel it in his breath when he tightens his hold around your waist. You feel it in the way he kisses your shoulders before he even opens his eyes.

The world has settled into a new kind of quiet, no longer haunting but healing. Though nightmares occasionally visit, they're growing fainter with each passing day.

More powerful now are the gentle rhythms of life with him - his steady heartbeat against your back, his voice greeting the morning sun, his forehead resting softly against yours. These moments have become your anchors, drowning out the echoes of darker days.

Tonight marks a transformation. You've shed the weight of vulnerability, no longer feeling like someone in need of rescue. Instead, you feel whole - ready not just to receive, but to give.

You rise slowly, careful not to disturb him, and walk barefoot across the penthouse’s polished floors. The silk robe you wear clings lightly to your body, the black ribbon from days ago now tied loose in your hair like a quiet signal — one he won’t notice until he’s already undone. The perfume on your wrists is faint, but it still carries — white peach, soft and haunting, the scent he once recognized through memory alone.

You pause in the kitchen to pour a glass of water, your hands trembling with anticipation rather than fear. Tonight feels different - you want to show him that the weight of devotion flows both ways, that despite everything, you chose to stay.

Through all the darkness and ghosts that have haunted your chest, you remained. Not just beside him, but with him. And now, perhaps most importantly, for him. Taking a steadying breath, you walk back to the bedroom. Your fingers find the knot of your robe as you prepare to show him what love truly means when given freely.

────୨ৎ────

The bedroom is steeped in quiet gold, shadows curled against the edges of the walls like folded silk. Outside, the city is a blurred constellation, lights scattered beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass. But here — here, time forgets to move. The air hangs soft, perfumed with something sweeter than white peach, something warmer than memory. Something like safety.

Jungkook stirs when he feels the dip of the mattress. His lashes flutter, a slow exhale leaving him as his eyes open — still soft from sleep, but sharpening the moment they register your silhouette against the dark. The black robe has slipped from your shoulders. Beneath it, skin glows like candlelight, bare and tender and alive. Your hair spills forward, the ribbon still clinging to it like a secret vow. You climb over him carefully, knees bracketing his hips, fingers ghosting over his ribs like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you press too hard.

He swallows. The muscles of his stomach tighten beneath your palms. “Baby…” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and need, “what are you—?”

But the rest dies on his tongue when you lean down, kiss his collarbone, and whisper, “Let me.”

His breath catches as you shift forward, reaching between your bodies with practiced ease. He’s already hard — has been since the moment your weight settled over him — but he doesn’t move, doesn’t rush. He watches you, chest rising with shallow breaths as your fingers guide him in, slow and deliberate, the stretch making your lips part in a quiet gasp.

Your hands steady on his chest as you sink down. And he groans — not loudly, not desperately — but like something sacred just broke open inside him. His hands twitch at your thighs but he doesn’t grip you. He lets you move at your own pace. And you do.

You ride him slowly. Not with rhythm, not with control — but with reverence. With something closer to prayer. Every motion is intentional, the soft roll of your hips a sacred offering, your walls dragging tight around him as you take him inch by inch. His length fills you deep, stretching you with a sweet ache that makes your breath stutter. Each movement draws him deeper, until your bodies are flush, your thighs trembling where they cradle his hips.

You grind down, slow and full, letting the sensation ripple through your spine. Your back arches as you circle once, twice, dragging your heat over him in a way that makes him groan low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin like thunder contained beneath satin.

His hands twitch against your hips but he doesn’t guide you, doesn’t grip — just anchors. Fingers trembling, he lets you set the pace, like he understands that this isn’t about possession. This is about being seen. About surrendering to the truth of you.

You press your palms flat to his chest, right over his heart, and feel it hammering beneath your touch — wild, vulnerable, alive. You rise up, the slow drag of him pulling free until only the tip remains, and then you sink down again, letting him fill you, stretch you, make you gasp. Over and over — each thrust more confident, each grind a little deeper, your breath catching when the head of his cock grazes that soft, aching spot deep inside.

His jaw is slack now, pupils blown wide, lashes damp, lips parted in something close to awe. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t speak. Just watches — like he’s memorizing the way your body glows in the moonlight, the way your breasts bounce gently with every movement, the way you whimper when you find the angle that makes your thighs quake.

You roll your hips harder now, pleasure building slow and thick at the base of your spine. Every thrust is deliberate — down and forward, dragging his length against that spot again and again, until his fingers finally tighten on your waist, the first crack in his restraint.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice torn. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You moan in response, your body clenching around him, and he bucks up into you — once, sharply, making you cry out. You bite your lip, nails raking gently down his chest, and then move faster, chasing the heat gathering between your legs.

Your thighs begin to tremble with the effort, your breath coming ragged. You rise and fall, again and again, his cock dragging thick and hot inside you, the wet sound of your bodies meeting echoing through the room. He thrusts up into you now, meeting your pace, the friction growing wetter, messier, more desperate with every collision.

The intimacy of the moment transcends mere physical connection. This is about reclamation - a sacred vow expressed through movement, marking the moment you embrace being cherished, desired, and wholly accepted.

“You’re mine,” you whisper, voice shaking, legs trembling. “You’re only mine.”

His answer is a groan torn from the chest, hands flying to your hips as he meets you thrust for thrust now, the rhythm breaking apart in something raw and wild. “I’ve always been yours.”

The sounds between you are quiet, wet and slow, the room filled with broken whispers and low moans. You lean down, kiss him softly — once, twice, again — and he gasps into your mouth when your walls flutter around him.

His voice is wrecked now. “Fuck, baby, please…”

“Please what?” you murmur, lips brushing his.

“I need you to come. Like this. On top of me. For me.”

You press your forehead to his. “Then say it.”

He groans, head tipping back, breath shaky. “You own me.”

You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders now as your hips roll deeper, harder — still slow, still tender, but with a purpose now. With power. Your body tightens, pleasure gathering low in your belly like a storm you’ve been holding for years.

And then he says it — broken, wrecked, utterly yours. “Take it all. Fuck, take me.”

With a gasp that shatters into a cry, you break, your entire body pulsing around him, walls clenching tight as the pleasure explodes. He grips your hips hard, slamming up into you once, twice, three times — then spills into you with a deep, broken moan, holding you flush against him as he throbs, shaking beneath the weight of it.

And like stars colliding - inevitable, cosmic - your bodies stay locked together, hearts beating the same wild rhythm. His touch remains anchored to your skin, a silent promise written in the press of fingertips and shared breath.

The moment stretches like honey, sweet and infinite, as neither of you dares to break this delicate thread of connection.

────୨ৎ────

The days that follow feel like silk. The kind of days you once believed belonged only to magazines or other women — women with lives built on choice and safety, not sacrifice. Mornings spill in slow like cream over espresso, and you wake to his breath against your shoulder, his arm heavy around your waist, your legs tangled beneath linen sheets that still smell of white peach and the ghosts of what you whispered the night before.

Jungkook barely lets you leave his orbit. He touches constantly — not possessively, but tender, reverent. A hand at the small of your back when you pass him. Fingers brushing your wrist under the dining table while his phone rings unanswered. His thigh pressed to yours on the sofa, unmoving for hours. He kisses you in the hallway without warning — sometimes just your shoulder in passing, sometimes your mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world.

You catch him watching you like that sometimes — in the mirror, in the kitchen, while you tie the black ribbon into your hair — as though he still doesn’t quite believe you’re real. He never says it aloud, but you feel it in how he pulls you into his chest at night, hands gripping tighter when you try to roll away. He’s afraid the softness might vanish. That you'll vanish.

You learn things too. That his coffee must be scalding hot. That he sometimes murmurs in his sleep — nonsense, fragments of English and Korean and violence you don’t always understand. That he always carries two knives. One he shows. One he doesn’t.

And in return, you let him see more of you. You tell him about the time you lied to your fencing coach just to sneak out to the lakeside. You let him read the old Latin poem you wrote at sixteen, still folded inside your Saint-Margaux notebook. One night — only once — you cry again. He doesn’t ask why. He just pulls you closer and holds you tighter, whispering your name until sleep comes like a tide.

You wonder if this is love. Not the brutal, all-consuming version you were warned about — but the kind built quietly in the echo of war. A soft defiance, a rebellion in kisses.

────୨ৎ────

He’s kissing your temple when the call comes. You’re wrapped around each other on the velvet sofa, barefoot, wine half-finished, a K-drama playing on mute just for the light. He checks the screen and tenses.

"Grandfather," he says quietly, tension filling the single word.

You understand the weight of it immediately, though your fingers still clutch at the hem of his sweatshirt. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. "I won't be long. Don't wait up."

────୨ৎ────

The Jeon estate is too quiet when he arrives — grand halls humming with tension rather than servants. The lights are dim, the kind of half-lit stillness that announces something heavy is about to begin. His grandfather waits in the ancestral chamber — all dark wood and high ceilings and paintings that watch. The old man stands in front of the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, no drink in sight.

"Do you understand what you've done?" The words cut through the silence, his grandfather's voice sharp with disapproval. Jungkook stands tall, his coat still on, jaw locked in defiance.

"There is an order to everything," the old man continues, turning to face him. "You shattered that order when you - a Jeon - chased after her. You humbled yourself before her family, lost control, lost face. We are not the ones who get left. Have you forgotten what that means?"

“I went after my wife,” Jungkook says, voice low but steady. “She wears my name now. She is my family — as much as you are.”

His grandfather’s face contorts, torn between fury and something colder. “You killed Leo Maranzano. After the boy you already orphaned.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

“And not in darkness. Not quietly. In an open war. Blood. Witnesses. Chaos. We killed two Maranzano men now. And the world — the other families — they saw. They heard.”

“That is not the worst part,” the old man mutters. “The worst is what it means. That our enemies will now dare to look. To test us. The wolves are circling, Jungkook. They think the lions are wounded.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer at first. His hands are still, but his eyes have darkened — storm breaking slowly beneath the surface. “If they come,” he says at last, “let them. They’ll learn.”

The old man watches him for a long, unbearable pause before turning back to the fire. Without waiting for permission, Jungkook leaves, already texting Namjoon as he moves. In the end, the circles of blood and empires of fear mean nothing to him - his only concern is what awaits in the soft quiet of the penthouse, in the arms of the only thing he still believes in.

You.

────୨ৎ────

There’s a kind of hush that settles in just before it begins — the penthouse awash in low light, the city’s skyline blurring like a memory behind glass.

You move through the bedroom like a whispered promise, the black ribbon coiled softly around your fingers. The same ribbon he’s come to associate with you — with defiance, with surrender, with the moment he first truly chose you. Tonight, you wear nothing but silk: a slip the color of moonlight, the scent of white peach clinging to your collarbones like a secret.

He’s on the bed, leaning against the headboard, shirt already gone, dark sweatpants riding low. Jungkook watches you with something primal curled in his gaze — but there’s softness too. Always with you now, always just beneath the surface. Like he’s ready to kneel even while he commands the room. You move toward him with the quiet confidence he's come to crave, gracefully settling onto the mattress.

"What's that for?" he murmurs, his gaze drawn to the ribbon.

You don’t answer. Instead, you climb onto his lap, straddling him slowly, your bare thighs brushing against his skin, the slip of your hips bringing him to attention beneath the cotton. He exhales harshly, head falling back slightly, eyes dragging over every inch of you.

You press the ribbon to his lips. “Let me.”

He doesn’t ask again. You tie the ribbon around his eyes — not tight, just enough to veil the world, to make everything else fade except your voice, your mouth, your scent. When you pull back, he’s breathing differently already — deeper, more aware. His hands clench at his sides.

“What are you doing to me,” he whispers.

You slide down his body, soft kisses at his throat, his collarbone, lower — your breath warming the trail of his tattoos. And when you peel away the last of his clothes and take him into your mouth, the sound he makes is desperate. His hands twist into the sheets. His thighs tremble.

You work him with your mouth, slow and unrelenting — not chasing rhythm, but exploring it. Your tongue drags along the underside with deliberate curiosity, swirling once around the head before taking him deeper again, letting the heat of your mouth embrace him fully. You hollow your cheeks just enough to make him groan, the sound pulled straight from his chest like something unwilling, like something sacred. He tastes like salt and sin and everything you’ve ever been denied.

Above you, his thighs tense under your palms, the muscle twitching in waves as he fights the impulse to move. You glance up through your lashes, only to find his jaw clenched, head thrown back, lips parted in something between prayer and profanity.

His fingers flex against the mattress — not grabbing you, not guiding you, just trembling there, like he’s trying to remember what it means to let go. You can see him unraveling beneath the weight of your touch, the tight control he always wears now splitting at the seams.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice hoarse, “you’re gonna break me.”

And maybe you are — maybe that’s the point. Because this time, he’s the one undone. This time, your mouth is the weapon and your name is the surrender he can’t swallow.

“Let me see you,” he pants. “Ribbon off. I wanna see you.”

You pull back, smirking against his skin. “No.”

That single syllable makes him snap. He tears off the ribbon with a growl, eyes wild and burning as he grabs your waist and pulls you up with one swift movement. “Switch.”

Your wrists are bound in the same ribbon before you can speak, your arms raised above your head as he lays you back into the pillows, eyes devouring every inch of you like he’s starved. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like you’re his.

“You like playing games, huh?” he mutters against your throat. “But you’re mine now.”

His voice is low, dark, possessive and when he sinks into you, the stretch burns just enough to make your breath catch — slow, unbearably deep, every inch claimed with the kind of reverence that borders on cruelty. Your back arches off the sheets, a helpless curve, your body bowing beneath the weight of him, beneath the pressure of every inch pressing you open, pressing you full.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice already wrecked, forehead tipping against yours as he stays there, unmoving for a heartbeat too long. “So warm. So fucking perfect. Mine.”

He pulls out halfway, slow and dragging, and then pushes back in, even deeper. You moan into his mouth — soft, cracked, desperate. He moves again, then again, each thrust patient, almost lazy, but unbearably thorough. He’s not fucking you to finish — he’s fucking you to memorize you.

You’re gasping already, your tied wrists straining just slightly as your hips rise to meet him, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, caging him closer, like you need him deeper even though he’s already buried to the hilt.

He growls low in his throat, biting gently at your jaw. “Say it,” he demands, his rhythm still slow, still devastating. “Say who you belong to.”

“You—” you choke out, your voice caught between a gasp and a sob. “I’m yours, Jungkook. Yours—”

He groans like it’s a prayer answered in flesh. The control shatters. He snaps his hips harder now — deeper, faster — his chest dragging against yours, his breath burning hot across your throat. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, wet and sharp and desperate.

“That’s right,” he snarls against your ear, his hand sliding between your bodies to find that perfect spot — circling, pressing, just enough to make your thighs tremble around him. “My wife. My fucking everything.”

Your fingers curl tight in their silk bindings. Your spine bows. You feel him everywhere — inside you, around you, claiming you with every thrust, every low growl of your name. You’re unraveling under him, your voice breaking on every moan.

The pleasure builds unbearably — the coil tight and hot and rising, pulled taut until it can’t be held anymore — and when he angles his hips just right, hitting the spot that makes your vision blur white, it explodes.

You cry out as your orgasm hits, hard and shaking, your body convulsing beneath him as his name rips from your throat. He fucks you through it — hard and fast and relentless — chasing his own release as your walls flutter and pulse around him.

And when he comes, it’s with a broken groan, deep and guttural, his body pressing fully into yours as he spills inside you. His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and he keeps moving just a little, just enough to keep you open, to keep the heat between you alive.

“Mine,” he whispers into your neck. “Mine. Mine.”

When he finally slows, breath ragged and body trembling, he unties your wrists with gentle fingers, kissing each mark left behind. He doesn’t say anything, not right away. Just strokes your cheek, presses a kiss to your collarbone, your shoulder, your mouth — soft now, reverent.

You’re both breathless, sticky, spent. And yet his arms stay wrapped around you, strong and still trembling from how close it all felt to ruin. His voice returns only in a whisper, lips brushing your temple.

"I don't care if the whole world burns. Just don't leave me again," he whispers against your skin.

In response, you pull him closer and stay wrapped in his embrace - a wordless promise that speaks louder than any declaration.

.

.

taglist: kelsyx33 , maariinaaaaa estyshitposts oatmealbar jkemmi @sassywildbunny @maruperalta05-blog @aaabbbbllll @estyshitposts @nellbyy @mar-lo-pap @llallaaa @koogenre

@kooklv

[kaira-diaries]

Intruders:

warning: violence // emotional distress // non-con touching // cannon type violence

pairing: fem!reader x in-ho

wc: 16.7k

summary: What if there were two intruders? Jun-ho and in-ho’s lover...

a/n: oof what if the intruder was also in-ho’s girlie..likeeee the heartache...I DON'T WANNA TALK ABOUT THE LENGTH. Also this is such a dramatic piece but I’m kinda here for it ??

-> Masterlist <-

You had been with the police department since the day you graduated from college, bright-eyed and full of ideals.

But if you were being honest, the job was never what your partner made it out to be. Jun-ho had painted it as something noble, something that gave you purpose—a career where you could make a real difference. But for you, the police force felt like a necessary evil, like a wound that would never entirely heal. Some days, you believed in the badge, but most days, you saw it for what it was—corruption hidden beneath polished shoes and pressed uniforms.

The moment that sealed your fate—the final, irreversible crack in the foundation—was when In-ho was stripped of his title, dismissed like he was nothing more than a piece of discarded evidence. And the cruelest part? It was your fault.

Three years ago, your body had betrayed you, liver failure creeping in like a slow, merciless tide. The sickness took everything—your energy, your independence, your hope. But In-ho, stubborn as ever, refused to let you go. He did what any desperate man would do when faced with losing the only thing he couldn't bear to live without. He pulled strings, made deals, and buried himself in debt.

Loans turned into bribes, and bribes turned into something much darker.

And for what?

By the time a donor was found—just weeks later—In-ho was gone. Not missing, not dead, just... vanished. No calls. No letters. No trace of the man who had burned his life to the ground for you. You could only imagine the weight of his shame, the crushing defeat of knowing he had sacrificed everything for someone who no longer needed saving.

But in the end, he had saved you.

He just wasn’t around to see it.  

You told yourself it was the pain of losing his career—the one thing he had bled for, suffered for, given everything to. It was all he had ever known, and you had taken it from him.

But deep down, you knew it was more than that. He lost faith. Not just in the system, not just in the job that had defined him, but in everything. In saving you. In living the life he had so carefully planned. Maybe, in the end, it wasn’t even about his career. Maybe it was about you.

And maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t wanted to be around to watch you die.

Only, you didn’t.

You were here.

You were breathing.

The cruel irony of it gnawed at you, an ache that settled deep in your bones. Did he know? Had he ever found out that all his sacrifices hadn’t been in vain? Or did he disappear believing it had all been for nothing? Did he hate you for it? For taking everything from him and still being here? For living the life he destroyed himself to give you?

Jun-ho tells you otherwise. He insists his brother could never blame you, never resent you. But Jun-ho doesn’t carry this weight, this unbearable, suffocating guilt that clings to you like a second skin. He doesn’t lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling from an empty, frozen bed, wondering if somewhere out there, In-ho is doing the same—only his resentment keeps him warm.

You want to believe Jun-ho. God, you do.

But that doesn’t stop the pain from sinking into your chest, heavy and unrelenting, as though his absence is carved into the very fabric of your existence.

You traced lazy patterns through the mound of grilled chicken and roasted vegetables on your plate, the food growing colder with each passing second. Hunger hadn't found you tonight—just as it hadn’t last night or the night before. Beside you, Jun-ho ate with his usual fervor, scooping generous spoonfuls into his mouth without a second thought. Each bite was mechanical as if dinner were nothing more than a task to complete.

Across from you, his mother sat rigid, her eyes locked on the untouched chicken before her. Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of her plate, but she made no move to eat. Beside her, the empty chair loomed—In-ho’s chair. Though he hadn't sat there in years, his place at the table was still set each night with unwavering devotion. A clean plate. Perfectly arranged silverware. A glass of water filled just enough. She still clung to the hope that one evening, he would drift through the doorway, drawn by the scent of home-cooked food, his nose in the air, his expression a front of quiet satisfaction. But the chair remained empty, a stark reminder of absence woven into your nightly ritual.

"Y/n," his mother called softly, her voice threading through the heavy silence, pulling you from the fog of your thoughts.

You looked to your left across the table, meeting her gaze—warm yet heavy with sorrow. Her eyes, glassy with grief, searched yours as if trying to find the right words, the ones that might bring you even the smallest comfort. Slowly, she reached across the table, her fingers brushing against the back of your hand, a quiet plea for you to let her in.

Your breath hitched. You bit your lip, gaze darting past her, past the dining room, past the life that still moved forward while you remained frozen in time. The tears welled before you could stop them, blurring the dim light, making the world swim. You shook your head.

You didn’t want to talk.

Didn’t want to hear reassurances that felt hollow. Didn’t want to pretend you were okay when every inch of you was unraveling. Even now. After all this time.

Without another word, you pushed back your chair, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor in a sound that made Jun-ho glance up mid-bite. But you didn’t stop. You turned away, footsteps heavy as you left them to their meal, the scent of untouched food lingering in the air.

The moment your bedroom door shut behind you, you locked it—sealing yourself away from the world, from their pity, from the unbearable ache of his absence.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You sat at your desk, eyes skimming over the words on your screen, though you already knew what they said. The article had been plastered across every major news outlet in the city, but this one—this one came from the most ruthless, the kind that spared no mercy when it came to public disgrace.

And they got every detail right.

Policeman fired for bribery.

Officer dismissed for fraudulent behaviors.

Police Officer Hwang In-ho canned for illegal bribery, lining his pockets.

Criminal.

Criminal.

The words seeped into one another, each one twisting like a knife in your gut. They made him sound like a violent convict, like some immoral officer who had lined his pockets instead of a man who had destroyed himself for someone he loved. For you.

Your stomach churned, a wave of nausea rolling through you. You couldn’t take it—not the truth of it, not the shame clawing at your ribs. With a harsh breath, you slammed your laptop shut, the sound echoing through the quiet room.

A knock at the door rang a moment later.

You blinked, your mind still tangled in the venom of that article, but you forced yourself up, dragging your feet toward the door. When you opened it, Jun-ho stood there, leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. His expression was exhausted, dark circles etched beneath his weary eyes.

"Can I come in?" he asked, voice quieter than usual.

You hesitated for only a moment before stepping aside, opening the door wider. He slipped past you, the familiar scent of his cologne filling the air as you shut the door behind him.

You turned to face him as he sat on the edge of the bed, his posture weighed down by something you couldn’t quite name—fatigue, frustration, or maybe the same grief that sat heavy in your own chest. He patted the space beside him, a silent invitation.

You paused before sitting down, folding your hands in your lap, your fingers twisting together as if you could wring the blame from your skin.

Jun-ho cleared his throat, his voice low, careful. "You need to stop blaming yourself, y/n," he murmured.

You scoffed a hollow sound that barely left your throat. A bitter breath pushed past your lips as you shook your head. "I wish it were that simple, Jun-ho," you whispered. "But I can't."

The room fell into stillness.

Then, Jun-ho turned to you, his jaw tight, a flicker of frustration flashing in his eyes—not at you, but at the weight you refused to let go of. "It is not your fault you got sick," he said, voice firmer now, edged with something dangerously close to anger. "It is not your fault In-ho took bribes."

You swallowed hard, but he wasn’t done.

"He made that choice himself," Jun-ho continued, his gaze piercing, unwavering. "No one forced his hand. Not you. Not anyone. None of this is your fault, y/n."

But the truth—no matter how desperately he wanted you to believe it—didn’t loosen the vice around your heart. If anything, it only made it squeeze tighter.

Tears spilled silently down your cheeks, hot against your skin, as Jun-ho’s words settled over you like a heavy weight. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before softening his tone.

"Besides," he murmured, "I need your skill set."

You blinked through your tears, brows pulling together in confusion. A hollow laugh escaped you as you lifted a dismissive hand. "Jun-ho, I—"

He caught your wrist gently. "Just… listen," he said, his voice low, almost pleading. "A minute is all I’m asking."

You stilled, caught off guard by the urgency in his voice. The weight in his gaze was enough to pull you from your grief, just for a moment. With a slow inhale, you nodded.

His fingers loosened as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, worn card. "I went to his apartment today," he said. "The landlord said he hasn’t been by in a long time." He hesitated before holding out the card. "But I found this."

You took it carefully, fingers brushing against the textured surface. Three shapes were printed on the front—simple, yet unsettling in their starkness. Your stomach tautened as you flipped it over. An address. A date. A time.

Your pulse quickened. "Odd," you muttered, tracing the ink with your thumb again before looking back up at Jun-ho.

His expression had shifted. That familiar sharpness had returned—the one you had seen countless times before, when the two of you were knee-deep in a case, piecing together a puzzle no one else could solve.

"I want to find him, y/n," he said, voice steady, unwavering.

The room felt colder suddenly. You swallowed hard, glancing back down at the card.

For the first time in three years, you felt something other than guilt.

"And I want you to help," Jun-ho said, his voice unwavering.

You shook your head immediately, your grip tightening on the card. "He—he wouldn’t want to see me, Jun-ho," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "He probably doesn’t even think I’m alive."

Jun-ho exhaled through his nose, rubbing his hands together as if weighing his words carefully. Then, he looked at you, his expression unreadable. "Maybe," he admitted, but there was something in his tone that made you look up. Something steadier. "But what if he does?"

You let out a bitter laugh, rubbing your tired eyes. "Jun-ho—"

"No," he cut in, shifting closer, his voice quieter but no less firm. "Listen to me. I know my brother. He’s stubborn, and he’s proud. But do you really think he wouldn’t want to know that everything he did wasn’t for nothing?"

You swallowed hard. But he kept going.

"If there’s even the smallest chance that seeing you, seeing his brother, could bring him back to this family… to himself… don’t you think it’s worth trying?"

Silence stretched between you.

The card in your hand suddenly felt heavier.

Jun-ho sighed, running a hand through his hair before standing up. "I’m going," he said simply. "With or without you."

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, exhaling shakily.

And when you opened them again, you knew—you couldn’t let him do this alone.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The sky stretched endlessly above you, an uninterrupted canvas of brilliant blue, unmarred by even the softest wisp of cloud. Sunlight streamed through the canopy of trees, dappling the forest floor in shifting patches of gold. The air was warm, carrying the fresh scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the faint perfume of wildflowers that lined the trail.

You breathed it all in, savoring the tranquility, but your attention—like always—remained elsewhere.

In-ho walked beside you, close enough that your arms nearly brushed with every step. His presence was stable, unshaken as if he belonged here among the towering trees and whispering leaves. You watched him from the corner of your eye, studying the way the sunlight caught in his black hair, the way his expression eased when he glanced at the beauty enveloping you. He was breathtaking in the way that made your chest ache—so full of life, so unshakably kind.

You knew you shouldn’t feel this way. Shouldn’t let your heart stumble over the very idea of him. He was your partner’s brother. This was a line you weren’t meant to cross.

But god, it was impossible.

The forest path narrowed as you and In-ho made your way toward the lake, the sounds of the world around you muffled by the thick, lush trees. The sunlight flickered through the branches, and as the air grew cooler, you felt the weight of his presence more intensely. The water was near—still, calm, and inviting. You could see the glimmer of it through the trees, its surface reflecting the blueness of the sky like a mirror.

In-ho’s steps slowed as you approached the water, and he looked toward the lake beyond the dock with a quiet smile. “It’s even more beautiful than I remember,” he murmured, almost to himself, the sound of his voice low and dreamy.

You stood at the edge of the dock, the water below gleaming with a quiet invitation. The air felt pure between you and In-ho. You could feel his gaze on you, like a weight on your skin, but you didn’t turn to meet it just yet. Instead, you reached behind you and unbuttoned the top of your shirt, slipping it off, and then slid your shorts down to reveal your bathing suit.

You could hear In-ho’s footsteps pause, a soft intake of breath behind you. His voice was quiet, questioning. “What are you doing?”

You turned to look at him, a small grin on your lips. “I’m going for a swim. Unless you’re too scared to join me?” you teased, your heart racing at the way his eyes followed your every movement.

There was a brief silence between you two before In-ho’s lips curled into a smile. He shook his head slightly, his expression unreadable, before starting to walk toward you. But before he could get any closer, you didn’t wait for him—you jumped, diving into the water with a splash, the coolness instantly enveloping you.

The moment you resurfaced, you caught sight of the dock above you, the ripples of the water swirling around you. With practiced grace, you swam towards the edge, your hands finding the weathered wood as you pulled yourself up, water streaming off your skin.

In-ho stood there, looking down at you from the edge of the dock, his gaze softer than before but still intense. Your heart beat wildly as you stretched out a hand, holding it out to him, your fingers just inches from his.

For a moment, In-ho hesitated, his eyes meeting yours, searching your face. You could see the battle in his expression, but then he stepped closer to the edge, reaching out for your hand.

The moment his fingers brushed yours, you pulled him in, tugging him into the water with you. His surprised laugh echoed in the air as he splashed into the lake beside you.

You turned away from the dock, your eyes fixed on the water, waiting for him to surface. The seconds stretched longer than they should have before you saw the dark shape of In-ho break through the surface, shaking his head to clear the water from his hair.

When he emerged, his hair clung damply to his forehead, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of it. The sound was light, carefree—until he wiped his eyes and looked at you, his face unwound, his expression somehow caught between amusement and something more in-depth. You felt your pulse quicken as you watched him, your body drawn toward him like a magnet.

Without thinking, your hand lifted, almost instinctively, to brush his hair from his eyes. The touch was delicate, gentle, but the moment it happened, you both froze. His eyes locked on yours, the softness in them catching you off guard. There was a stillness that passed between you, one that felt both fragile and inevitable.

His hand reached for your palm then his fingers curled around yours with a quiet passion. Slowly, he pulled your hand toward him, guiding you closer, his movements willful and slow, as if he was savoring the proximity. The way he held you felt different now—his grip was tender.

He gently guided your palm to the warm skin of his neck, his fingers pressing against your wrist, urging you closer still. You could feel the steady pulse beneath your hand, his breath shallow, quickening. At the same time, your other hand found its way around his neck, the back of his damp hair slick beneath your touch. The world seemed to narrow, focusing entirely on the space between you.

Before you could fully process what was happening, his arms slipped around your thighs, pulling you toward him with a strength that made your breath catch. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your bodies pressed so close there was nothing left between you—no distance, no hesitation. The lake water rippled around you, but all you could feel was the heat of his skin beneath your hands, the steady beat of his heart against yours, the weight of the moment that pulled you both into a perfect, suspended stillness.

In-ho’s fingers then moved softly through your damp hair, his touch light, almost reverent. He cupped your cheek, the warmth of his hand sending a shiver through you as he gently tilted your head to study you. His gaze lingered, taking you in like he was memorizing every detail—your flushed cheeks, the way your eyes seemed to sparkle in the light of the sun.

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you. “What?” you teased softly, a playful edge to your voice. “Are you going to compliment me, or just stare?”

His lips curved into a slow, teasing grin, his eyes still locked on yours.

“I’m just trying to figure out how you managed to look even more beautiful after jumping into a lake.” He ran his thumb lightly across your cheek, his touch gentle. “It’s not fair.”

In-ho’s expression softened even further, the playful glint in his eyes fading into wonder. His thumb lingered against your skin, tracing slow, gentle circles. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts as if weighing the words carefully before letting them slip out.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while now…” He hesitated for just a moment, his eyes searching yours, like he was trying to find the right way to say something that had been hidden for far too long. "I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but… I’ve been in love with you for longer than I care to admit.”

The confession hung between you, quiet but heavy with sincerity. His voice was soft, almost fragile, like he was giving you something vulnerable. The weight of his words settled around you, stirring a whirlwind of emotions inside. You could hear the honesty in his tone, the deep affection, the care that he held for you in every gesture, every look.

“You know,” you started, your voice more subdued than normal, “I’ve been thinking about something too.” You searched his eyes, trying to convey everything you felt in that one moment. “You always worry about me and your brother, but… I worry about you, In-ho. Every day, every time we’re out there.”

Your voice trembled slightly as you continued, the vulnerability in your words matching the uncertainty in your heart. “I don’t think you understand how much it scares me, the thought of something happening to you." In-ho reached out, adding his other hand to your cheek, his touch steady. “I know you care, and I care about you more than you can imagine.” His eyes searched yours, intense and serious, but there was a soft kind of resolve in them that made your heart ache.

He leaned in slightly, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “Even if I disappear, even if I’m not here… I’ll always be with you. I won’t leave you, not really. You’ll always have a piece of me with you.” He leaned further in, pressing his lips to yours for a quick kiss, pulling back a moment later with another sweet, reassuring promise.

"No matter what happens, I’ll always be with you.”

A rough, urgent hand shook your shoulder, the pressure bringing you back to consciousness with a start.

Your eyes fluttered open, groggy from the haze of sleep, and you jolted upright in the passenger seat of Jun-ho’s car. The dim glow of the street light filtered through the windows, casting a pale glow on the dashboard. You blinked, still disoriented, trying to shake the remnants of the memory that had been pulling you under.

The weight of Jun-ho’s hand on your arm lingered for a moment before he released it and quickly reached for your hand. His grip was feeble, a contrast to the way his expression was tight with concern. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and almost hesitant, as if unsure whether to push you further.

You turned to him, your gaze meeting his, and you could see it—the groove in his brow, the way his lips were pressed into a narrow line. There was unease in the way he watched you, something familiar but hard to ignore.

You rubbed your tired eyes, trying to will the sleepiness away, and forced a small smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” you mumbled, your voice still thick with the remnants of slumber.

Jun-ho didn’t seem convinced, though. He hummed softly, his voice almost too quiet for the silence of the car. “You were doing it again,” he said, his tone carrying a weight that made your chest tighten.

“Doing what?” you asked, still trying to clear the fog from your mind.

He hesitated for a moment before withdrawing his hand from yours and reaching over to offer you a bottle of water. His fingers brushed against yours, cold against your warm skin, as he handed it to you.

“Whimpering his name,” Jun-ho said, the words coming out carefully like he was weighing every syllable. His eyes flickered toward you briefly before they returned to the harbor ahead, but there was something in the way he said it that sent a ripple of discomfort through you.

You glanced down at the bottle in your hand, but you didn’t bring it to your lips. Instead, you were focused on the sensation of his words. The reality of it stung, pulling at something raw inside of you.

You didn’t know how to respond, so you did the only thing that felt safe in that moment—you looked away, turning your face toward the window, hiding the flurry of emotions.

You cleared your throat, the sound catching in the stillness of the car as you tried to shake off the heaviness that paused in the air. You shifted in your seat, glancing out the window at the bustling port ahead, the soft hum of distant engines and the sway of boats cutting through the thick tension between you.

"What's the plan again?" you asked, your voice a little too tight, though you tried to mask it with a sense of casualness.

Jun-ho didn’t take his eyes off the road as he responded, his voice steady but carrying an edge of uncertainty. "We wait until 6 PM," he said, glancing down at his watch. His fingers brushed over the timepiece with a nervous habit. "Which is... three minutes from now." He paused, then glanced at your reflection in the window, his face softened but lined with an unreadable expression. "I wish I knew what to expect, but... I don't." The silence that followed felt thick, charged with the weight of unspoken things.

You looked back at him, your heart twisting at the concern etched into his face, and offered a reassuring smile, though it felt strained. "I'll do whatever you need me to do."

His eyes flickered briefly to you before he nodded, his jaw tightening, like he was carrying more than just the weight of the mission. He sighed, a quiet exhale that seemed to carry everything he hadn’t said. After a moment of hesitation, he spoke again, his voice softer this time. "What... what were you dreaming of?"

The question caught you off guard, and you felt your throat tighten as you fidgeted in your seat again. You ran a hand over your face, your fingers trembling slightly, the memory still fresh.

"That day at the lake..." you started, but the words caught in your throat. The weight of it—what had happened, the things you hadn’t said, the emotions you hadn’t let yourself feel—clung to your chest like a lead weight.

"When... when In-ho told me..." You faltered, unable to find the words that would make sense of it all.

Before anything else could slip from your lips, the sudden sweep of headlights caught your attention. The flicker of bright, glaring lights poured into the side mirror, sharp and blinding against the darkening sky. You jerked your head toward it, your pulse quickening as you recognized the unmistakable silhouette of several vehicles—vans, by the look of it—growing larger in the reflection.

"Jun-ho!" you gasped, your voice tight with urgency. "Behind us, there’s lights. Lots of them."

Without a word, Jun-ho’s face shifted from concern to something more focused—more dangerous. His eyes shot to the rearview mirror, and in one swift motion, he cut the engine, the car's hum falling silent. The tension in the air thickened, every second stretching as the sound of the approaching vans grew louder, their engines growling through the otherwise still night.

"Down!" he hissed, urgency sharp in his voice. Without thinking, you ducked instinctively, pressing yourself low against the seat, your heart pounding against your ribs. The world outside the car blurred into streaks of light, the headlights of the vans flashing in quick succession as they rumbled past.

Once the last of the vans disappeared into the port entrance, you and Jun-ho slowly sat back up, eyes locked on the convoy as it rolled steadily toward a massive loading ship. The hulking vessel loomed over the water, its floodlights casting long, eerie beams across the dock. The sound of metal groaning echoed through the air as ramps lowered, ready to swallow the vehicles into its depths.

You exchanged a glance with Jun-ho, a silent conversation passing between you—no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just action.

With a sharp nod, the two of you flung open your doors, slipping out of the car in one fluid motion. Your boots barely made a sound against the concrete as you sprinted toward the dock, keeping low, moving as one. The salty tang of the ocean mixed with the faint scent of oil and gasoline, and the rhythmic crash of waves was almost drowned out by the mechanical sounds of the ship preparing for departure.

Guns drawn, you pressed yourselves against the cold steel siding of a small storage building, hearts pounding in sync. Jun-ho exhaled slowly, his breath steady despite the tension crackling between you.

“What are we doing, Jun-ho?” you whispered, gripping your weapon tightly as you peered around the edge of the building.

He mirrored your movement, stealing a quick glance at the loading area before ducking back beside you. His voice was low but firm. “The vans are stopped.” His eyes flicked to yours, sharp with intent. “We split up. Get low, hide beneath a van, and let them take us onto the ship.”

You swallowed hard but nodded. This was reckless. Dangerous. But it was the only way.

Jun-ho reached into his pocket and produced a tiny comm link, pressing it into your palm. “Put this in your ear,” he instructed. “Keep me updated on your position at all times.”

You gave a tight nod, slotting the device into place as you prepared to move. But just as you stepped forward, Jun-ho’s fingers wrapped around your wrist—firm, urgent.

Your breath caught as you turned back to face him. His grip wasn’t forceful, but there was something weighted in the way he held you there, something implicit that flickered in his dark eyes. Worry.

“Stay out of sight, y/n,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And be careful.”

For a moment, the intensity in his gaze pinned you in place. There was something deeper there, something intimate that went beyond just concern for a partner. It was protective. Personal. A silent plea.

You let a small smile tug at your lips, trying to ease the tension. “Aren’t I always?” you teased softly, though your heart thrummed wildly against your ribs.

Jun-ho’s lips pressed together, like he wanted to say something more—but instead, he simply let go of your hand, his fingers trailing away with reluctant hesitation.

Then, without another word, you turned and slipped into the shadows, heart hammering as you prepared to vanish into the night.

The memories clung to you like a shadow as you ran through the darkness, each footstep light but filled with the weight of the past. The sting of salt in the air, the distant hum of the ship, the adrenaline surging through your veins—it all blurred together beneath the echo of a voice from years ago.

Jun-ho’s voice.

It had been a hard pill for him to swallow back then. The truth of your surface-level feelings for him. The way he had always been there—steady, watching over you with quiet devotion. You had known, even before he ever admitted it, that he cared deeply for you. Perhaps even loved you. But love had a cruel sense of irony.

Because your heart had never belonged to him.

It had belonged to his brother.

Your breathing stumbled as you recalled the night it all came spilling out—the raw, unfiltered confession buried in slurred words and whiskey-laced regret. It had been late, the bar dimly lit and nearly empty, save for the two of you. His fingers had curled around his glass, knuckles white, jaw clenched as he forced himself to say what he had buried for so long.

"You don’t even see it, do you?" he had murmured, his voice bitter.

"How much I lov—" He had cut himself off, shaking his head with a humorless laugh before downing the rest of his drink.

You had frozen, your heart squeezing painfully, because in that moment, you saw it all. The way his feelings had festered beneath the surface, hidden behind late-night conversations and lingering touches that you never thought twice about. And worst of all, you had seen the pain in his eyes as he realized the inevitable.

That you loved In-ho.

And that In-ho loved you.

Now, as time had squeaked by, Jun-ho had learned to hide it well. He buried it beneath layers of professionalism, sarcasm, and quiet understanding. It had become something unspoken, something he never let rise to the surface—except in rare moments. Moments like earlier, when his fingers curled around your wrist just a little too tightly. When his voice carried that same note of hesitation.

It still hurts you.

To know he was in pain. To know that no matter how much time passed, no matter how much he tried to pretend, a part of him still carried that weight.

And yet, as you ducked behind a stack of crates, heart hammering as you prepared to slip beneath one of the vans, you couldn’t afford to think about it anymore. Not now. Not when danger lurked just ahead.

But still…

It lingered.

You clicked the comm link in your ear, pressing it just enough to activate the line. “In position. About to make my move under the van.” Your voice was a whisper, barely audible over the distant crash of waves against the dock.

A faint crackle followed before In-ho’s voice came through, steady and controlled. “Stay low. On my mark, make your move.”

You pressed yourself against the cold metal of the crate, your breath hitching as you scanned your surroundings. The dim glow of overhead floodlights cast long, flickering shadows across the dock, stretching over the pavement like creeping fingers. Your pulse quickened as movement caught your eye in the distance.

A figure. No—figures.

Dressed in pink uniforms, their hoods pulled high over their heads, their faces hidden behind dark masks. They moved in pairs, methodical and silent, sweeping the area with slow, calculated strides. Rifles slung over their shoulders, their heads turned sharply from side to side, scanning the shadows, ensuring every corner of the ship’s perimeter was clear.

A chill ran down your spine. They were everywhere.

You clicked the comm link again, barely daring to move. “Jun-ho, watch your six.” Your voice was tight, urgent. “There are guards everywhere.”

A long pause. Then, his voice came through—lower this time, more serious. “Copy that. Stay hidden.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers flexing over the pavement as you readied yourself. The tension in the air thickened, your body coiled like a spring, waiting for the moment to move.

In-ho’s voice finally returned, quiet but firm. “Now.”

You took a sharp breath and made your move.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The ship had long since left the dock, its massive hull cutting through the waves with a rhythmic hum. You could feel the vibration of it beneath you, the low rumble of the engine pulsing through the steel floor, through your bones. The scent of oil thickened the air, mixing with the faint tang of rust.

Curled beneath the van, you stayed as still as possible, pressed against the cold undercarriage, every breath controlled, every muscle tense. The ship swayed ever so slightly, the motion subtle but constant, a reminder that there was no turning back now.

Your comm link crackled to life in your ear.

"Hanging in there?" Jun-ho’s voice came through, laced with quiet amusement.

You exhaled softly, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see you. "We’re closer to your brother than we’ve been in three years, Jun-ho. What do you think?"

A short laugh came from the other end—warm but edged with something heavier. "Fair point."

Silence stretched between you for a moment, broken only by the faint sounds of footsteps above, boots thudding against metal as the guards moved across the ship’s deck. Your fingers curled into a fist against the hard ground.

Jun-ho’s voice softened. "I promise we’ll get him back, y/n."

You bit your lip, hesitation gnawing at you. "We don’t even know if he wants to come home," you whispered, barely daring to say it aloud. The thought had haunted you for years. "Or what his part is in any of this."

A quiet hum came through the comm, Jun-ho’s thoughtful exhale. When he finally spoke, his words were steady, resigned, yet resolute.

"If we find him, and he doesn’t want to come home… then at least we’ll know we did what we could for him."

Something in your chest tightened at that.

Because deep down, you knew that if In-ho chose to stay—if he had changed into someone neither of you recognized—you weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to let him go.

Jun-ho’s voice was quieter now, almost wistful, carrying an edge of something he rarely let slip.

“And maybe we could start fresh,” he finished, the words hanging between you like a possibility neither of you had dared to speak aloud before.

“We could quit our jobs, find something else—something that doesn’t come with a gun in our hands or a target on our backs. Leave it all behind… for good.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a slow-moving tide, threatening to pull you under.

Start fresh.

You had never allowed yourself to dream of that. Had never let yourself imagine a life beyond the chase, beyond the endless pursuit of justice, of closure, of the ghosts that never stopped following you. But now, hearing it from Jun-ho—spoken so plainly, so genuinely—it made something inside you ache.

A life where there were no late-night stakeouts, no whispered orders over comm links, no bulletproof vests or bodies lost in the shuffle of corruption. A life where you weren’t constantly searching for something—someone—just out of reach.

Could you really walk away?

Would In-ho, if you found him?

You swallowed hard, staring at the dim underbelly of the van, the vibrations of the ship’s engines thrumming beneath your body. Your voice was barely above a whisper when you finally spoke.

“Do you really think it’s that simple?”

Jun-ho exhaled, a breathy chuckle tinged with something almost sad. "I don’t know. But I’d like to think there’s a world where we could be more than just this.”

You closed your eyes for a brief second, allowing yourself—for the first time—to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he was right as the two of you lay beneath vans beside each other.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

Twenty minutes had passed, though it felt like an eternity, the weight of damp fabric pressed against you. The stolen uniform fit awkwardly, the material stiff, the sleeves slightly too long as if the previous owner’s presence still lingered.

You had moved quickly—silently. The guard never even had time to scream before your hands snapped his neck with a sickening crack. His body had hit the water without a sound, swallowed by the dark waves below. You hadn’t let yourself think about it. There was no time for hesitation, no space for second thoughts. Survival had demanded ruthlessness, and you had given it without question.

Now, standing in the dimly lit cabin of the ship, your heart pounded against your ribs, each beat a drum of anticipation. Shadows stretched along the walls, the flickering glow of old, buzzing lights casting uneven shapes across the steel interior. The hum of the ship’s engine vibrated through your bones, yet you still felt untethered—adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

You couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

Couldn’t even call for Jun-ho. You were too close to the others.

For all you knew, he could be standing in the room with you, a breath away, just as silent, just as unseen. The air was thick with tension, each second stretching impossibly long. Your grip tightened into a fist at your side, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Then—the lightest touch.

A brush of warmth against your fingers, so delicate you almost thought you imagined it.

Jun-ho.

The tension coiled in your chest began to unravel, the weight pressing down on you, lifting just enough for you to breathe again. He was beside you.

The ship docked with a heavy groan of metal against concrete, the subtle sway of the water beneath you replaced by the rigid stillness of solid ground. The transition was seamless—no hesitation, no time to breathe. Orders were barked, movements synchronized, and like a well-oiled machine, you followed along, blending into the sea of masked figures.

You climbed into the driver’s seat of one of the transport vans, gripping the wheel with hands that didn’t feel like your own. The thick gloves made your fingers clumsy, but you forced yourself to focus. The weight of the uniform, the anonymity of the mask—it was suffocating, yet necessary.

As the van rumbled to life, you drove in a straight, controlled line, mirroring the other vehicles in the convoy. The facility loomed ahead, a cold monolith of concrete and steel, its high walls stretching endlessly into the darkened sky. The moment you passed through the towering gates, your stomach twisted. There was no turning back now.

The night blurred into a haze of orders followed and errands run. The rigid structure of the facility allowed no room for mistakes—no hesitation, no deviation. Guards moved like phantoms, silent, their every step rehearsed. You mimicked them perfectly, keeping your head low, your movements precise. Jun-ho was never far, always within sight but never obvious. A shadow among shadows.

At last, after what felt like hours, you were dismissed to your cabins.

You followed Jun-ho closely, his presence an unspoken reassurance in the vast, sterile hallways. Your masks were scanned at a checkpoint, a quick flicker of red light passing over the numbers now assigned to you. Attendance. A subtle but effective way to track who belonged and who didn’t. Your numbers were sequential—assigned side by side, keeping you close.

Now, you stood in front of your respective doors, the dim, flickering light above casting elongated shadows against the cold steel. You glanced sideways, watching as Jun-ho reached for the keypad on his door, his fingers moving with practiced ease.

You did the same, pressing the cool metal of the scanner, waiting for the soft beep before the lock released.

For a moment, you hesitated, gripping the door handle, your heart still racing from the events of the night. Then, you exhaled and stepped inside, shutting the heavy steel door behind you with a quiet thud.

The silence pressed in around you.

For the first time since boarding the ship, you were alone.

If you were being completely honest with yourself, you were terrified.

You had faced danger before—walked through crime scenes stained with blood, pursued criminals through darkened alleys, wrestled with the weight of life and death more times than you cared to count. Murders, robberies, violent, gruesome killings—you had seen it all. But this was different.

This was something else entirely.

You weren’t the hunter here. You were the prey, trapped in an environment where the rules were unspoken but absolute, where one wrong move could mean the difference between survival and a bullet to the head.

Your breath was shallow as you sat stiffly on the small cot, the mattress thin and unyielding beneath you. The walls around you were bare, lifeless. Cold. A single dim light buzzed overhead, casting an eerie glow across the metallic surfaces. In the corner of the room, a small, unblinking red light glowed—a camera. Watching. Recording.

The soft crackle of the comm link in your ear startled you, breaking the suffocating silence.

It was as if he could sense your fear.

“Stay calm,” his voice was low, steady—a tether in the storm. “There are cameras in our rooms. Don’t show weakness. And whatever you do, don’t show your face to the camera.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the tension from your shoulders, willing your hands to stop trembling. “Copy,” you whispered.

A deep breath came through the link, then Jun-ho’s voice again, quieter this time. “For all we know… In-ho could be on the authoritative side in this facility. But if we’re caught, we have no idea what they’ll do to us. Best not to take any chances.”

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, pressing your lips together to suppress the flood of emotions threatening to surface. You had waited three years for this—three years of searching, of unanswered questions, of agonizing uncertainty. And now, you were closer than ever.

But you still had no idea what you were walking into.

No idea who In-ho had become.

The thought sent another wave of unease through you, but you shoved it down, exhaling slowly as you opened your eyes. Jun-ho was right. Now wasn’t the time for fear.

“For now, we take orders,” Jun-ho continued, his tone resolute. “We do what we’re told. Nothing more, nothing less.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. Your voice was barely above a whisper when you finally responded.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“For now, get some rest.” Jun-ho’s voice was softer this time, a quiet reassurance cutting through the barren emptiness of your room. “I’m close by, and it’ll stay that way until we get out of here.”

You wanted to believe that. Needed to.

The comm line crackled faintly, and then—silence.

The absence of his voice felt heavier than it should have, settling into the pit of your stomach like a stone. You sat still for a moment, listening—to the low hum of the ventilation system, the distant echoes of footsteps in the corridor, the rhythmic buzz of the fluorescent light overhead. Everything about this place felt unnatural. Controlled.

Shifting slightly on the cot, you let out a slow breath, your muscles aching from the tension of the day. You knew you needed sleep, but the thought of closing your eyes in this place, where danger lurked behind every corner, made your pulse quicken.

But Jun-ho was close and so was In-ho.

Swallowing back the unease, you lay down, curling slightly on your side to avoid facing the ever-watching camera. The mattress was stiff beneath you, the blanket thin and rough, but exhaustion was creeping in, dulling the sharp edges of your fear.

You held onto Jun-ho’s words, repeating them in your mind like a mantra.

I’m close by.

It’ll stay that way.

As your eyes fluttered shut, the hum of the facility droned on, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to drift into uneasy sleep.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You sat snug on the couch, wrapped in the warmth of a soft blanket that cocooned you like a gentle embrace, the flickering light from the TV casting a soothing glow across the room. The pages of your book turned easily beneath your fingers, but the comforting scent of fresh coffee wafting through the air kept pulling your attention away. In the space beside you, In-ho sat casually, his presence a quiet comfort. Your feet rested in his lap, and his thumb absentmindedly circled the soft skin of your ankle, the movement both soothing and intimate, grounding you in the moment. His eyes were locked onto the TV screen, absorbed in the rerun of one of your favorite shows. Without hesitation, he'd dove into it once you shared it was something you loved—he was always so eager to understand every little thing that made you smile, laugh, or even cry.

It was as if everything you cared about fascinated him, and you found yourself smiling at the way he would learn about the things you loved, weaving them into the fabric of your shared life.

But as the scene unfolded on the screen, you couldn’t help but watch him. His features softened in the dim light, his attention rapt on the show, but there was something so peaceful about the way he sat beside you, as though this moment was as perfect for him as it was for you.

You must have been staring longer than you realized, because suddenly, his chin snapped in your direction, his eyes locking with yours, curious and alert.

"What?" he asked, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips.

You hummed softly, not needing to think about your response. "Nothing," you said, the words coming out as if they’d always been there. "I just enjoy watching you."

A quiet smile stretched across his face, and without another word, he scooted closer to you. The air around you seemed to shift as he leaned in, taking your book from your hands and tossing it casually onto the coffee table. His fingers gently spread your legs, creating a space for him between them as he lowered his head to your chest.

His body pressed against yours, arms wrapping around your waist, a warm, familiar weight, and you instinctively leaned down, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his temple. The moment was so quiet, so tender, and you allowed him to sink into the comfort of your embrace as his gaze returned to the show, now content to simply be near you.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence. His body was warm against yours, his weight familiar, grounding. The steady rhythm of his breathing matched your own, slow and easy, as though neither of you wanted to break the moment.

Then, without warning, he pressed a soft kiss to your breastbone, the warmth of his lips lingering against your skin. It was fleeting, but enough to send a gentle shiver down your spine. When he lifted his head, his dark eyes found yours, deep and searching, holding something heavier than the peaceful stillness that surrounded you.

“Let’s have a baby,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. The words settled into the air between you, delicate yet weighted, and your eyes widened in surprise. Your heart stuttered, your fingers unconsciously tightening against the fabric of his shirt.

You had talked about it once before—the possibility of starting a family, of what that might look like—but it had been just that: a possibility. A distant thought. Neither of you had brought it up again since then, and now, here he was, laying it bare, no hesitation in his voice.

You swallowed, your lips parting as you searched for something—anything—to say. Finally, you managed, “Are you sure?” The words came out barely above a whisper, tinged with uncertainty, with the weight of everything this meant.

In-ho pushed himself up, leveling himself with you, his face inches from yours. His hand found your cheek, fingertips brushing away a stray strand of hair, his touch impossibly gentle. He held your gaze, his thumb grazing the curve of your jaw, and with a certainty that left no room for doubt, he said,

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

His voice was low, steady, laced with quiet conviction. The sincerity in his eyes sent warmth blooming in your chest, melting away the initial shock. He wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. Every word.

Your lips parted, but no words came. Instead, you just looked at him—at the man who had woven himself so deeply into your life, your heart. He was watching you so intently, waiting, searching your face for a sign, for an answer.

A breathy laugh escaped you, shaky and disbelieving. “You really mean it?” you asked, voice softer this time.

His thumb traced small, soothing circles against your cheek. “I do,” he whispered. “I think about it all the time. What our child would be like. If they’d have your smile, your laugh… your heart.” He exhaled, his forehead brushing against yours. “I want this with you.”

Your chest swelled, your heart a fluttering mess beneath your ribs. “In-ho…” You barely managed his name, your throat tightening with emotion.

“I know it’s big,” he continued, his fingers now sliding down to lace with yours. “And I know it’s scary, but I want to build that life with you. I want late nights rocking them to sleep. I want tiny hands reaching for us. I want to watch you love them the way you love everything—with your whole heart.” He let out a small, breathless chuckle, shaking his head. “I love you. And I know that if we do this… our child is going to have the most incredible mother.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Warmth bloomed in your chest, spilling into every inch of you.

You squeezed his hand, the weight of his words wrapping around you like a promise. A future. A dream neither of you had fully allowed yourselves to grasp before now.

A slow, watery smile crept across your lips. “You really think I’d be a good mom?”

His eyes softened. “I know you would.”

Your throat bobbed with emotion, and then, in one swift movement, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close. He let out a soft chuckle as he melted into you, his arms winding around your waist, holding you as if he never wanted to let go.

“I love you,” you whispered against his temple, pressing a lingering kiss to his hair.

His hold on you tightened. “So… is that a yes?”

A quiet laugh bubbled from your chest as you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. You didn’t even have to think anymore.

“Yes,” you breathed.

His grin was instant, bright, and boyish, filled with something raw and beautiful. He kissed you then, deep and slow, pouring all of his love, all of his joy into you.

Your heart was pounding—so fast, so violently that it felt like it might shatter right through your ribs. The force of it ripped you from sleep, your body jerking upright as a sharp, gasping breath tore from your lungs. The room was dark, but your vision swam, unfocused, the remnants of the dream still clinging to you like phantom hands you couldn't shake.

It wasn’t a dream.

It was a memory again.

Another cruel, agonizing memory, dragged from the depths of your mind just to remind you of everything you had lost.

A strangled sob broke from your throat as your hands shot up, pressing hard against your face, as if you could somehow smother the pain, force it back down where it wouldn’t consume you. But it was already there, crawling through your chest, squeezing around your lungs like a vice. You sucked in a breath, but it was useless—shallow, shaky, burning.

Your skin was damp, slick with sweat, but you were cold. So unbearably cold.

You were tired. Tired of this endless torment. Tired of waking up like this, drowning in grief that refused to let go. Tired of being haunted by something you could never get back.

Your shoulders trembled, your body curling in on itself as wave after wave of sorrow crashed over you, relentless and merciless.

You just wanted it to stop.

Just for one night.

Just long enough to breathe.

But deep down, you knew—this grief, this heartbreak… it wasn’t letting go of you anytime soon.

_____________________________

The weight of the bodies in your arms was nothing compared to the weight in your chest. You knew where you were—what this place was—but the stark finality of it didn’t truly sink in until now. Until you were standing among the dead.

Your hands trembled slightly as you lifted another body, the limp form heavier than you expected. It wasn't just the physical strain—it was the sheer wrongness of it.

Here, life was taken without hesitation. Without ceremony. A single gunshot to the head—quick, efficient, painless, if such a thing could be called mercy. It wasn’t personal. It was routine.

You reached for the coffin cover, your fingers just brushing the edge—when it was suddenly snatched away.

Though Jun-ho's face was concealed behind his mask, his movements betrayed him—protective. Before you could even react, the room erupted into chaos.

A single gunshot cracked through the air, splitting the silence like lightning. Then—shouting. Struggling. The sound of bodies shifting, boots scuffing against the gravel.

Your head snapped up just as Jun-ho shifted closer to you, his voice a low whisper. “Back up. Stay behind me.”

Your pulse hammered against your ribs as you obeyed, instinct kicking in. You weren’t armed. Neither of you were. And that realization settled over you like ice.

At the center of the chaos, a player stood trembling, a stolen pistol clutched in his hands. His arm shook, but his aim did not waver. The barrel of the gun was pressed flush against the forehead of a guard.

“Take it off,” the player demanded, his voice raw with desperation. “Take off the mask. Look at me.”

For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed.

Then, slowly—hesitantly—the guard obeyed.

The mask fell away, revealing a face that was far too young for this place. Barely a man. Eyes filled with something detached and misplaced.

Your breath caught in your throat.

What was he doing here?

How could someone so young be a part of this?

But before those thoughts could fully form, the player made his choice.

A sharp inhale. A flicker of resolve.

Then—he turned the gun on himself.

The shot rang out, deafening. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Silence followed. Heavy. Suffocating.

And then—boots.

Slow. Intentional.

The purest sound of authority.

Your head snapped to the left, just as Jun-ho’s did.

A man approached, his uniform a stark contrast to the others. Head to toe in gray, a mask black as the void concealing his face. He moved with eerie precision, gun already raised.

One shot.

The young guard barely had time to react before the bullet tore through his head, his body collapsing beside the player’s.

You inhaled sharply, the horror of it settling deep in your bones.

Then—the man spoke.

“Remember.” His voice was smooth, level—chilling. “Once they find out who you are, you die.”

His steps never faltered as he turned, moving past you without a second glance.

So close that his shoulder nearly brushed yours.

You stood frozen, every muscle in your body locked tight, your own breath feeling too loud in the deathly quiet.

Jun-ho exhaled slowly beside you, barely above a whisper. “We need to find In-ho and get the fuck out of here.”

You didn’t dare nod. Didn’t dare move.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You sat cross-legged on your bed, the thin mattress barely offering any comfort, the tray of lukewarm food balanced on your lap. Mechanically, you took another bite, chewing without really tasting it, your gaze locked onto the official transfer papers resting on the sheets beside you. The crisp white pages were handed to you by an officer earlier that morning without so much as a second glance.

It had been two days.

Two days of dragging lifeless bodies across cold concrete, the metallic stench of blood clinging to your skin no matter how many times you scrubbed your hands raw. Two days of bowing your head, following orders, keeping your expression carefully neutral beneath the ever-watchful eyes of masked guards. Two days of stealing glances at Jun-ho as he maneuvered through the facility, shifting seamlessly between identities, slipping into the skin of a different man each time.

You had seen the way he carried himself—first as a low-ranking worker, blending into the sea of pink-clad figures, and then as a square guard, his stolen mask concealing the sharp determination in his eyes. He had taken the uniform off a dead man, stripping him of his role just as easily as the guards stripped their victims of life. All to get closer, to gather more intel.

And you—

You wanted to help. You wanted to be in the thick of it with him, to shoulder some of the weight of this dangerous game you were both playing. But Jun-ho had been firm, his voice leaving no room for argument.

"Stay back. Stay safe."

He preferred the target to be on him, for the guards to believe he was the only intruder. It was strategic, calculated—if anything went wrong, at least you wouldn’t be caught in the crossfire. At least one of you would still have a way out.

You exhaled, setting your tray aside, your appetite long gone. Your fingers skimmed over the edges of the transfer papers, the stark black ink of your new assignment staring back at you. A new role. A new place to hide in plain sight

Your fingers curled around the edges of the brittle transfer papers, your stomach twisting as you read the words again. You had been reassigned. Not to the usual mindless tasks—not to disposing of bodies, scrubbing blood from the floors, or following silent orders.

No, this was different.

You were to serve VIPs.

The second-to-last game was about to begin, and your role was clear: cater to them, offer liquor, serve food, be present—but unseen. You didn’t allow your mind to wander beyond that, refused to let yourself consider what else they might expect.

Because there were no rules here.

No boundaries.

No lines that couldn’t be crossed.

That thought alone sent a sickening chill through you.

The comm link in your ear crackled suddenly, making you flinch.

"What were you given earlier?"

Jun-ho’s voice came through, steady but cautious, like he was bracing for something he wouldn’t like.

You swallowed down the unease rising in your throat before answering.

“Transfer papers. They want me to serve the VIPs.”

A heavy silence followed.

Then, Jun-ho hummed thoughtfully, though there was a tightness to the sound, an unspoken weight behind it.

You forced yourself to continue. “Y’know… pour alcohol, serve food. Stuff like that, I guess.”

The words felt hollow as they left your mouth, as if saying them out loud might make them true, might make this role as simple as it sounded. But you both knew better.

"VIPs?" Jun-ho repeated, his tone skeptical. “You hear anything about them?”

You hesitated. “No, but they must be high-ranking if they’re given their own space, their own servers. And if they’re allowed to watch everything up close.”

Jun-ho didn’t respond right away, and you could almost hear the gears turning in his head. He had been careful since stepping into this place, but this—this was unknown.

"I don’t like it," he admitted at last, his voice quieter but firm.

You swallowed hard. “Neither do I.”

The unstated fear remained between you. Whoever these VIPs were, they were powerful enough to be protected, to be kept separate from the rest.

And that alone made them dangerous.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The black dress clung to you like a second skin—too tight, too short, too deliberately designed to make you look enticing. The fabric hugged your upper thighs, the hem barely skimming the curve of your ass, leaving little to the imagination. Every step you took made the sheer tights shine against the chandeliers, a constant, unwanted reminder of how exposed you felt. The glossy black heels that fit around your feet were the tallest you’d ever worn, forcing you to adjust your balance with each step, each shift of your weight.

Your commanding officers had been meticulous in their orders: hair down, cascading over your shoulders, its purpose clear—conceal the clip of your black mask. The loose strands felt foreign against your skin, framing your face in a way that made you feel even more vulnerable.

But what unsettled you the most was the thick layer of makeup painted onto your face. Powder, contour, shimmering highlights, all meticulously placed to enhance features that no one would even see. And the lipstick—deep, blood-red, stark against your skin. A cruel joke, considering the mask that concealed everything but your eyes. You had questioned its necessity, but no one had answered. Maybe it was all about the illusion, the mere suggestion of beauty beneath the disguise.

Still, it made you nervous. The entire situation did.

But you couldn’t show it.

With steady hands, you balanced the silver tray of wine glasses and descended the grand staircase leading into the lavish room. Gilded walls gleamed under the warm glow of chandeliers, and the plush, oversized furniture was arranged like a decadent playground for the six VIPs lounging around, their golden masks gleaming in the dim light. Laughter and murmured conversation filled the air, but you barely heard it, your heartbeat thudding loud in your ears.

Two square guards stood near the walls, their stiff postures a contrast to the indulgent sprawl of the men before them. And then there was the captain.

The moment you stepped onto the marble floor, you felt his gaze.

His mask tilted upward, attention locked onto you as you made your way forward, tray in hand. You didn't know what exactly he was looking at—the length of your exposed legs? The way your hair fell in soft waves around your shoulders? Or maybe it was something deeper, something unreadable beneath the stark black mask covering your face.

You forced yourself to keep moving, the heels clicking against the floor, the weight of the tray steady in your grasp. But the weight of his stare made your breath catch.

So you did what you could.

You lowered your gaze, focused on the swirling crimson liquid in the delicate glasses, and moved through the room, offering wine to the golden-masked men who barely acknowledged you.

Your heart pounded in your chest.

This was only the beginning.

And you had no idea what was expected of you next.

"So how are your scores so far? Bet on any winners?" One of the VIPS asked as you bent down, offering a glass. The breeze you felt on your ass made your breath snag, but you moved on after the man took a glass.

"No. For some reason I keep picking losers." One of the other men said as you walked around. Your heels clicked loudly, drowning out the sound of the music playing overhead. You wished Jun-ho were here. You wished your partner were here.

The game unfolded before you in a spectacle of lights, glass, and muted screams, but you barely registered the horror playing out in front of you. Standing at the side of the opulent room, you kept yourself small, trying to blend into the background as much as possible. The other servers, dressed just as provocatively, moved silently, refilling glasses and catering to the whims of the men who sat reclined in their lavish seats, watching the brutality unfold with twisted amusement.

Then, a deep voice cut through the low hum of conversation.

"Don’t be shy, my lovely. Come on over."

The voice belonged to the man sitting at the front, closest to the captain. His golden elk mask gleamed beneath the warm glow of the chandelier, catching the light with every subtle movement. He was leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the armrest in a posture of complete leisure, his other hand outstretched toward you, beckoning.

Your heart sank...sank and sank until you thought it might crash onto the marble floor beneath you.

For a fleeting second, you hesitated.

And that’s when you felt it—an invisible weight, pressing down on you.

The captain’s mask turned in your direction.

Even without seeing his eyes, you felt his stare—heavy, unrelenting, a silent demand that burned into your skin like a warning. Your refusal to move, even for just a moment, had not gone unnoticed.

The air in the room grew suffocating.

Your fingers tightened into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms, grounding yourself against the sickening dread pooling in your stomach. Your legs felt like lead, but somehow, they moved.

One step.

Then another.

The distance between you and the elk-masked man closed too quickly, yet not quickly enough. You could feel the heat of a dozen gazes on you—some amused, some indifferent, but his… his was expectant.

When you finally stopped before him, he tilted his head slightly, as if studying you from behind the mask.

You swallowed hard, standing there stiffly, waiting for whatever was to come next.

But the worst part was, you had no idea what he wanted.

And that terrified you more than anything.

The man let out a low, satisfied groan as his eyes lingered on you, his hand reaching out to graze the curve of your calf. His touch sent a wave of revulsion through you, but you fought the instinct to pull away. With the captain’s mask fixed firmly on your back, every muscle in your body screamed to obey, to stay still, to endure.

You took a step closer, the warmth of his body radiating up to meet yours, but the touch only grew more invasive. His hand slid up your thigh with casual arrogance, his fingers pressing firmly into your skin. Before you could react, he pulled you forward, and you fell, unceremoniously, into his lap.

The shock of the movement knocked the breath out of you, his hands caressing the skin of your thighs.

He laughed, a breathy, self-satisfied sound, his hot, alcohol-scented breath washing over your mask. You could feel his grip tightening on your upper thigh as if claiming ownership, each subtle shift making you feel smaller, more exposed.

“Are you enjoying yourself, darling?” His voice was slow, deliberate, as if testing how far he could push you, his fingers making subtle circles along your skin.

You blinked, fighting to keep your expression neutral, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you. “Of course, sir.” The words were louder than you wanted, leaving your lips before you could stop them, the fake cheer in them tasting bitter and hollow.

His hand cupped your chin, his fingers digging in, forcing you to meet his gaze. You couldn’t look away. The nasty grin on his face sent a sick feeling twisting through your stomach.

“Don’t be shy,” he ordered, his tone thick with amusement. “Where are you from?”

You bit your lip, trying to steady the frantic beating of your heart. You told him where you were from, the words left your mouth before you could stop them, a reflexive lie that felt like sand in your mouth.

He hummed, pleased, his fingers tangling in your hair, yanking, and inquisitive as he pulled you closer. The force of his fingers in your hair loosened your mask, and for a split second, it made you panic. The black mask had shifted, exposing part of your face. Half of your vulnerability was now laid bare, that half of your face exposed to the captain.

Your pulse spiked, terror rising in your chest as half of your identity was half revealed to him.

You barely had time to react. The second your hand reached up to adjust your mask, it was too late. A gloved hand seized your wrist with unyielding force, yanking you from the VIP's lap. The VIP barked in protest, but it didn't matter. The sharpness of the grip made you gasp in pain, your breath caught in your throat as you were dragged across the room. The sudden motion left you dizzy, and for a moment, your legs struggled to keep up, stumbling as you fought to stay steady.

The force of the hand around your wrist was crushing, unrelenting, and you looked up—meeting the cold, piercing gaze of the captain. His mask bore no expression, but his silence was loud enough.

He gave a sharp order to the guard beside him, his voice low and commanding, “Monitor the game.”

The words sent a shudder through you, but you didn’t have time to process them.

You tried to pull away, to break free, but his grip only constricted. He was stronger, faster, his hold unshakable.

Every attempt to escape felt like an exercise in futility, and a sickening thought crept into your mind: this was it.

You weren’t the face on file for Guard 29. You weren’t supposed to be here. You were an imposter. The realization struck you like a punch to the gut, and a bitter taste flooded your mouth.

You could feel your heart hammering against your chest, but there was nothing you could do. Your commlink, hidden beneath your mask and tucked away in the other uniform, was useless now. You were trapped.

The hallway ahead was cold as he dragged you, the air viscous with the aroma of metal and the distant echoes of distant screams. The sharp sound of your tights ripping apart at the seams made you wince, the fabric tearing like a sickening reminder of your helplessness.

But still, you fought.

You kicked, thrashing against his grip, throwing punches with everything you had. The force of your blows landed against his body like hammer strikes against brick, but it was no use. The man’s hold didn’t loosen; he barely flinched, as if he’d endured much worse.

“Let go of me, you bastard!” you screamed, your voice ragged with frustration, fury, and terror. The words tasted bitter, but they were all you had left. You weren’t going to let him drag you to whatever fate awaited you in silence.

You weren’t going to die quietly. Not like this.

The sharp turn into the office space came so suddenly that it took your breath away. You barely had time to brace yourself before he shoved you forward. Your knees buckled as you hit the cold marble floor with a sickening thud, the impact leaving you winded and dazed. The sharp echo of the door slamming shut behind you sent a jolt of panic through your body, making you scramble to push yourself up, but before you could even fully react, his boots were already coming into view.

You barely had a moment to catch your breath as he raised his gun, stepping between your legs. The cold, menacing barrel of his gun was aimed directly at your head. The steely glint from his mask matched the deadly precision of his stance. "I've gotta say," he muttered, his voice low and mocking, "you're good. Posing as a guard, unnoticed, undetected." He leaned in, lowering himself to a crouch, his gaze never leaving you as if studying your every move, anticipating your next one.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you instinctively pulled back, trying to create distance, but his hand was quick, gripping your chin with a vice-like force. You gasped, feeling the sting of his fingers digging into your skin, and before you could think to resist, he jerked your head upward, forcing you to look at him. "Take off the mask," he ordered, his voice cold, without a hint of mercy.

Your body stiffened, refusing to comply. You shook your head, a flicker of defiance the only thing that kept you from completely losing yourself in the moment. But that flicker was quickly extinguished as he sneered under the disguise, tightening his grip on your chin. In one swift motion, he yanked the mask from your face, tearing it off with an aggression that made you yelp in surprise.

But, what you expected next… never came. The seconds stretched on, heavy and suffocating, as his looming figure remained just inches from your face. Your heart thudded erratically, and you could feel the pulse of it in your throat, your temples, as you stared up at his grey mask, the blank expression seeming to mock you with its indifference. Every part of you screamed for release, for the end to come—yet he lingered, cold and unmoving. You searched desperately for something to hold onto, anything that could make sense of this twisted moment.

Frustration began to burn deep in your chest. The silence stretched on, suffocating, like a weight pressing down on your lungs. Why was he doing this? It made your blood boil—this twisted game, this drawn-out moment where you could only wait. You wanted it over. You wanted him to pull the trigger, to end it so that Jun-ho could find you, could tear through this man and avenge your death with all the brutality you knew he was capable of.

And in a strange, twisted way, you were at peace with that.

To die for love, for the search, for In-ho.

But the silence dragged, leaving you trembling, caught between terror and resolve. You furrowed your brow in anger, the tension thickening with every beat of your heart. “Well?” Your voice was sharp, louder than before, filled with a raw desperation you couldn’t hide. “Pull the trigger!”

The words hung in the air, reverberating in the stillness. Everything felt like it was holding its breath. Even your own pulse seemed to echo in the silence. And then, just as you thought you might suffocate under the weight of it all, you heard it—the sound of his steady breathing, matching your own. Close. So close you could feel the warmth of it on your skin as it escaped from under the mask.

Then, with a movement so subtle it almost slipped past you, his gloved hand rose slowly, fingers brushing against your chest. The pressure was almost gentle at first, just above your breastbone, but the sensation was electric. It was like his fingers were pressing down on your heart itself, a cruel reminder of its erratic, chaotic rhythm. You sucked in a breath, caught somewhere between confusion and shock. You couldn't move, couldn't pull away, even as the unexpected intimacy of the gesture froze you in place.

His gaze followed the movement, dropping down to where his hand lay against you, as if studying the rapid beat of your heart. The sensation was so intimate, so stark against the brutality of the situation, that it sent a shiver racing through you. The closeness—the rawness—of it felt as suffocating as his presence, and for a split second, you wondered if he could feel your fear through the rapid thud of your pulse.

A long, agonizing minute passed, the tension hanging thick in the air, pressing against your chest until it felt like you couldn’t breathe. Without warning, he stepped back, breaking the heavy silence. His body straightened, the movement almost casual, as if the intensity of the moment had been nothing more than a fleeting amusement for him. He holstered his firearm with intentional slowness, the metal clinking as it slid into place, the sound almost mocking in the sudden quiet.

Then, without another word, he backed away, his steps echoing softly in the office space as he turned and made his way toward the door. Each step seemed to stretch out in time, the thudding of his boots on the marble floor a rhythmic reminder of how surreal this entire situation had been.

You remained frozen for a moment longer, your breath a shallow gasp in the stillness, your chest rising and falling in frantic succession. Your body, tense and shaking, finally released the breath you'd been holding in, the air filling your lungs in a rush of disbelief. What the hell just happened?

The question hovered in your mind, but it was tangled, incoherent, an unspeakable knot of confusion. Why had he—what made him do that? It was as if the whole encounter had just… slipped through your fingers, leaving nothing but the wreckage of unanswered questions in its wake.

You couldn’t make sense of it. You couldn’t even finish the thought before the weight of the moment came crashing back down on you. The fear, the confusion, the shock, all swirling in your chest like a storm. You had to get out.

With trembling hands, you pushed yourself up from the cold marble floor. Your legs were unsteady, as if the ground beneath you had suddenly become alien, but you fought to steady yourself. Your heels lay discarded at your feet, a reminder of how quickly everything had spiraled out of control. You grabbed them, the cold leather against your fingers grounding you slightly in the chaos of your mind. But even as you stood there, alone in the eerie silence of the office, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something had been left unsaid, unspoken.

And now you were left with nothing but the gnawing uncertainty, the unanswered questions clawing at your mind. Why had he stopped? What was he thinking? What had that... touch meant?

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The scorching heat of the shower cascaded over your skin, melting away the tension that clung to your muscles like a second layer. Steam curled around you in thick, swirling tendrils, fogging the mirror and turning the bathroom into a hazy cocoon of warmth. You stood beneath the relentless stream, arms draped loosely around your neck, head tilted back, eyes shut. For a moment, you allowed yourself to exist in nothingness, your mind a void save for the questions you knew would never be answered.

You told yourself to let it go. To forget. You had been spared, and that alone should have been enough. Shouldn’t it? Yet, no matter how many times you repeated it, the unease sat heavy in your chest. The doubt, the uncertainty—it festered.

With slow, deliberate movements, you ran your fingers over your body, ridding yourself of the soap that clung stubbornly to your skin. The water slithered down your form in shimmering rivulets, vanishing into the drain along with any lingering warmth. Reluctantly, you reached for the robe hanging on the wall, wrapping yourself in its plush fabric as you stepped onto the cool tile.

Your new quarters were a stark contrast to what you had grown accustomed to—spacious, luxurious, tailored to your liking. A bed large enough to swallow you whole. Soft lighting that bathed the room in an inviting glow. It was comfortable. Too comfortable. A gilded cage, perhaps, but a cage nonetheless.

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your damp hair. And then, as if summoned by your unease, your thoughts drifted to Jun-ho. What had he been doing? Where had his relentless pursuit led him?

Slipping into fresh underwear and a loose shirt, you moved with a quiet, mechanical precision, your mind elsewhere—trapped in the fragments of a moment that refused to fade. You sank onto the edge of the bed, your gaze fixed on the floor, but you weren’t really seeing it.

The memory pulled at you, insistent and unrelenting. You turned it over in your mind, again and again, dissecting every second, every detail—the way the air had smelled, the way your skin had prickled, the weight of something unspoken pressing down on you.

Your fingers twitched at your sides before moving of their own accord, palm drifting toward your chest, mimicking the movement you had witnessed. The touch was slow, deliberate, tracing the same pattern, the same pressure. A shiver rippled through you.

It felt familiar.

Your breath hitched.

Familiar... similar.

Your heart lurched, your fingers momentarily stilling against your skin as a strange, creeping sensation unfurled in the back of your mind. You hadn’t noticed it before—not in the heat of the moment, not when you were too caught up in surviving. But now, in the stillness of your room, away from the chaos, it clicked.

The way he moved. The way his fingers had pressed. The rhythm. The intent.

Recognition clawed at you, a whisper of something just beyond reach.

And then—like a sudden snap of a thread—realization struck.

It wasn’t just familiar.

It was something you had known before..someone you had loved before and love now.

Your head snapped up. A sharp inhale caught in your throat.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, barely able to hear your own voice over the sudden, deafening pounding of your heart.

It had been In-ho—right there in front of you.

A violent shudder ripped through your body as the realization settled, your limbs moving before you could think. You lunged from the bed, nearly stumbling in your haste, hands trembling as you threw open the closet. Your old uniform hung there, untouched, yet heavy with memories. You tore it aside, fingers finding the cool metal of your comm link.

Fumbling, you pressed the button. "Jun-ho? Jun-ho," you called, breathless.

Static. A moment of silence that stretched unbearably before—

"I'm in a fix here, y/n, make it—make it quick."

His voice was strained, fractured between labored breaths. In the background, the sharp crunch of boots against gravel, the distant clatter of shifting debris. He was moving. Running.

Dread seeped into your bones like ice water.

He’d been caught.

But there was no time for that now. No time to process the cold grip of fear tightening in your chest. He needed to know.

"The captain." Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. "It’s In-ho."

Silence.

A long, chilling silence.

Then—his breath hitched, just barely audible over the crackling static. "Are you certain?"

You clenched your jaw, fingers curling into a fist at your side. You had never been more certain of anything in your life.

"I know it’s him."

The comm-link crackled again, his hurried footsteps echoing through the line. Then, at last, he spoke, his voice low and laced with something between bitter understanding and horror.

"Good to know," he panted. "’Cause that’s who I’m running from."

A pause.

"My own brother."

The words hit you like a blow to the chest.

"What will he do?" you asked, voice tight, barely above a whisper.

Jun-ho’s breath was ragged through the comm, his footsteps uneven as he moved. “My brother wouldn’t kill me—wound me, maybe, for interfering, but he’d give me a choice.”

You swallowed hard, pacing across your room in frantic strides, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt. Your mind raced, grasping at possibilities, at outcomes that felt just out of reach.

He kept talking, his words clipped, focused. “I gathered evidence. Enough to damn this place.”

Your breath hitched. That was more than you expected. More than you dared to hope for. “What do you plan to do?”

“If I can, send it to the chief,” he said. “But depending on how this goes, I’m at a loss.”

You stopped pacing, lowering yourself onto the edge of the bed, gripping your knees. The weight of the situation pressed down on you like an iron vice.

"If I'm out…" He hesitated as if forcing himself to speak the words that felt like an admission of something too final. "You’ll have to do this on your own."

You understood.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I know. Just… be careful.”

The moment stretched, taut, and suffocating.

Then—shouting.

Distant, at first. Then louder. Urgent.

Jun-ho sucked in a sharp breath, and the line cut to static.

Silence.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

By the time the next day arrived, you still hadn’t heard from Jun-ho. The silence should have been suffocating, but deep down, something told you he was okay. You held onto that instinct, clinging to it like a lifeline.

You stood beside one of the other servants, a woman taller than you, her posture rigid, almost militant. She barely blinked, her gaze fixed ahead as the VIPs began filing into the lavish hall, their presence thick with arrogance and indulgence. The air was laced with the scent of expensive cigars, aged whiskey, and the faintest trace of sweat beneath perfume.

The commanding officer barked his order, and without hesitation, you moved. A decanter balanced on your tray, the liquid sloshing gently as you navigated the room, pouring drinks with quiet precision. You slipped between the gilded chairs and velvet-draped lounges, your movements careful, practiced, invisible.

And then—you froze.

At the top of the grand staircase, In-ho stood, his presence an unshakable force in the room. His gaze locked onto yours, dark and unreadable beneath the polished mask. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, a silent pull between you two that no one else in the room could feel.

Then he moved.

He descended the stairs with the kind of effortless grace that sent unease curling in your stomach—not because you were afraid. No, not this time. This time, you were ready.

You forced yourself to breathe, finishing the pour of whiskey for the VIP in front of you with a steady hand before feeling the undeniable pull—In-ho’s silent command as he brushed past, his presence dragging you in his wake.

Without hesitation, you followed.

His strides were long, purposeful, but you matched them with ease, moving step for step beside him as the two of you slipped into a familiar office space. The heavy door shut behind you, muffling the sounds of indulgence and excess from the other room.

Silence settled between you.

You stood in front of him, your heart hammering against your ribs—not with fear, but with something else, something deeper. Slowly, instinctively, you reached for your mask, fingers brushing against the metal clips. Your fingers unclipped it, the cool press of it lifting from your skin as you pulled it away, revealing the face he had once known so well.

You let the silence stretch as you slowly took in your surroundings. The office was just as you remembered—dimly lit, with sleek, modern furniture that seemed almost too polished, too calculated. The faint scent of leather and aged wood lingered in the air, mingling with the ever-present sterility of power.

Your eyes landed on a bottle of tequila sitting on a side table, short empty glasses arranged beside it, as if someone had abandoned a half-formed thought. Without a word, you wandered toward it, perhaps to keep your distance, to keep from overwhelming him. The soft rustle of your clothes was the only sound breaking the quiet.

Lifting the bottle, you poured yourself a drink, the clear liquid swirling in the glass. You weren’t thirsty. Not really. But you needed something to do with your hands, something to tether you to the moment before it swallowed you whole.

You refused to let emotion surface, refused to let him see the way your chest ached with longing, the way the sight of him after all this time sent a ripple through the carefully constructed walls you had built around yourself. He wouldn’t see it.

But you knew—deep down, you knew.

Despite the unreadable mask he was wearing, his chest was tightening. His breath had caught, just for a second. He was in disbelief.

Spinning on your heel, you leaned back against the counter, the cool surface pressing against your spine as you raised the glass to your lips. The burn of tequila trailed down your throat, sharp and grounding.

Your gaze found his, unwavering.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you murmured, voice even.

He exhaled slowly, a sound barely audible, yet heavy with something unspoken.

“It feels like I have,” he admitted, his voice lower than you remembered, rough around the edges as if it had been worn down over time.

Your fingers tightened around the glass.

You pursed your lips, steadying yourself. “After you disappeared, I was lined up with a donor.” Your voice was quieter now, the weight of those words pressing against your ribs. “Received a new liver a few days later.”

Almost instinctively, your hand drifted to your side, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the spot where the scar rested beneath your shirt. The memory of it—of pain, of survival—flashed through you like a distant echo.

But In-ho didn’t move.

His mask remained fixed on you from across the room, cold and impassive, an unbreakable wall between you. You searched for something—anything—beneath it. A flicker of recognition. A hint of emotion. Some sign that he wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted to appear. But he gave you nothing. Just silence.

The lump in your throat tightened. You set the glass down, the quiet clink against the counter sounding impossibly loud.

“…Can I see your face?”

The words left you softer than you intended. A plea, despite yourself.

Three years.

Did he even look the same?

Had time been kind to him, or had it taken its toll?

For a moment, he didn’t respond. The space between you felt impossibly vast despite the room being small. Then, slowly—so slowly—you saw the slightest shift in his stance, something unreadable pressing at the edges of his silence.

Then, without a word, his gloved fingers rose to the mask.

A sharp click echoed in the room as he unlatched the clasps.

Your breath caught.

Slowly, he lifted it away, revealing the face you hadn’t seen in three years.

Time had changed him.

His sharp features were the same, but there was a hollowness to them now—a weight that hadn’t been there before. Faint lines traced his forehead, shadows lingering beneath his eyes. His gaze, dark and piercing, met yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

But the thing that hit you hardest—he looked tired.

More than tired. Worn. As if he had been carrying something heavy for far too long.

You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. You had pictured this moment a hundred times, imagined what you might feel—but none of it compared to the reality of seeing him now.

His lips parted, but no words came. He just looked at you, his throat bobbing with a swallow.

“…You’re really here,” he finally murmured, almost as if he didn’t believe it himself.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “I am.”

His eyes flickered down—to where your hand rested over your scar. Something passed through his expression, too quick to catch, but you saw it. A flash of guilt. Of something deeper.

Then, just as quickly, he forced it away. His mask may have been off, but the walls he had built? Those were still standing.

You exhaled, shaking your head slightly. “You don’t have to act like this doesn’t affect you, In-ho.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

You tilted your head, studying him. “Doesn’t it?”

His silence was answer enough.

You pushed off the counter, stepping toward him with measured strides. "Where's your brother?"

His gaze flickered for a moment before settling back on you. "On his way back to the mainland."

You hummed, absorbing the information.

"It was his idea you know," you admitted, shifting your weight. "To come and find you. I wasn’t going to, but—"

His expression remained unreadable, his eyes dark and steady. "Why?"

You hesitated, fingers curling against your arms as you crossed them over your chest.

"Because I was afraid," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Afraid of your resentment." The words carried a weight that pressed against your ribs, threatening to crush the breath from your lungs.

You kept your gaze low, the weight of your emotions pressing against your chest, threatening to spill over. A tear welled in the corner of your eye, but before it could fall, you felt a hand brush against your shoulder, its warmth dragging slowly up to the back of your neck. You looked up to find In-ho standing in front of you, his face a mask of control—until his eyes met yours. For the first time, you saw something flicker there, a crack in the wall he’d built.

"What I did... wasn't your fault," he murmured, his voice softer than you'd expected. The words hung in the air between you, and you swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself.

You took a tentative step closer, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. The sting of the tear that finally escaped your eye didn’t matter—nothing mattered as much as his presence, the sincerity in his touch. You felt the warmth of his hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb brushing away the tear as his other hand settled on your waist. His fingers tightened, a silent plea for you to stay close, to listen.

"I've loved you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "still, as much as I did the day I left. As much as I did when you were on your deathbed."

His throat bobbed with the effort of holding back more, and you could feel the weight of his words pressing against your own heart. His forehead gently met yours, the contact sending a shiver through your body as he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, as if trying to breathe you in.

"But, you need to go back home," he said quietly, but there was an undeniable ache in his voice, a pleading note that left you breathless.

You pulled back, your heart pounding in your chest as you took a step away, eyes searching his. "Not without you," you said, your voice steady despite the storm inside.

In-ho’s eyes flickered, a flicker of something hardening in them as he shook his head. "I need to finish my job here," he replied, his tone final, almost resigned.

You furrowed your brow, confusion creeping in. "Your illegal job, you mean?" The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but you couldn’t hold back. You had to understand.

He shook his head again, more forcefully this time, before reaching into his pocket. His hand moved with purpose, his fingers brushing against the edge of something—then he pulled out a small badge, its gleam catching the dim light. The police badge. Your eyes widened in shock. "You... you’ve been undercover?" The words barely escaped you, a whisper of disbelief, but the weight of the truth sank in as the badge glinted in your eyes.

Without a word, In-ho pushed it back into his pocket, as though the revelation was nothing more than a passing detail. "The games are finished after today," he said quietly, his voice a mix of relief and resolve. He stepped away from you, the movement stiff, purposeful. His fingers wrapped around the mask he had worn so often, but now, as he picked it up, it seemed like a symbol of everything he had been hiding.

"Once I'm done, I’ll come and find you," he added, but his words, though laced with promise, didn’t ease the ache in your chest. You bit your lip, uncertainty gnawing at you, keeping you rooted to the spot. "How can I be sure?"

He paused, the question hanging in the air between you. His gaze softened as he looked at you, raw emotion slipping through the cracks of his composed exterior. "Because," he whispered, stepping closer, his voice a quiet confession, "I just found out the woman that I love is still breathing. And here, standing in front of me." His words hung in the air. Before you could react, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, and pressed the softest kiss to your lips. It was a kiss you had dreamed of for three long years—a kiss that seemed to erase every doubt, every moment of longing that had consumed you. It was gentle, tender, as if he was afraid to break something fragile.

When he pulled back, his eyes held yours for a heartbeat longer, as if he needed to make sure you were real, that the moment wasn’t just a dream. He reached up, his fingers brushing against his face, clipping the mask back on with a quiet finality.

Then, without another word, he grabbed your mask—his movements quick but deliberate.

"I’ll see you again, y/n," he promised, his voice low, but resolute.

And just like that, he was out the door.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

It had been three months. Three peaceful, tranquil months that felt like a dream, the kind you weren’t sure you’d ever wake from. The sun hung high in the sky, its warmth spilling across the water, making the world glow in a golden haze. The sky above you stretched wide, impossibly blue—bluer than it had ever been in your memory. You sat on the edge of the weathered wooden dock, your legs dangling freely, toes just skimming the surface of the water with each gentle ripple. The coolness of the water kissed your skin, a quiet reminder that you were truly here, truly present.

Beside you, In-ho sat, his gaze lost in the horizon, his profile framed by the light of the sun. He looked calm, peaceful even—so unlike the man you had once known. The man who had been lost in the shadows, in the chaos of things he couldn’t talk about. And yet, here he was, beside you, in this moment that felt like it could stretch on forever.

You should have been looking at the view, taking in the beauty of the world around you, but you couldn't. Not when he was sitting so close, not when every breath he took was like a promise that this time, he wouldn't disappear.

Your eyes remained locked on him, tracing the familiar lines of his face, the gentle curve of his jaw, the way his hair ruffled in the breeze. You held his arm firm, your grip strong as if you were afraid he might float away, as if this—this peaceful, perfect moment—was nothing more than a fleeting dream.

But it wasn’t a dream. It was real. You reminded yourself over and over, the mantra repeating in your mind like a lifeline.

Real.

Real.

Real.

[whosashan]

WELCOME!

Welcome, fellow Love and Deepspace fans!

This blog is dedicated to writing about the LaDS men —hope you enjoy your time here!

TAGLIST IS OPEN, TO ENTER GO TO THIS POST

REQUEST GUIDELINES

I have only a few rules:

I will not write content involving pedophilia, incest, zoophilia, or any similar themes.

I’m open to trying suggestive content, but I’m unsure about writing explicit smut.

Regarding topics related to mental disorders: You’re welcome to send in requests, but I can’t guarantee I will fulfill them. I want to ensure accuracy and avoid mischaracterizing any illnesses

Unfortunately, I don’t have as much free time as I used to, so responding to requests and posting in general may take longer than before. However, please don’t worry if I haven’t gotten to your request yet—I read and acknowledge every submission! Thank you for your patience and support. 😊

MASTERLIST

Sour - Part 2 of "Bitter"

A year has slipped through your fingers like sand, carrying away the sharp edges of bitterness— or so you thought. Yet, the past has a cruel way of resurfacing, and when you stand before your former lover once more, the question lingers: has time truly softened the wound, or does resentment still simmer beneath your skin? (all x non-mc!reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

Bitter

Watching the one you love partake in what you once pleaded to share—a quiet betrayal—feels like an arrow through the heart, swift and merciless. (all x non-mc!reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

SELF-DOUBT │ PART 2

Part 2 of "Self-doubt" - comfort!! (all x reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

Hugs Are Mandatory

Lately, your boyfriend had become impossibly dramatic—and hopelessly clingy. What's the reason for that? (clingy!all x gn!non-mc!reader)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

Me? Jealous?

Watching your new coworker grow a little too familiar with your boyfriend sent a sharp, unwelcome heat curling in your chest—an emotion you’d never dare to name, let alone admit. (Xavier x mc!reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

Sneakyyy

What did you expect when you woke your lover up in a panic, telling him to hide because your “boyfriend” just got home? Are you ready to face the consequences? (all x gn!non-mc!reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

WAS IT LONELY?

Xavier telling you a "bedtime story" when you have trouble sleeping. (Xavier x gn!reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

EVER AFTER, ALWAYS

You had known Caleb your entire life, yet never could you have anticipated this moment—standing before the altar, heart pounding, as you awaited the moment your lives would be bound together, not just for a lifetime, but for eternity and beyond. (Caleb x fem!reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

BUGGED AND BELATED

You're trapped in your room, locked in a silent battle with a bug that’s far too aware of your fear. Every move you make, it counters. Every escape plan, foiled. Dinner will have to wait—this thing might actually win. (all x gn!reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

SELF-DOUBT

Doubt creeps in, unraveling the fragile thread between you, pulling you further from him before anything even takes shape. (relationship not established) (all x reader)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

Oops..!

Caught in the tide of the moment, you let your true laugh escape—unfiltered, unguarded—for the first time in their presence. (all x reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

AFTER THE STORM

Part 2 of "Who do you love?" - As the sting of hurt and betrayal begins to soften, a quiet longing stirs—you find yourself wanting to seek them out. (Rafayel & Sylus x mc!reader)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

WHO DO YOU LOVE?

Doubt coils around your spine, relentless and unshaken, until the question slips free—do they love the person before them now, or the ghost of who you once were? (all x mc!reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

FEELS LIKE HOME

Your life together, in its quiet, domestic rhythm. (all x reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

PINKY PROMISES AND BUTTERFLY KISSES

Cute, random scenarios with them. (all x reader)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND

You notice their distance, the subtle avoidance, and decide it’s time to confront them. (all x reader)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

THE LITTLE THINGS

How they show you their love. (all x reader)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

I'VE GOT MY EYES ON YOU

How you started dating. (all x reader)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

HIS BRIDE

How would it be to be Rafayel's bride? (Rafayel x reader; based on a request)

──────────────────── ౨ৎ ────────────────────

SILENT TREATMENT

How would they react when given the silent treatment by you. (all x reader)

[dollerinna]

SHUT UP AND LOOK PRETTY :: B. BUTCHER

─ 𝑎 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑑 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝚑𝑜𝑤 𝑡𝑜 𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝚑𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑜𝑏 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝚑𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛’ 𝑐𝚑𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑦

𝓑illy butcher ੭୧ fem! brat reader ┇ oral m! receiving

BILLY BUTCHER was a bastard, and he wore it like a badge of honor. But you? You didn't cower under that withering glare. If anything, you met it head-on—sharp-tongued and reckless enough to dance on the edge of his patience until he snapped you back into place.

"Mm... I swear, assholes like you always have the biggest di-" The words slurred off your lips between each languid stroke, slow as honey sliding off a spoon, spiked with just enough venom to make them sting ever so sweetly.

Before the last syllable could fully form, Butcher's hand twisted into your hair with ruthless precision, the sharp tug startling a gasp as your head was wrenched backward.

"Oi- shut it," He barked, voice fraying at the edges with that gravel-pitched snarl that somehow managed to make everything sound filthier. His grip stayed merciless, anchoring you in place. "Ain't payin' you for yer backchat, love."

The faintest curve pulling at the corners of your mouth only spurred him on, his fist cinching down with a bruising authority as he dragged you closer. The swollen, darkened tip of his cock grazed against the contour of your bottom lip—hot, heavy, and unapologetically solid.

"Think you can sass me with a mouth full of cock, eh?" Butcher's eyes darkened, a harsher, more bestial gleam flickered to life within his stare, eclipsing that familiar glint. "Proper bird knows how to use her mouth without gettin' cheeky, so get back to it."

You didn't hesitate. The weight of him, already swelling between your teeth, carried a palpable heat that bled from his skin akin to smoldering coals, thickening the air to the point of where it felt ready to suffocate. As you took him in deeper, your lips stretched around the rigid girth, inch by delicious inch, until your throat tightened with the strain.

The raw, uneven rhythm of his exhale shattered the silence, strong digits threading deeper into your scalp. "Fuckin' hell...” Butcher's groan teetered on a gritted growl, his free hand bracing against the nearby wall. "That's it. Take it all, yeah?"

The hum vibrating within your vocal cords earned another guttural sound from him, the tip of your tongue tracing the buzz of a prominent vein along his shaft. His hips jerked forward in shallow thrusts, pressing further down until the head of his dick nudged the very back of your soft palate, stretching you to the brink.

He wasn't gentle. But then, you hadn't expected him to be.

"Big cock's a bloody curse," he muttered, each word fracturing under the weight of his breathing as you swallowed around him, the spasmodic clench of your muscles forcing a tremor through his stance. "But it don't mean I’m gonna start slowin’ down like some limp-dicked twat, whisperin’ sweet fuck-all in yer ear.”

His pace quickened, each thrust driving deeper as precum spread over your tongue like a rising tide of molten wax that refused to ebb—fiery and stifling, branding you from the inside out with every throb that followed. Even then, his fingers in your hair remained taut, locking you in place as if afraid to lose the burn.

"Least you've got some talent," a grunt rumbled from the well in his chest, thumb tracing a mocking semblance of tenderness along the delicate skin of your temple. "Might keep you around if you behave."

Butcher wasn't bluffing—he would keep you around. But only if you learned fast not to bite the hand that fed you. Or in this case, the cock that kept you on your knees.

[bucksanklescrews]

my hero- e.b. x fem!reader

if someone sets off the fire alarm one more time, its not going to be a false alarm next time (for legal reasons this is a joke)

warnings: fire alarm, kiss

Disoriented and still half-asleep, you blink groggily at the dim, early-morning light filtering through the blinds. The blaring fire alarm, screeching in the hallway, feels like a jackhammer drilling straight into your skull. Squinting, you grope blindly across your bedside table, fingers brushing against your phone, a crumpled tissue, and a half-full water bottle before finally landing on your glasses. You slip them on and wince as the room comes into sharper focus, the bright red glow of the alarm panel on the wall glaring back at you.

Please move to the nearest exits. Do not use the elevators. Fire alarm. Please move to the nearest-

“I get it!” you snap irritably, voice rough with sleep.

The alarm continues, merciless and unyielding, and you groan, pushing yourself upright. Your legs dangle over the side of the bed as you fumble for your shoes, finding only a pair of flimsy sandals by the door. You slip your feet into them, wincing as the straps dig uncomfortably into your socks, but you’re too tired to care. It's just for a few minutes, you reason. Besides, you can’t exactly go barefoot down the grimy dormitory stairwell.

Grabbing your sweatshirt off the back of your chair, you pull it over your head, the fabric muffling the sound of the alarm for a blessed few seconds. Once it’s on, though, the shrill beeping returns, echoing down the hallway as you crack open your door and step into the chaos beyond.

The corridor is a strange mixture of bleary-eyed students in pajamas, hastily thrown-on jackets, and, in some cases, just blankets wrapped around shoulders. They shuffle slowly, some yawning, others clutching phones with expressions of resigned annoyance as they trudge toward the emergency stairwell. You fall into line with them, yawning and rubbing at your eyes as you move with the tide of people heading for the exit.

The stairs are crowded, the steady clomp of slippers, flip-flops, and mismatched shoes creating an oddly synchronized rhythm. No one speaks, each person too wrapped up in their own tired thoughts and irritation, and the silence, punctuated by the occasional cough or sigh, feels almost reverent in a way.

As you reach the bottom floor, you notice the emergency lights casting a dim, ghostly glow over the lobby. The cool morning air hits you the moment you step outside, making you shiver and huddle deeper into your sweatshirt. The campus grounds are filled with clusters of students, all gathered under the dull glow of streetlights, clutching themselves for warmth or checking their phones with annoyed expressions.

Standing there, amidst the crowd of sleepy faces and muffled complaints, you find yourself hoping that whoever set off the alarm regrets it—immensely.

You shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself tighter as you wait impatiently. The thin sweatshirt barely keeps out the chilly morning air, and you can feel it creeping under the cuffs and up your sleeves. As you glance around, half-focused on keeping warm, you catch the sound of giggling from a couple of girls standing a few feet away.

“Oh, here come the firefighters!” one of them whispers, her eyes lighting up. “I hope they're hot!"

The other one snickers, her voice dripping with excitement and anticipation. “Last time, there was this one guy who looked like he walked straight out of a magazine. I’d take another 5 a.m. fire drill if it meant seeing him again.”

Rolling your eyes, you shift your weight from one foot to the other, wondering if the ordeal might at least bring some entertainment. The crowd parts slightly as the firefighters approach, flashlights glinting off their helmets. A few murmurs ripple through the crowd as people crane their necks to get a better look, and some students even take out their phones, subtly aiming their cameras at the approaching crew.

You cross your arms tighter, rubbing your hands along your sleeves to warm up, and glance up just as the first firefighter steps into view. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, a silhouette against the emergency lights, and, you have to admit, he looks every bit the part of the heroic first responder.

“Is it him?” one of the girls whispers excitedly, bouncing on her toes.

The second firefighter comes into view, a slight smile barely visible beneath the brim of his helmet. He catches the giggling girls’ eyes and gives a small, courteous nod. They immediately dissolve into more laughter, and you can’t help but smirk, despite the cold and early hour.

The firefighters begin to walk toward the entrance, and you hear one of them exchange a few words with the building’s RA, who’s standing by with a clipboard, looking every bit as tired as the rest of you. You shift back and forth, impatiently, hoping they’ll wrap this up soon so you can return to bed.

A few moments later, the lead firefighter steps forward, lifting his voice just enough to be heard. “Just bear with us, everyone. We'll have this sorted out as soon as possible."

You smile softly as you make eye contact with Captain Nash. He waves at you, tilting his head like he has something to say. You shuffle through the crowd.

Curiosity piqued, you navigate through the shuffling crowd of students, dodging yawns and half-hearted complaints as you edge closer to Captain Nash. He stands tall and calm amidst the chaos, his presence steadying, like a familiar anchor in the early morning haze. When you finally break free from the crowd and step up to him, he gives you a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that’s both reassuring and mildly amused.

“Rough morning, huh?” he asks, voice low enough that only you can hear. He raises an eyebrow, gesturing subtly to your mismatched sandals and socks.

You stifle a chuckle, looking down at your half-asleep fashion statement with a shrug. “Yeah, didn’t think this was worth a full outfit change,” you reply, tugging on the hem of your sweatshirt for emphasis.

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “No, I think you’re perfectly dressed for the occasion.” He glances over his shoulder as his team works near the building entrance, checking the alarm panel and taking down notes. "Buck's going to want to see you before we leave."

You hum. "I also want to see him. My hero," you say, dryly.

Bobby chuckles, clearly amused by your sarcastic tone. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll love to hear that,” he replies, with a wink. He gestures for you to follow him toward where the rest of his team is stationed by the entrance, and you weave through the crowd behind him.

Buck is easy to spot, standing a little apart from the others as he inspects the control panel with intense focus, his brow furrowed in concentration. You can see him muttering to himself as he examines the wires, utterly absorbed in his task. For a moment, you’re tempted to sneak up on him, but Nash clears his throat, drawing Buck’s attention. He turns, and the moment he sees you, his expression lights up.

“Well, look who finally made it out of bed,” he says, a wide grin spreading across his face. He raises an eyebrow, giving you a quick once-over and pausing at your sock-and-sandal combo. “Stylish as always, I see.”

You cross your arms, trying to keep a straight face. “Yes, I dress exclusively for occasions like these. Nothing but the finest for a 5 a.m. fire alarm.”

Buck laughs, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. “Ah, so you’re just here to admire my work, then?” He gestures grandly to the control panel as if he’s unveiling a work of art. “It’s a wiring malfunction. You were in no real danger, don’t worry.”

“Oh, good,” you reply, feigning relief. “I was ready to nominate you for a medal of bravery.”

“Only a medal?” Buck teases, pretending to look wounded. “I thought ‘hero of the year’ was more my speed.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Alright, ‘hero of the year.’ Thanks for getting us out of bed and saving us from… an empty hallway.”

He grins, clearly pleased with himself, and leans in a little, lowering his voice. He passes you a small hand warmer. “Next time, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know if it’s a real emergency. Scout’s honor.”

“Oh, I feel so safe now,” you reply, laughing.

Captain Nash watches the two of you with a fond smile before finally breaking in. “Alright, you two, that’s enough flirting in the cold. Let’s let them get back inside.” He gives you a light nudge toward the entrance.

As you pull Buck into the small inlet by the Residence Hall Director’s office, the hum of chatter fades slightly, giving you both a rare moment of privacy amidst the chaos. His hands find your waist, steady and warm, and he leans in to press a quick, soft kiss to your lips. The kiss is gentle, a brief but familiar connection that melts some of the lingering chill from the early morning.

You smile, patting his arm affectionately. “I’ll call you when your shift’s over, hero.”

His grin widens, a hint of boyish pride lighting up his expression. “I’ll hold you to that.” With a final squeeze, he lets you slip past him, giving you space to rejoin the stream of students filing back into the building.

As you make your way toward the stairs, you can’t help glancing back just once to see him standing by the entrance, watching you with that same, soft smile lingering on his face. Turning forward, you find yourself sandwiched between the same two girls from earlier, still whispering to each other with barely-concealed excitement. You’re only a few steps up when you feel their eyes on you, glancing back and forth between you and the doorway where Buck’s still visible.

You try to focus on the climb, but you catch snippets of their hushed conversation, and it’s clear they’re talking about you.

“Did you see that?” one of them whispers, her tone tinged with awe. “She just kissed him! That’s her boyfriend! We need to be friends with her.”

“Shut up,” the other one murmurs, giggling. “He’s a firefighter! And did you see how he looked at her? Like, that’s movie-level romance.”

You bite back a smile, pretending not to notice as they fall into a fit of muffled giggles. The warmth from the hand warmer Buck gave you still lingers in your pocket, and for a moment, you don’t mind the climb or the chill. The girls’ words trail off, replaced by soft sighs and faint giggles as they shuffle up behind you, but you can still feel the amused, almost envious glances they cast your way.

As you finally reach your floor, one of the girls gives you a little nudge, her face lighting up with genuine excitement. “You know, that was seriously cute. I’d get out of bed early for a guy like that.”

You chuckle, shrugging as you make your way to your door. “It has its perks,” you admit, smiling to yourself as you close the door and finally, blissfully, crawl back into bed.

[haeriinette]

ADDICTION - NA JAEMIN

blurb - Addicted to the very drug he hunts, narcotics detective Na Jaemin is spiraling. Only journalist Oh Sowon can save him from himself—and the deadly truth he's uncovered.

genre - mystery, detective thriller, romance (with smut).

- Playlist link

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The neon glow of the Seoul street reflected in the slick, rain-streaked pavement, a distorted mirror to the celebration inside the small, smoky restaurant. Detective Na Jaemin, his usually sharp eyes slightly glazed, raised his glass of soju. The promotion, a hard-won victory in the relentless war against the city's drug syndicates, tasted bittersweet. He'd climbed another rung, but the climb had left him weary, a weariness he masked with practiced nonchalance.

His team, a motley crew of dedicated officers, roared their approval, their voices a comforting, if raucous, symphony. Jaemin offered a curt nod, a flicker of a smile touching his lips. He was good at his job, too good. He knew the intricate dance of the drug trade, the whispers, the coded language, the subtle shifts in power. He knew it too well.

He’d indulged in a few more cups of soju than usual, the familiar burn a welcome distraction. Leaving the restaurant, the cool night air was a sharp contrast to the warmth of the celebration. He hailed a cab, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of color as he leaned back in the seat.

He never made it home.

The abrupt darkness, the prick of a needle, the acrid taste of something foreign on his tongue – it was a brutal awakening. He struggled, his trained instincts kicking in, but the drug was potent, a swift and merciless tide pulling him under.

He awoke, disoriented, in the echoing expanse of a train station. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long, distorted shadows. His head throbbed, a dull ache that pulsed with each beat of his heart. He tried to stand, but his legs were weak, his balance precarious. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he stumbled, his hand finding purchase on a cold, metal railing.

His colleague, Detective Jungwoo, found him there, swaying like a drunkard. Jungwoo’s usually jovial face was etched with concern. "Jaemin! What happened?"

Jaemin tried to speak, but his words were slurred, his thoughts tangled. He could only manage a garbled explanation, the details lost in the fog of the drug. Jungwoo, his brow furrowed, helped him into the patrol car.

The ride was a blur. Jaemin’s vision swam, the city lights morphing into abstract shapes. He felt a cold sweat breaking out on his skin, a creeping dread that settled in his bones. Then, darkness again, a deeper, more profound darkness.

He opened his eyes to the sterile white of a hospital room. The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor was the only sound, a steady, insistent pulse. He turned his head, his gaze landing on a figure standing beside the bed. Oh Sowon, her sharp eyes narrowed, her expression a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

"Well, well, Detective Na," she said, her voice laced with a hint of amusement. "Looks like you've had a rough night."

Jaemin groaned, his head throbbing. "Reporter Oh," he managed, his voice hoarse. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard a rumor," she said, her eyes gleaming. "A rumor that the city's golden boy detective had a little… incident. Collapsed in the street, they said. Naturally, I had to investigate."

He wanted to tell her to leave, to tell her to mind her own business. But the words wouldn't come. His body felt heavy, his mind sluggish. He was trapped, not just by the drug, but by the weight of the secrets he carried.

"What happened?" Sowon pressed, her voice sharp. "Did you finally get a taste of your own product, Detective?"

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Jaemin’s eyes flickered, his gaze hardening. He wanted to deny it, to lash out, but the truth was a bitter pill he couldn't swallow. He was addicted. The very thing he hunted, the poison he swore to eradicate, had seeped into his own veins. The drug, a new synthetic variant, was insidious, its effects both euphoric and destructive. He had been chasing it, studying it, trying to understand its power, and in doing so, he had become its captive.

"I…" he began, his voice trailing off. He couldn't explain, not to her, not to anyone.

Sowon leaned closer, her eyes searching his. "There's more to this, isn't there?" she said, her voice low. "You took the opportunity didn’t you?”

He looked away, his gaze fixed on the sterile white wall. She was too close, too perceptive. She saw too much.

He knew what he had uncovered. It was a network, a web of corruption that reached into the highest echelons of the city's power structure. He had seen the connections, the hidden alliances, the dark secrets they guarded. And now, they had silenced him.

"This isn't just about drugs, is it?" Sowon asked, her eyes filled with a dangerous curiosity. "This is about something bigger."

He remained silent, his gaze fixed on the wall. He couldn't trust her, not entirely. But he knew, deep down, that she was his only chance. She was the only one who could see the truth, the only one who could help him unravel the tangled web of lies and deceit.

He looked at her, his eyes filled with a desperate plea. He was trapped, caught in a spiral of addiction and conspiracy. And only she, the persistent, inquisitive journalist, could pull him back from the edge.

The drug had left its mark, and now, he had to decide if he would succumb to its poison or fight back, with Sowon as his unlikely ally.

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was a stark, insistent counterpoint to the fog in Jaemin's mind. He lay on the crisp, white sheets, his body heavy, his thoughts sluggish. He hadn't noticed her yet, his gaze fixed on the sterile white ceiling.

"How did you get ahold of the drug?" Sowon asked instantly, her voice sharp and accusatory.

What drug? Jaemin thought, his brow furrowed. He didn't take drugs. He hunted them. He chased the dealers, the pushers, the manufacturers. But his thoughts were a tangled mess, the memory of the past few hours a hazy blur. He tried to piece it together, but the fragments were disjointed, meaningless.

Jaemin's eyes darted towards the sound of the voice, finally noticing Sowon standing by his bed. He furrowed his brow in confusion, still trying to piece together the events that led to his current predicament.

"What drug? What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice groggy and disoriented. He tried to sit up again, but the room was spinning, and he quickly fell back against the bed.

Sowon chuckled, a low, humorless sound, and raised an eyebrow as she watched Jaemin's failed attempts to sit up. She knew he was disoriented and dazed, but she was here for the story, and Jaegal, her editor, would have her head if she returned empty-handed.

"You were on drugs, or don't you remember that? I'm assuming you're pretty confused..."

Sowon took a seat in the chair beside the bed, her eyes gleaming with a predatory intensity. She leaned forward, her gaze fixed on Jaemin's, and taunted, "Unless you're trying to cover your drug addiction."

The accusation hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Jaemin's eyes flashed with anger, but his body was too weak, his mind too clouded to mount a proper defense. "Addiction?" he managed, his voice strained. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Sowon countered, her voice laced with skepticism. "You've been obsessively tracking this new synthetic drug for weeks. You've practically been living and breathing it. And now, you're here, in a hospital bed, drugged to the gills. Coincidence?"

Sowon looked around the hospital room, there was plenty of white empty beds. It seems like the police department wants to keep Jaemin hidden from the public eye so this doesn’t get public.

Sowon trails sarcastically. “Your new career promotion can die if I release a story about a narcotic detective who just so happens to have a drug addiction.”

It was an open threat. Jaemin knew he was running on thin ice. But he wouldn’t let Sowon just threaten him so loosely.

Her words were like a physical blow. He wanted to scream, to deny it, but the lingering effects of the drug, the fog in his mind, made it difficult to form a coherent response. He'd been meticulous, careful, even obsessive in his pursuit of the new drug, but he'd never touched it, never even considered it.

"You're wrong," he managed, his voice strained. "I was drugged."

Sowon raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Drugged? By whom? And why? You're the one who's been digging into this, the one who knows the most. It's far more likely you got too close, too curious, and decided to test the product."

"That’s ridiculous," Jaemin said, his eyes flashing with anger. "I would never—"

"Never say never, Detective," she cut him off, her voice laced with a knowing tone. "Everyone has their vices. And you, you've always walked a fine line. You're obsessed with control, with order. Maybe this was your way of letting go."

Her words stung, a calculated attack that hit too close to home. He had always been meticulous, disciplined, driven. But the pressure, the constant exposure to the city's underbelly, had taken its toll. He had become a master of control, but at what cost?

"You're twisting this," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You always do."

"I'm just reporting the facts," she countered, her eyes unwavering. "A narcotics detective found unconscious, heavily drugged, after weeks of investigating a new synthetic. It's a story that writes itself."

He glared at her, his distrust deepening. She was a vulture, circling the wounded, eager to pick at the carcass. She had always been a thorn in his side, her relentless pursuit of a scoop often jeopardizing his investigations.

"You've been in my way since day one," he said, his voice laced with resentment. "Always sniffing around, trying to get a headline. You don't care about the truth, you just want a story."

He turned away, his gaze fixed on the blank wall. He couldn't trust her. She saw him as a fallen hero, a hypocrite who had succumbed to the very thing he fought against. But he knew the truth. He had been targeted, drugged, silenced. And he needed to find out why.

"If you're so convinced I'm an addict," he said, his voice cold, "then leave. Leave me to deal with my 'vices.'"

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, her voice firm. "This story is too good to pass up. And I have a feeling, Detective, that there's more to this than meets the eye. Something you're not telling me."

He remained silent, his gaze fixed on the wall. He knew she wouldn't leave. She was like a dog with a bone, determined to dig until she uncovered the truth. And he, trapped in his own web of secrets and suspicion, had no choice but to play along, even if it meant risking everything. The serpent's kiss had left its mark, and now, he had to navigate the treacherous path ahead, with Sowon as his reluctant, and untrusted, companion.

Jaemin's silence stretched, a heavy, palpable thing that filled the sterile hospital room. He turned his head away, his gaze fixed on the bland, featureless wall, a stark contrast to the swirling chaos within his mind. He wasn't going to give Sowon anything. Not willingly. He'd learned the hard way that reporters, even those with seemingly good intentions, had a knack for twisting words, for sensationalizing the truth.

Sowon, her patience wearing thin, bit the inside of her cheek. She was used to extracting information, to peeling back layers of deception, but Jaemin was a fortress, a wall of stubborn resistance. "Fine," she said, her voice laced with a hint of exasperation. "What were you doing yesterday? Let's start from there."

Jaemin grunted, shifting slightly on the bed, his movements stiff and awkward. "I'm not telling you anything," he said, his voice rough, "especially not to a reporter."

His expression hardened, a mask of defiance settling over his pale features. "I'm not just going to give you a story just because you ask for it."

Sowon rolled her eyes, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. "Oh, come on," she said, leaning closer, a sly smirk playing on her lips. "You're a public figure, you're on the news all the time. Besides, your name is going to be in the paper anyway. Might as well give me some good information so people don't think you're on drugs."

Jaemin scoffed, rubbing his temple again, the throbbing in his head a constant, nagging reminder of his vulnerability. "I was at my promotion party last night," he grumbled, "but I didn't take any drugs. I just had a few drinks."

Sowon chuckled, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Just a few drinks, huh? And then what? You magically end up here with the drug in your system?"

Jaemin exhaled sharply, his frustration mounting. "I don't know what happened," he said, his voice strained. "I remember having a few drinks, and then it's all a blur. I don't remember taking any drugs."

Sowon leaned against the wall, crossing her arms, her gaze unwavering. "You sure about that? You don't remember anything at all after your little party?"

Jaemin turned to Sowon, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and exhaustion. He looked pale, almost ashen, the shadows under his eyes deepening the impression of fragility. He looked, as Sowon thought, like a near-corpse.

Sowon cleared her throat, breaking the tense silence. She'd noticed the doctor's brief mention of a slice wound on Jaemin's shoulder, a detail that had piqued her interest. "Alright, fine," she said, her eyes scanning his body, searching for clues. "Maybe you were attacked?" she trailed quietly, her voice laced with a hint of doubt.

Jaemin's glare softened, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He hadn't even considered the possibility of an attack. He reached up, his fingers brushing against his shoulder, wincing as he touched a small, tender wound.

"Maybe," he muttered, a hint of doubt creeping into his voice. "But I don't remember anything after the party. I don't know who attacked me, or why they did it." His frustration and exhaustion were palpable, etched into the lines of his face.

Sowon's eyes caught the wince on his expression, and she watched him intently, her journalistic instincts kicking in. "Lift up your shirt," she demanded, her voice sharp and authoritative.

Jaemin was taken aback by her abrupt demand. He hesitated, his face a mask of confusion and annoyance. "Excuse me?" he said, raising an eyebrow skeptically. "Why do you want me to lift up my shirt?"

Before he could protest further, Sowon moved swiftly, her fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, revealing a collection of bruises that the doctor had neglected to mention. The dark, angry marks stood out against his pale skin, a silent testament to a struggle he couldn't recall. Sowon's eyes widened slightly, her gaze fixed on the bruises. She hadn't expected to find so much, and the evidence painted a much more violent picture than she had initially imagined. She pulls her phone out and takes multiple pictures of the bruises.

Before he could protest further, Sowon moved swiftly, her fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, revealing a collection of bruises that the doctor had neglected to mention. The dark, angry marks stood out against his pale skin, a silent testament to a struggle he couldn't recall. Sowon's eyes widened slightly, her gaze fixed on the bruises. She hadn't expected to find so much, and the evidence painted a much more violent picture than she had initially imagined. She pulls her phone out and takes multiple pictures of the bruises, her actions swift and efficient.

Sowon watched as he struggled to sit up more, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each motion caused him pain. It was clear that he didn't even want to be here, or maybe just not with her. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a silent battle of wills.

"You said you don't remember how you ended up here, right?" she asked, her voice sharp, pointing at the bruises on his chest. "Looks like you got attacked. Don't you think that's weird?"

Jaemin winced as he shifted, his gaze following Sowon's finger to the dark bruises marring his skin. He felt a surge of frustration, a burning anger at the unknown assailant who had dared to violate his body, to steal his memories.

"Weird?" he echoed, his voice laced with bitterness.

He looked at Sowon, his eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion dancing in their depths. "And you, you're enjoying this, aren't you? Watching me squirm."

Sowon met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "I'm a reporter, Detective," she said, her voice cool. "I report the facts. And the facts are that you were attacked, drugged, and left for dead. That's a story, whether you like it or not."

She paused, her eyes searching his. "But it's also a puzzle. And if we want to solve it, we need to work together. Even if we don't like each other."

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Think about it, Jaemin. Someone wanted you out of the way. Someone wanted you silenced. And they went to great lengths to do it. Why?"

Jaemin's jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on Sowon's. He knew she was right. He couldn't deny the evidence, the bruises, the missing memories, the lingering effects of the drug. He was vulnerable, exposed, and he needed answers.

"They wanted to stop me," he said, his voice low, "from what I was investigating."

"The new drug?" Sowon asked, her eyes gleaming.

Jaemin hesitated, his distrust warring with his need for answers. He knew he was walking a dangerous line, revealing sensitive information to a reporter. But he also knew that Sowon was his only chance, his only lifeline in the darkness that had enveloped him.

"Yes," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "The new drug."

Sowon nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on his. "And you were getting close, weren't you? You were about to uncover something big."

Jaemin looked away, his gaze fixed on the wall. "Too close," he muttered, his voice laced with a hint of regret. "Too close."

Sowon saw Jaemin growing quiet, his gaze distant, lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts. She knew she was pushing him, probing the raw edges of his vulnerability, but she also knew that time was of the essence. The longer they waited, the more dangerous the situation became.

Just as the silence threatened to become unbearable, her phone rang, the shrill tone cutting through the sterile quiet of the hospital room. She glanced at the screen, recognizing Jaegal's name, her editor.

"Excuse me," she said to Jaemin, her voice low. "I need to take this."

She stepped outside the room, closing the door behind her, and moved a few steps down the hallway, away from the bustling nurses' station. The hospital was a hive of activity, a constant flow of patients, doctors, and visitors. She lowered her voice, mindful of the quiet atmosphere.

"Yes, Oh Sowon speaking?" she said on the phone, her tone quiet and professional. "Jaegal? What is it?"

"Sowon! Where are you? I've been trying to reach you for ages!" Jaegal's voice boomed through the phone, even at a lower volume, his impatience palpable. "I need a story, Sowon. A front-page, headline-grabbing story. And I need it now."

Sowon sighed, rubbing her temples. Jaegal was always like this, a whirlwind of demands and deadlines. "I'm at the hospital, Jaegal," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "I'm working on something big."

"Hospital?" Jaegal's voice shifted, a hint of curiosity creeping in. "What kind of something big? Someone famous get a hangnail?"

"It's Detective Na Jaemin," Sowon said, her voice low. "He's been hospitalized. Drugged. Attacked."

A moment of silence followed, then Jaegal's voice erupted, a mixture of excitement and disbelief. "Na Jaemin? The narcotics detective? Drugged? Attacked? Sowon, are you serious?"

"Completely," Sowon confirmed, her eyes scanning the hallway, ensuring no one was eavesdropping. "He's been investigating a new synthetic drug, and it looks like he got too close."

"Too close?" Jaegal echoed, his voice laced with anticipation. "What does that mean? Is there a conspiracy? A cover-up? Are we talking dirty cops? Drug cartels? Give me the details, Sowon!"

"I'm still piecing it together," Sowon said, trying to manage Jaegal's excitement. "He's not talking much. But I've seen the bruises, the wound. It's not a simple overdose. Someone wanted him silenced."

"Silenced?" Jaegal repeated, his voice rising in pitch. "This is gold, Sowon! Front-page gold! We need to break this story, and we need to break it first. Get me everything you've got. Photos, quotes, the whole damn story. I want to see this on the presses by tomorrow morning."

"Jaegal, I need time," Sowon protested, trying to rein in his enthusiasm. "This is a sensitive situation. I need to get the facts straight. And Jaemin's not exactly cooperating."

"Cooperating?" Jaegal scoffed. "Make him cooperate! You're a reporter, Sowon. That's your job. Get the story, by any means necessary. And don't forget the photos! We need visuals! People eat that up."

"I have photos of the injuries," Sowon confirmed. "But I need to get more information. And I need to make sure we don't compromise the investigation."

"Compromise?" Jaegal barked. "Forget about the investigation! We're talking about a scoop here, Sowon! A career-making scoop! Don't let this slip through your fingers. This is your chance to make a name for yourself, to show them what you're made of!"

"I understand, Jaegal," Sowon said, her voice tight. "I'll do my best."

"Best isn't good enough, Sowon," Jaegal said, his voice laced with a warning. "I need results. And I need them now. Don't disappoint me."

He hung up, leaving Sowon standing in the hallway, the weight of Jaegal's expectations pressing down on her. She glanced back at the closed door of Jaemin's room, a mix of determination and apprehension swirling within her. She had a story, a big one. But she also had a responsibility, a nagging sense that she was walking a dangerous line. She needed to get the truth, but she also needed to protect Jaemin, even from himself.

Sowon hung up the phone, the weight of Jaegal's demands pressing down on her. She glanced back at Jaemin's door, a mix of determination and apprehension swirling within her. Just as she was about to return, Detective Kim Jungwoo emerged from the shadows.

"Sowon," he said, his voice unusually firm, "you shouldn't be here."

Sowon raised an eyebrow, surprised by his tone. "Jungwoo? What are you talking about?"

Jungwoo, usually so gentle and approachable, looked tense. "Chief Park's orders. He wants you kept away from this investigation."

"Kept away?" Sowon scoffed. "Why? Because I'm a reporter?"

Jungwoo nodded, his expression apologetic. "He said your presence would complicate things. He wants to keep Jaemin's situation under control, and he's worried about leaks."

"Leaks?" Sowon repeated, her voice laced with disbelief. "I'm trying to help catch the bad guy over here.”

"I know," Jungwoo said, his voice softening slightly. "And I know you and Jaemin have a complicated history. But this is different. This involves police matters. Very sensitive ones."

"Sensitive?" Sowon retorted, her voice rising. "He was attacked, drugged! Someone tried to kill him! How much more sensitive can it get?"

Jungwoo sighed, running a hand through his black hair. "Look, Sowon, I understand. I really do. We're friends outside of this. But I have my orders. Chief Park was very clear. He wants you out of this."

"So, you're going to stop me?" Sowon challenged, her eyes flashing. "You're going to stand in my way?"

Jungwoo hesitated, his gaze shifting between Sowon and the closed door. "I… I don't want to," he admitted, his voice low. "But I have to. It's my job."

"Your job is to protect Jaemin," Sowon countered, her voice sharp. "And right now, I'm the only one who can do that."

"That's not true," Jungwoo said, his voice firm. "We're investigating. We'll find out who did this."

Jungwoo's expression softened, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. He knew Sowon was right. Jaemin was vulnerable, and he needed someone to watch his back. But he also knew he couldn't disobey a direct order from his chief.

"I'm sorry, Sowon," he said, his voice laced with regret. "I can't let you go in there."

"Jungwoo," Sowon pleaded, her voice low, "please. I won't do anything to jeopardize the investigation. I just want to talk to him."

Jungwoo hesitated, his eyes searching Sowon's. He knew she was persistent, and he knew she wouldn't give up easily. But he also knew he couldn't risk disobeying his chief.

"I can't," he said, his voice firm. "I'm sorry."

He stepped in front of the door, blocking Sowon's path. "Please, Sowon," he said, his voice pleading. "Just go. Let us handle this."

Sowon glared at him, her frustration mounting. She knew Jungwoo was just following orders, but she couldn't believe he was turning her away. She was determined to help Jaemin, and she wouldn't let anyone stop her.

“Fine, stand in my way.” Sowon mutters. “I can’t promise it won’t burn you.”

She glared at him, her frustration mounting. She knew Jungwoo was just following orders, but she couldn't believe he was turning her away. She was determined to help Jaemin, and she wouldn't let anyone stop her. Sowon was a master of manipulation, of finding the cracks in people's defenses. She knew how to play on their emotions, to exploit their weaknesses. Jungwoo, despite his attempts to remain professional, was still her friend, and she knew she could use that to her advantage.

She also knew Jungwoo had given her tips in the past, often accidentally, when he was talking about cases. He was honest, and that was something she could use. But this time was different. This time, he was under direct orders, and his loyalty to the police force was stronger than his friendship with her.

She turned and walked away, her steps heavy with frustration and anger. She knew she couldn't force her way past Jungwoo, not physically. But she also knew she wouldn't give up. She would find another way to get to Jaemin, to uncover the truth, and to protect him from whatever danger lurked in the shadows. She would use every trick in her arsenal, every connection she had, to get the information she needed. And if that meant burning a few bridges along the way, so be it.

As she walked down the hallway, she pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. She needed to find out everything she could about the new drug, about Jaemin's investigation, about anyone who might have wanted to silence him. She would use her network of informants, her access to police records, her ability to dig up information that others couldn't find. She would leave no stone unturned.

She would find a way past Jungwoo, and she would get to Jaemin. Even if she had to burn the whole building down.

The sterile white of the hospital room had become a familiar, if unwelcome, backdrop to Jaemin's restless hours. He lay on the bed, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor a constant, monotonous drone. His phone, a lifeline to the outside world, was clutched in his hand, its screen illuminated with a cascade of information – police reports, witness statements, coded messages – all fragments of the puzzle he was desperately trying to piece together.

He scrolled through his call logs, his contacts, searching for any anomaly, any clue that might shed light on the events of the previous night. He was a detective, a master of observation, of deduction. But this case, his own case, was shrouded in a frustrating fog, a blank space in his memory that refused to yield its secrets.

Jungwoo had been clear: no visitors. The Chief's orders. Jaemin understood the need for caution, for control. But the isolation was suffocating, the silence amplifying the doubts that gnawed at his mind.

Then, a knock. Sharp, insistent, a stark contrast to the quiet hum of the hospital. Jaemin's eyes flickered to the door, a flicker of suspicion replacing the weariness in his gaze. He wasn't expecting anyone.

"Who is it?" he called out, his voice rough.

The door opened, revealing a figure that sent a jolt of surprise, and a surge of unwelcome memories, through Jaemin's body. Lee Taeyong.

Taeyong, his old friend, his former partner, his… adversary. Their relationship, once a bond forged in the crucible of the police academy, had fractured, splintered into a thousand pieces, leaving behind only the bitter taste of betrayal.

Taeyong stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, a mask of carefully constructed neutrality. He looked the same, sharp features, intense eyes, the air of quiet authority that had always defined him. But there was something different, something colder, something that hinted at a deeper, more profound change.

"Jaemin," Taeyong said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Jaemin's jaw tightened. "Taeyong," he replied, his voice flat. "What are you doing here?"

Taeyong stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "I heard what happened," he said, his gaze fixed on Jaemin. "I wanted to see for myself."

"See what?" Jaemin asked, his voice laced with suspicion. "See if I'm still alive?"

Taeyong's eyes flickered, a hint of something – regret? – crossing his face. "I'm not here to gloat, Jaemin," he said, his voice low. "I'm here because… I'm concerned."

"Concerned?" Jaemin scoffed. "After everything that happened? After you—" He cut himself off, the words catching in his throat.

Taeyong's expression hardened. "After I did what I had to do," he finished, his voice firm. "We both made choices, Jaemin. Choices that led us here."

"Choices that led you here," Jaemin corrected, his voice laced with bitterness. "You made your choice, Taeyong. You chose them."

Them. The shadowy figures, the corrupt officials, the ones who had pulled Taeyong into their web, turning him against his own. The ones Jaemin had sworn to expose, even if it meant losing his friend.

Taeyong's gaze shifted, a flicker of pain crossing his face. "It's not that simple, Jaemin," he said, his voice strained. "You don't understand."

"Understand what?" Jaemin challenged, his voice rising. "Understand how you could betray everything we stood for? Understand how you could turn your back on me?"

Taeyong remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, filled with the unspoken words, the unresolved conflicts, the bitter memories that lingered between them.

"Why are you here, Taeyong?" Jaemin asked again, his voice low and dangerous. "Why now?"

Taeyong looked up, his eyes meeting Jaemin's. "Because," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "I think you're in danger, Jaemin. And I think I can help."

Jaemin sighs rubbing his temples tiredlessly. "What are you on about? Help with what?"

Taeyong's gaze softened, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Just… be careful, Jaemin. Things are more complicated than you think."

"Complicated?" Jaemin echoed, his voice laced with skepticism. "You think I don't know that? I'm the one lying here with no memory when I should be out there."

Taeyong's jaw tightened, but he remained silent. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, weighing each syllable before it left his lips.

"I came to apologize," Taeyong said, his voice low and sincere. "For everything that happened between us. For… for how things ended."

Jaemin scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "An apology? After all this time? After everything you've done?"

"Yes," Taeyong said, his gaze unwavering. "An apology."

"Why now?" Jaemin demanded, his voice rising.

Taeyong hesitated, his eyes flickering towards the door. "I can't say," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Not here. Not now. But trust me, Jaemin. You need to be careful."

"Trust you?" Jaemin repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. "After you betrayed me? After you turned your back on everything we stood for? You expect me to trust you?"

Taeyong looked away, his gaze fixed on the sterile white wall. "I don't expect anything," he said, his voice low. "But I'm asking you to consider it. For your own sake."

He paused, his eyes meeting Jaemin's once more. "I know I can't undo the past," he said, his voice strained. "But I can try to make amends. And I can try to protect you."

Jaemin remained silent, his gaze fixed on Taeyong's. He wanted to believe him, to trust him. But the scars of their past betrayal ran deep, and the doubts gnawed at his mind.

"Just… be careful, Jaemin," Taeyong repeated, his voice barely audible. "And if you need anything… anything at all…" He trailed off, his gaze lingering on Jaemin's.

He turned and walked towards the door, his footsteps echoing in the sterile silence of the hospital room. He paused, his hand resting on the doorknob, and glanced back at Jaemin.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Then, he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Jaemin lay on the bed, his gaze fixed on the closed door. The silence of the room pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating. Taeyong's words echoed in his mind, a mix of apology, warning, and… something else. Something he couldn't quite decipher.

He reached for his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. He needed to find out everything he could about Taeyong, about his connections, about his motives. He needed to understand why he had come, why he had offered his help.

He scrolled through his contacts, his call logs, searching for any clue, any connection that might shed light on Taeyong's enigmatic presence. But there was nothing. No new calls, no suspicious contacts, no hidden messages.

He was alone, trapped in a web of secrets and suspicion, with only the echoes of Taeyong's words to guide him.

The heart monitor beeped again, a steady, unwavering pulse. Life, clinging on. But the shadows whispered of death, waiting patiently, just beyond the sterile white walls.

The city outside hummed, a deceptive lull before the storm. Jaemin's eyelids fluttered, a sense of unease settling in his bones. He couldn't shake the feeling that Taeyong's warning was more than just empty words, that a storm was brewing, a tempest of violence about to break. He drifted into a restless sleep, the sterile white of the hospital room fading into a kaleidoscope of fragmented memories and shadowy figures.

Hours bled into the deepest part of the night. The city, usually a vibrant tapestry of light and sound, was shrouded in an eerie silence, broken only by the distant wail of a siren, a mournful cry echoing through the deserted streets. A cold wind whipped through the narrow alleyways, carrying with it the metallic tang of rain and something else… something darker.

High above, on the rooftop of a nondescript apartment building, a figure lay sprawled on the concrete, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. The city lights cast long, distorted shadows, painting a macabre tableau against the rain-slicked surface. The figure was still, lifeless, a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of the city below.

Then, the sirens grew louder, their mournful wail cutting through the night. Blue and red lights flashed, painting the surrounding buildings in a dizzying strobe. Police officers swarmed the scene, their voices a low murmur against the backdrop of the city's hum.

A police radio crackled to life, the static punctuated by a voice, strained and urgent. "Dispatch, we have a deceased male, apparent fall from the rooftop. Identification… Lee Taeyong."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

© copyrights to @haeriinette

[slowd1ving]

Hi! I love your lookism fics, I would love to see your take on Seongji Yuk x gn reader. Something sweet and simple would be great!

I see that you like using science metaphors and im curious to how many can you use in one fic. I’m a complete chemistry nerd 🤓 😂

THE MUNDANE . 　⁺ ✦ SEONGJI YUK

In which an amateur stargazer finds that no, they do not teach biology in Cheonliang, and yes, gravity does in fact affect everything with mass. woah... gravitational fields.... woah inverse square law... woah, G.... ik you probably wanted more chemistry but I couldn't resist the physics gnawing away/// arghhh pairing: seongji yuk + gn reader warnings: prejudice (quite literally lookism) wc: 1.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

There’s a monster living in the Cheonliang mountains. 

A flutter of cloying kindness greets you when you first pull up to the rural village: tires burning on summer asphalt, senseless droning of cicadas, and warm rain seeping through your thin clothes. No rhyme or reason as to why you decided on this particular village to stop by; though, the rhyme might just be the hiccuping couplet of your pulse. Specifically, this pair of beats as your motorcycle drives past the tunnel; heavy, like two black holes encountering each other for the first time. Spinning, spinning. As the wheels on your bike do, naturally. 

Six fingers and toes, he’s cursed by the gods! Hark, my children—

Newton’s theory of gravitation dictates any particle with matter attracts any other with a force inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. This is the inverse square law. It’s used for practical and theoretical applications, but it’s pretty useful when considering why people are drawn to something when they are close to it. Emotionally, physically, empathetically. Psychologically. See, once one begins to increase the proximity of two souls, there is a certain degree of attraction that occurs consequently. 

Pray should you ever encounter this one, for he is but a merciless, mad beast.

It’s a stagnated hum that twines through the fields. Little kids begin the verse, and their elders finish it while you leisurely drive past. Over and over. They play hopscotch to the rhythm in their secluded playgrounds, clap their small hands to the beat, and seem to have no eerie feelings behind their bright smiles. A distorted tale, wound through with the modest price of one person’s dignity. There’s a basis for every tale, after all—bitterly warped to suit the storyteller’s perspective. 

Do not pity the one abandoned by all. 

Thus, when you begin the winding slopes through the fields and up around the mountains, it reduces the distance between you and the epicentre. You trust your gut. You believe (mostly) that what compels you to park your motorcycle on this particular trail is no madness, but rather a tangible, logical reason. A scientific one, if you will. You’re a mass, the monster of Cheonliang certainly is a mass—thus gravity objectively binds you both. 

It’s not entirely implausible to suggest the rumours entice you as much as anything, but the heavy telescope bound to your vehicle is as good a reason as any to stop by this eve. And that: the buzz in your very cells, that seem to divide simply to tug you in the direction of the sprawled forest. Stargazing in Cheonliang it is, then. 

Despite your idle curiosity, you don’t go looking: quietly setting up your equipment in a clearing where the breeze flows cleanly, like fragile forgiveness in a peaceful room. It’s a saccharine solitude—as sweet as tanghulu when you close your eyes. 

“It’s dangerous.” Those are the first words you hear in this village that aren’t blighted by eerie insinuation. Here, where the mountain is solitary and sepulchral, that is the only time you find someone who isn’t the real monster in this mired town. Human, flesh and blood and warm. 

“Isn’t everything?” You peer through the eyepiece experimentally, focusing on the calm tide in his voice—

“No need t’be a smartass.” His cadence becomes slightly rougher as you hear a dull thump; by the movement of syllables, you’d judge he just leaned against a tree. “Was a piece of friendly advice.”

Hmm. You look away from the sky that’s somehow cleared up—miserable grey giving way to faint periwinkle, then atrament smattered with incandescent freckles—then at the stranger peering right back at you. 

“What should I be wary of, then?” There’s a relaxed sort of ease in your body, one you’re unfamiliar with. 

He stares at you askance, as though you’re an idiot. 

“Strangers,” he answers brusquely, pointing at himself. “Haven’t you heard the rumours about this place?”

“Oh.” You turn back to the equipment, leaning down to bring the height of the scope up comfortably. Stars, you think dreamily. “That stupid song? Here I thought you’d say boars or something.”

“Stupid song?” he echoes. “And you still went up?”

Six digits on his left hand as it sways downwards, six on the right hand nestled in his pocket. He’s tall, so much so that anyone would feel intimidated staring up at the guy. Close—he’s close by, which is perhaps why you gravitate towards him. Two masses, feeling greater force with greater proximity. This was the epicentre that drew you here. 

“Is biology class illegal here or something?” you counter incredulously. “Do I need to pay attention to fear mongering?”

“No,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “I guess you don’t.”

It’s strange. Your first encounter with Seongji Yuk can only be classified as abnormal. Gazing at the massive bodies scattered across the heavens, it’s perhaps common sense that the man next to you interests you as much as those heavenly giants. He’s closer, after all—kneeling down beside you so he can peek up at stars just as large as him. 

Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s simply science that ties the two of you together. He gives you his name, you offer yours in return. Seongji Yuk. Lying in the grass with damp seeping into your shirt, you ramble about astrophysics, while he carefully coats fruits in molten sugar. Shards as sharp as the words at the base of the mountain, though far sweeter. 

He’s cautious—you can feel his eyes on you as you sit on his wooden steps. In fact, his eyes trail after you when dawn breaks and it’s time to move on to your original destination. 

“I’ll come visit,” you vow, for the cycle of orbit has already begun. Two masses have drawn closer to each other, and naturally begin the spin round their counterpart. 

“No one told you about stranger danger?” You’re too damn trusting: haloed in ditzy stars, the type in cartoons when characters hit their heads. Except it’s permanent, and you don’t look stupid, but rather awash in their glow. 

“Everything’s dangerous,” you evade sheepishly, and that’s that. 

Summer comes and goes, but it’s fine not bringing your telescope in the chill of autumn. After all, you’ve found something equally as captivating to stare at. Inky eyes, dotted with such a shine that it looks like a star’s emerged rather than a pupil. 

It’s as if the year is put into distillation—monthly visits condensing into fortnightly ones, then weekly ones, before you’re driving the hour down to this place every few days. He’s made you a little space in his house: one where you can snooze on a spare futon with little worry for safety. For there’s no place more secure in a ‘monster’ lair than by the side of a so-called ‘monster’. 

“Quit staring,” he warns, matter-of-factly while the axe collides with the wood on the stump—cleaved neatly in two, almost too cleanly. 

“You’re pretty, I just can’t help it,” you sigh, leaning back on the creaky porch. There’s a book by your side: a thick text filled with particles and numbing quanta. 

You’re strange. He’s had this thought for a while, but especially today. In fact, you may be more supernatural than he, for each time you say such things, his heart skips one or two beats. Like clockwork, the mechanical nature of your spell is guaranteed: mouth going somewhat dry, ears seeping with a faint crimson, eyebrows creasing minutely. 

Why? 

“Have you seen yourself?” you counter incredulously, and that is when he realises he did not keep his thoughts silent. “You’ve literally got stars in your eyes, man. You….”

Ah. It’s moments like these where he feels so utterly ordinary; listening to you ramble on about things he doesn’t particularly understand, just like anyone else his age. 

It’s nice being bound to someone like this: close to another, experiencing the gravity that draws two people together for himself. 

Science is a perfectly plausible thing to believe in, after all. 

[girl-next-door-writes]

Before You Go

Characters: George Weasley x reader

Summary: George struggles with grief and guilt after Fred’s death, haunted by memories, until comfort and quiet understanding help him begin healing.

Word Count: 2245 words

Prompt: Before You Go – Lewis Capaldi

A/N: This is for the amazingly wonderful @caplanbuckybarnes and the decades challenge. I would like to apologise in advance.

The familiar images did little to ease the ache in his chest or the rising panic. It always started the same way. A cold, grey day. The kind where the sky stretched endlessly, smothered in a thick blanket of clouds, where the air was damp and heavy, pressing in on him like unseen hands.

Everything felt distant, as if he were watching the world through translucent glass. The shapes around him were familiar but amorphous, shifting and warping at the edges, never quite solid. A cruel imitation of reality.

He stood alone, the earth beneath his feet damp and unyielding, the scent of rain and churned-up soil filling his lungs. It felt as if his footprints would be etched here forever, carved into the ground cementing his position at the headstone. As if he were trapped in time, doomed to return to this spot every day for the rest of his life.

And then came the words. The ones he could never take back.

"I hate you."

The memory struck like a curse, reverberating through him, shattering against the walls of his mind. The words echoed, again and again, looping endlessly, filling every space inside him.

Warm tears carved silent paths down his clammy cheeks as the air was ripped from his lungs. He had meant the opposite. He had always meant the opposite. But hatred was easier to claim than the unbearable, clawing anguish that had infected every fiber of his being. It was easier to pretend he was angry than to admit he had been afraid—so, so afraid.

He would have done anything to go back, to undo it all. But time was merciless, and the past remained unchanged, its weight pressing down on him like an anchor, pulling him deeper, suffocating him beneath the endless tide of regret and guilt.

Every night, this moment replayed in his mind, the grief as raw and sharp as the day it began. No matter how many days passed, the wound never closed. A million moments that should have been shared, a million thoughts now his alone. The laughter that would never come again, the secrets that would remain forever unspoken.

All the words he could have—should have—said now tasted like ashes on his tongue.

Had he told him enough? Had he ever made him understand? Did Fred know—really know—just how much he meant to him?

The scene in his dreams shifted. The solid ground beneath him gave way, turning to sludge and mud, thick and suffocating, wrapping around his ankles like grasping hands. It pulled him downward, an unrelenting force determined to drag him to the place where his twin lay waiting.

He thrashed, clawing at the earth, at the air, at anything that could save him. But there was nothing. His fingers sank into the wet, rotting dirt, slipping through his grasp as if it, too, refused to hold onto him. Cold tendrils of soil slithered into his mouth, filled his lungs, choking him with the taste of decay. The more he fought, the deeper he sank.

Above him, the light shimmered—distant, unattainable. A cruel reminder of the world that still existed without him. His limbs were leaden, his chest tight, the weight of guilt pressing down until his body no longer felt like his own. The ghosts of the past clawed at him, whispering, murmuring, dragging him further beneath the surface.

And then, he was falling.

Endlessly, weightlessly, through a deep, almost tangible darkness.

A flicker of warmth. A voice—laughter, breathless and wild. The past swept past him in flashes, fragments of a life that once felt eternal, unbreakable. Bare feet pounding against cold stone, echoes chasing them through winding castle corridors. Then warmth—the sun-heated floors of his mother’s kitchen, the scent of freshly baked bread and the sound of giggles bursting from their throats before they could suppress them.

Fred’s eyes, alight with mischief. His hand, reaching out.

And then—nothing.

George gasped, desperate to hold onto it, but the memories shattered like glass, slipping through his fingers.

It had never been the right time to talk about feelings. There had always been another joke to make, another prank to plan, another moment to laugh instead of say the things that mattered. They were two halves of the same whole—Fred had to have known how he felt… hadn’t he? Did it need words? Did it need to be spoken aloud?

But what if it had? What if he had waited too long?

Fred had always been the brave one. The ideas man. The eldest, always ready to take the first step into the unknown, dragging George along with him, making the unknown seem thrilling instead of terrifying. But now, Fred had stepped too far, gone too deep, and for the first time, George had been left behind.

Without him, George felt himself unraveling. A thread pulled loose, fraying, unraveling, until little by little, there would be nothing left.

Nothing at all.

The scene shifted again.

This time, everything came into brutal focus.

No haze. No distance. No mercy.

The air was thick, pressing in on him, suffocating. His limbs were heavy, as if he were wading through water, time stretching unbearably, slowing his movements but not the inevitable. His chest tightened with a familiar, crushing panic. His mind screamed at him to look away. But he couldn’t. He never could.

His eyes widened in horror.

Knowing what was about to happen didn’t soften the blow. It made it worse.

Fred’s face—so full of life, his bright eyes dancing with mischief, laughter spilling from his lips—was frozen in time. George wanted to reach out, to grab him, to shake him, to tell him to run. Don’t turn around. Don’t move. Just stay here. Stay with me.

He prayed. Pleaded. Begged for the scene to shift again, to twist into something else, something he could wake up from. That this time, he could change it. That this time, it would be him instead.

But the nightmare never listened.

A bright flash. A blinding eruption of light, striking the wall behind Fred like a thunderclap, illuminating him in an explosion of gold and red—like fireworks, dazzling and deadly.

And then came the cracks. The crumbling.

The world tearing itself apart.

The deafening roar of destruction.

And then—

Silence.

The kind that swallowed everything. That stole breath and sound and life itself.

The kind of silence George had been drowning in ever since.

George jolted awake, his body tense, breath hitching in his throat. His heart pounded violently against his ribs, his pulse a frantic, erratic rhythm that echoed in his ears. The air in his bedroom felt thick, suffocating, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His sheets were damp with sweat, twisted around him as if they, too, had been caught in the nightmare.

It didn’t matter if he slept for hours or barely at all. It didn’t matter what time he went to bed, how exhausted he was, how desperately his body craved rest. He knew, without looking at the clock, that it was 3:33 AM. It always was.

Rubbing a trembling hand over his face, he let out a stuttering breath, trying to steady himself, to slow the ragged gasps that clawed at his throat. His fingers pressed against his temples, as if he could physically push the memories away, as if he could will them into silence.

Everyone said time would heal. That grief would fade.

But six months had passed, and the wound was still as raw as the day it was torn open.

The nightmares never stopped. The weight never lifted.

Some nights, it felt like he was still trapped in that moment, still hearing the explosion, still seeing Fred’s face frozen in that last instant of laughter. Some nights, he thought maybe he’d wake up and find that it had all been a terrible mistake—that his twin would be there, grinning at him, nudging him, cracking some joke about how dramatic he was being.

But the silence that followed was always the same. Heavy. Hollow.

And George was still alone.

“George?”

Your voice was thick with sleep, soft and uncertain in the stillness of the room. He heard your bed shift as you stirred, your warmth just within reach. Guilt settled in his chest like a heavy stone. He hadn’t meant to wake you.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

A lie. One he told far too often, uncertain whether he was trying to convince everyone else or himself.

You had stayed by George’s side through the aftermath, through the quiet devastation that followed the battle. For three months, you were there—through the empty stares, the sleepless nights, the moments where he barely seemed present at all. Only when work forced you to return did you leave, though even then, you worried. You knew he wasn’t okay.

Molly saw it too.

She heard the muffled sobs through the walls at night. She watched her son wear a mask for the world, smiling when he had to, making jokes when he could, as if it would ease their pain. As if it would somehow lessen the weight pressing down on them all. But you both knew the truth—his grief wasn’t lessening. It was sinking deeper, burrowing into his bones, stretching the wound wider with every passing day.

A few weeks ago, Molly sent you an owl, worry woven between every line.

"He won’t let us in," she wrote. "But maybe he’ll let you."

And the moment you stepped into the Burrow, you knew—you weren’t leaving again.

George sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, staring blankly ahead, as if sleep were a distant thing he had long forgotten how to reach. You didn’t hesitate.

“You aren’t okay, and that’s alright,” you whispered, slipping from your bed and into his. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, grounding him. “I don’t expect you to be okay, Georgie.”

His breath hitched, his body trembling. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he let go.

His head fell against your shoulder, his walls crumbling as sobs tore from him, violent and unrestrained. His hands fisted into the fabric of your shirt, clinging to you like you were the only thing tethering him to this world, the only thing keeping him from vanishing into the void that had swallowed everything else.

You held him tighter, running your fingers through his hair, steadying him as he shattered.

You wished there was something, anything, you could say to make it better. To dull the ache in his chest. To take even a fraction of his pain away. But there were no words for a grief like this. No comfort that could mend the hole left behind.

It was a tempestuous storm—a violent, merciless thing, and George was drifting through it on a fragile raft, the waves towering fifty feet high, threatening to pull him under.

So you held on.

You held on for both of you.

The two of you lay down, limbs tangled, bodies pressed close as if proximity alone could keep the weight of grief at bay. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of sheets and the slow, uneven cadence of George’s breathing. His warmth seeped into you, grounding both of you in the present, even as the past loomed just beyond the edges of consciousness.

“Fred would have been making kissing noises if he could see us now,” you murmured, your voice a careful whisper in the dark. A gentle attempt to pull him from the heaviness that had settled over him, to remind him that laughter—Fred’s laughter—still existed somewhere between the sorrow.

For a moment, there was silence, and you worried the words had fallen flat, that the ache inside him was too vast to be reached.

Then, a low, tired chuckle vibrated from his chest, muffled against your skin, and relief flooded through you.

“He always said he was the better-looking twin to everyone—except you,” George mumbled against your shoulder, his voice thick with exhaustion, with something heavier. “Said there had to be an exception.”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his hair, feeling the way he instinctively leaned into the touch.

“How gracious of him,” you said, a quiet chuckle slipping from your lips, the sound gentle, easy.

The two of you fell into a more comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. The rise and fall of his chest became steadier, though the tension in his limbs never fully faded. You knew sleep would take him eventually, but peace—that was something different.

It was true—George had never told Fred how much he meant to him. Not the way he should have. Not nearly enough. Maybe words had always felt unnecessary between them, as if the bond they shared transcended the need for them. But now, in the hollow space Fred had left behind, all those unsaid things sat heavy on George’s tongue, turning to ashes before they could ever be spoken.

But Fred had known. He had always known.

And maybe, in his own way, Fred had left behind a final reassurance.

"He always made a point of saying you belonged to me."

Maybe that had been Fred’s way of giving his blessing. His way of making sure George wouldn’t be left completely alone.

And maybe, just maybe, George could hold onto that.

[erikawrites13]

Velvet Cage- Bound by Command

Part 5

So you know- "English is not my first language. I have dyslexia. Let me know what you think about it, please."

Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc Warning! Context Dark Romance, Slow Burn, Mafia AU, Power imbalance and manipulation. Domination and Submission, Strong Sexual Undertones and Suggestive Language

The days after that night slipped past like a slow burn, thick and intoxicating. Charles found himself caught in a tightening noose spun from Max’s quiet, absolute control. It wasn’t just the money or the protection anymore it was the way Max’s presence demanded obedience, how every look, every touch was a silent command Charles couldn’t ignore.

Max didn’t need to shout. His dominance was a slow, merciless tide that pulled Charles under until he was gasping, drowning in a craving he’d never admitted—maybe not even to himself.

One night, after the club had emptied and the city’s neon glow faded into shadows, Max found Charles alone in a small, stark room—a place far away from the noise and judgment of the world outside.

“You’ve been running,” Max’s voice was low and rough, wrapped in promise and warning as he stepped into the dim light.

Charles’s jaw tightened, muscles taut beneath his skin. “I’m not yours,” he said, but the words felt fragile, like a shield barely holding against the truth.

Max’s eyes darkened with something fierce and possessive as he closed the space between them. With one hand, he tilted Charles’s chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You are,” Max said simply. “And you don’t get to say no.”

The command hit Charles like a blow, knocking the breath out of him. His heart hammered half in fear, half in an aching, desperate need he was only beginning to understand.

Max’s hand slid down Charles’s arm with deliberate ownership, fingers curling possessively as if marking territory. “You think you’re in control,” Max whispered, lips brushing near Charles’s ear, “but you’re not. Control is a game you’ve been playing alone for too long.”

Charles swallowed, voice barely steady. “What if I’m not ready for this? For you?”

Max’s grin was slow and wicked, a dark promise curling over his lips. “You are. You don’t know it yet, but I can see it. The way you crave it the way you need me to take charge.”

Before Charles could pull away, Max’s hands were on his wrists, lifting them above his head and pressing him back hard against the cold wall. The sudden dominance stole Charles’s breath, every nerve ending igniting in a fiery thrill.

Max’s mouth followed the path his hands marked, lips tracing the vulnerable curve of Charles’s neck. “Say yes,” he murmured, voice thick with power and desire, “Say you belong to me, and I’ll own every inch of you. Your nights, your fears, your secrets. I’ll be your cage—and your key.”

Charles’s heart pounded in his chest, a storm of defiance and need battling for control. His voice cracked, raw with vulnerability and the sharp ache of surrender. “I don’t want your cage…”

Max’s fingers tightened around his wrists, voice dropping to a fierce growl. “You don’t get to choose that anymore.”

Then, with ruthless intent, Max crushed his mouth to Charles’s in a kiss that was fierce, claiming, and utterly consuming. Charles’s hands trembled as they gripped Max’s chest, torn between fighting the pull and giving in to the dark desire that consumed him.

Max’s hands roamed with confident possession, slipping beneath Charles’s shirt to feel the tension coiled beneath. Charles gasped into the kiss, fire pooling low in his belly, a desperate hunger he could no longer deny.

When Max finally broke away, his eyes burned with a fierce light, full of promises and warnings. “You’ll learn, Charles. Every lion has a breaking point. And when you reach yours, you’ll beg for the leash as much as the freedom.”

Charles’s breath hitched, body trembling with a cocktail of fear, desire, and surrender. He didn’t know if this was salvation or damnation—but one thing was clear.

He needed Max.

More than he’d ever admit. More than he’d ever imagined. And Max was already claiming him body, mind, and soul.

[lisalamona]

𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 - X

Chapter X: Storm

. Summary: Despite your brother's insistence, you stubbornly decided to join him and his men in the war. Now, are you prepared to face the consequences of your actions? . Pairing: Various x Fem! Reader (platonic) . Warnings: None for this chapter in specific . Notes: This chapter was a STRUGGLE 😩 Sorry for such a short one Speaking of, everyone say, "Thank you, Red!" They're a friend who helped me write this chapter specifically because I was struggling so much (I definitely didn't force them to). So, if you notice it feels a bit different from how I usually write, that's probably why.

Previous chapter │ Next chapter

Masterlist

You had been sailing for weeks since the cyclops incident, and not once had you encountered anything like this.

The waves rose so high, they seemed determined to swallow the ship whole with just a single, merciless graze. The ship lurched violently from side to side, and every person on deck struggled to keep their footing, unused to such brutal conditions. The once beautiful, sun filled skies had shifted into an ominous black canvas, dark and threatening, a sky so deep it could easily be mistaken for night—if not for the lack of stars across it.

You weren't sure if this was some sort of curse, pushing you further from your home, or a twisted blessing, drawing you ever closer to it. You had begun to believe it was the former. The waves surged higher, fiercer, as if Poseidon himself were toying with you, mocking your attempts to make it home.

A particularly monstrous wave hurled you and several others from one side of the ship to the other. If it hadn't been for the railing on the opposite side, you would have been thrown into the wild, hidden depths of the sea. You stopped your momentum, hands gripping the wood of the railing so tightly you could feel the sting of splinters digging into your hands. For a split second, your gaze locked on the abyss beneath you, and in the chaos, you thought you glimpsed something slithering beneath the ship. Its ripples seemed to pull at the vessel, intensifying the sway, but before you could make sense of it, a gust of salty sea drenched you and the others, including half the rowers who had been desperately clinging to their positions.

The ship was pure chaos. Sailors stumbled and scrambled across the deck, trying to reach their stations, slipping and falling, some trying to help those who were injured or struggling. The air was filled with a cacophony of screams, drowned out only by the sound of crashing waves and the distant rumble of thunder. With the way your ship was handling itself, you dreaded to think how the rest of the fleet was holding up.

Ithaca was so close, you could almost see it in the distance, but whether that was wishful thinking or simply disorientation, you couldn't say. Even though it felt within reach, it might as well have been miles away.

Above it all, your brother's voice rang out with unwavering authority, cutting through the storm.

"I NEED HANDS ON THE SAILS!" Odysseus, standing near the tip of the ship, gripped one of the ropes hanging from the mast. The crew immediately halved, with one group moving toward his location and the other, including you, heading for the second sail at the rear to reef it before the ferocious winds tore it apart. Every ounce of strength was needed, and you pulled with all your might, the ropes biting into your hands as the wind fought back with brutal force. You prayed silently, hoping that the ship could hold together.

"Head toward the island, but avoid the crashing waves!" Odysseus' voice was steady, though you could hear the strain beneath it. "Tread where the tide is calm!"

The hope in his words gave the crewmen the push they needed. He had spotted an island nearby, a beacon of shelter in this storm, where you could hopefully stop the damage before it became irreversible.

Eurylochus, who stood close by, had to shout over the roar of the storm to be heard. "Captain, we'll capsize with these waves! The rest of the fleet will give out!"

"Have them follow my ship! I'll ensure we prevail!" Odysseus barked back without hesitation.

Eurylochus, somehow managing to relay the order to the rest of the fleet—perhaps through frantic hand gestures, something visible through the storm—did his best to keep morale up. But his worry still gnawed at him.

"We're taking too much damage to survive!" Eurylochus' voice was strained with doubt.

Polites, always the optimist despite everything, jumped in, his voice ringing out with determination. "We'll beat this storm!" His positivity was infectious, and though he was squinting through the rain—his broken glasses long since making life difficult for him—it didn't diminish his spirit.

You'd been quietly trying to repair his glasses over the past few weeks. It hadn't gone well; every attempt ended in frustrating failure. You hadn't told him about it yet, not wanting to get his hopes up in case you couldn't fix them. You made a mental note to leave an offering to Hephaestus for help when you had the chance.

Meanwhile, the small bundle of fur that was the lotus eater you'd taken in was safely tucked away below deck in a barrel, nestled among the few remaining rations. You didn't want it getting in the way or worse, swept into the sea.

Eurylochus wasn't swayed by Polites' optimism. "At this rate, we won't make it out alive," he snapped, his doubt clashing against Polites' unwavering hope.

Odysseus, however, had clearly taken to Polites' open-armed philosophy in recent days, perhaps as a way of boosting morale. You suspected it was also his way of rebelling against Athena's cold, strategic teachings—less about survival at all costs and more about preserving what was left of humanity. It was a philosophy that had worked well... except for the cyclops incident. Still, it was clear that the crew needed his hope now more than ever.

Before Odysseus could respond to Eurylochus, two voices pierced through the chaos, drawing everyone's attention. Elpenor and Perimedes, whom you hadn't had much chance to talk to, all you knew was that they were tent mates during the war and that they were pretty close, had been staring wide-eyed at the sky.

"Captain, look!" they exclaimed almost in unison, their voices rising above the storm. You followed their gaze, and what you saw took your breath away. Floating impossibly in the air, like some forgotten fragment of a dream, was a floating island—a literal floating island suspended in the sky. Despite the storm swirling around you, the space beneath and around the island seemed untouched by the violent chaos of the sea. Atop it, you could just make out the outline of a temple, rising like a monument to a god. The sight left you in stunned disbelief, the weight of the moment sinking in. This was no ordinary island; it could only be the home of Aeolus, the god of winds.

The crew stood, frozen in awe, eyes wide and hearts racing.

"Eurylochus, grab the harpoons—all of them," Odysseus ordered, his eyes still fixed on the floating island, mesmerized by its otherworldly presence.

Eurylochus turned to him, confusion knitting his brow. "What do you have in mind, Captain?"

"We're going to shoot for the sky."

"What?"

Odysseus, never one to leave his plan unclear for too long, explained his idea again, this time with a sharper look. Though still uncertain, Eurylochus agreed, trusting that his captain had them covered even if he didn't fully understand it.

Some of the men scrambled to follow Eurylochus to the lower deck, collecting every harpoon they could find, binding them with rope, and securing the other end to the ship's railings. You and the rest of the crew took your positions, each gripping a harpoon tightly. As the island grew nearer, you all waited for the next command.

"Everyone grab a harpoon and aim it high! We're shooting for the island in the sky!" Odysseus commanded, his voice carrying through the storm.

With that, you and the others hurled the harpoons as high as you could, some of them reaching the island, others falling short. To your surprise, more of the harpoons found their mark than you had hoped, some sticking into the rocky surface of the island and forming makeshift ropes to climb. Unfortunately, your harpoon didn't make it, but you blamed the wind—it was definitely not your fault.

When you finally reached the island, the storm around you seemed to dissipate. You all exhaled collectively, the tension in your chests releasing as the deafening roar of the wind and waves faded away. You squeezed out your soaked clothes as best you could, though they remained uncomfortably wet.

You hoped your brother knew exactly what he was doing.

. Taglist: @permanently-nothere

(if you want to be added to the taglist just comment on this post or send me an ask or dm me, I don't really mind)

[feyhunter78]

Among The Sun

Description: The Conqueror, the Ravager of Lands, He who deals in blood and war. Emperor Miguel and his armies have scoured the land, and now they have set their sights on your kingdom. Will you fall to the Demonborn's blade, or will a strange connection between you and Miguel turn the tides of fate? Ch 2

The castle is abuzz with gossip and fear, words passed along in secret, gates closed, doors bolted. You press your back to the wall, the heavy curtain hiding you from the servants passing by. No one will tell you anything, simply bid you to dress and make yourself presentable as if there was to be a banquet, or a ball, not a potential siege.

“I’ve heard he’s coming from the West, that he set fire to the River Atraites, that his men—his armies of demons marched upon the flames.” One says, her voice hushed and filled with fear.

“No, he is coming from the East, the mountains bowed to him and allowed him passage through.” Another whispers, stronger but still afraid.

The Conqueror, the Ravager of Lands, He who deals in blood and war. He would be arriving soon if the rumors were to be believed, and you are no fool, you believe them.

You don’t know much about the Conqueror, your only information comes from rumors or war reports, neither of which are helpful. The rumors come from pleasurehouses, fanciful tales of the emperor storming in, scouring the establishment and searching for a woman with y/h/c hair and y/e/c eyes. If one cannot be found, he is said to destroy the place, leaving terrifying claw marks and scorched bodies in his wake. If one can be found, the rumors say her cries of pleasure can be heard throughout the town and that she emerges from the encounter with only faint pleasant memories.

The war reports tell a different tale. They speak of him as merciless, tearing through men as if they are parchment, his armies moving as a perfect unit, no breaks, no faults, only skilled, relentless ruin. He is said to have claws and fangs, some say he has horns like a ram, and his eyes glow crimson. He is a terrifying sight to behold, half monster, half man, an abomination that has set half the continent ablaze.

You wait until their footsteps pass then slip from behind the curtain, hurrying down the hall to the throne room where your father, mother, and three brothers are set to gather. Instead, you stumble upon a horrid scene. Your father and brothers lie on the marble floor, bloodied and unmoving, your mother is draped over your eldest brother’s body, wailing wretchedly.

“Traitors to the crown, they have done this.” She shrieks, clinging to his body.

You’re frozen, staring at the carnage before you. True, you had no real fondness for your eldest brother, the gap between your ages was too far to bridge, but the others at least made an effort.

“What—what are we to do? Mother, you are queen, the Conqueror will be here, he will offer you what he offers every other window, you must be prepared.” You tell her, rushing to her side and attempting to pull her from your brother’s body.

She refuses to budge, shrugging you off. “I will not, he will not come here, we have nothing to offer.”

Your kingdom is not small, in fact it’s quite large, a port town, but your mother is right, it holds nothing that the Conqueror doesn’t already have. He has already captured the agricultural kingdoms, the larger trade kingdoms, and those who boast their stores of wealth and gems. His own lands that far-flung empire that declared him ruler after a bloody and horrid event, is rich in resources, the soil, and cities still boasting the remnants of Arcana. It is a wealthy and powerful force, wielded like an obsidian sword by the Conqueror.

“You do not know that, please, either we stay, and you take up your crown, or we flee to the ships.” You’re tugging on her arm, already formulating an escape route. But would you make it in time?

Your mother says nothing, only continues to weep and holds out her hand for her fallen crown. She has made her choice; she will doom you both to die here.

Your kingdom has fallen, the gates forced open, the crowns of your father and brothers thrown to the ground, their bodies lying beside them. There is no time to clean the throne room, you’ve received the reports, the Conqueror is mere minutes away.

The emperor is cruel, monstrous, a vile, wicked man who care only for conquest. You have heard the rumors, the whispers as his armies march across the lands, leaving death and destruction in their wake. And now he would be coming here, to give your mother the very same choice he gave to each former queen. Bend the knee, pay tribute, or watch your kingdom burn. Dozens of kingdoms have refused and burned, but your mother is not a warrior, she weeps over your father and brothers, laments their loss as your kingdom crumbles around you.

When the Conqueror comes, you fear the choice she will make, fear the rumors of the horrors that await those kingdoms gifted to the murderous emperor. You do not wish for your land to become a territory of the ravager, a sacrifice to the blood-soaked demon, Miguel the Conqueror, the Relentless, the Merciless, but you fear your mother will have no choice.

Miguel is bored, his fingers tangled in the hair of another whore as she moans, her face shoved into the pillows as she helplessly tries to fuck back on him. He has her bent over the bed, thrusting mindlessly as he starts out the window at this kingdom’s castle.

She is skilled, he will not deny it, but Miguel doesn’t simply desire skill, he desires the woman from his memories and dreams.

He lets out a long sigh and closes his eyes trying to picture you, his soulmate, his horizon, with your soft skin and stunning smile, the lilt of your voice, your tantalizing smell. He groans as the image forms, crystalline fractured fantasies, flashes of you, snatches of memories.

“Fuck, mi vida, you feel so good, wonderful, you are wonderful, my empress.” He sighs, his free hand settling on your—the whore’s hip, steadying himself before he pounds into her, picturing how pretty you’d look, grasping at the silken sheets he’s procured for you, whining as he smooths a hand down your spine.

You’d be so sweet for him, clinging to him as he fucks you, your pretty eyes fluttering closed, your lips parted so perfectly. He misses when he would see you in his dreams, when he would hold you for a moment before you disappeared like sand slipping through his fingers. Now all he sees when he sleeps is darkness, exhaustion hitting him like a horse.

“Please, Your Majesty, harder.” She begs, lifting her head from the mattress.

Her voice rips him from his fantasy, and he pulls out, tucking himself back into his breeches. “I asked you not to speak.”

She looks back at him, and he regrets not compelling her. She looks so much like you, the closest he’s found, but he shouldn’t have taken the chance.

He grabs her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You will remember none of this, only that you did your job and was paid handsomely for it.”

She nods, her shoulders drooping, eyes glazing over as his spell takes hold.

Miguel sighs and arranges her comfortably on the bed before leaving more than enough gold for her rudimentary services.

As he trudges down the stairs of the brothel, he’s met by his advisor, Lyla. She’s still in full armor except for those oddly shaped glasses that cover her eyes.

“It’s time.” She says, nodding towards the door.

Another kingdom to burn or capture, another fruitless search. Have the gods not dammed him enough? Have they not stricken him with this unholy visage, with these demonic powers, with a life of misery and death? You, you are the one he searches for, in your arms he will finally find rest, and if not, he will ensure it is so. There will be no kingdom for you to run to, no lands untouched by him, no bounty great enough to pull you from him, no powers beyond the divine will separate you, and even then, he has always desired to fight the gods.

He will offer this kingdom’s queen the choice he offers all others, waiting as they cower in fear, his eyes searching their court for you. But you are never there, and his anger only grows.

Perhaps this time will be different? Gabi would be fond of this land, would enjoy the flowers and streams. He prays that is a good sign.

TL: @not-aya, @belos-simp69, @deputy-videogamer, @sxnasbitch, @maxi-ride, @minimari415, @syndrlla97, @gejo333, @lady-necromancer

[andrea-writer]

Name: Asteria "Cassandra" Morozova.

Meaning of the name: Asteria- Goddess of falling stars and nocturnal divination

Nicknames: Star

Occupation: Freshman at Yale University, specializing in Pre-Med: Psychology.

Hamartia: Overreach.

Main routes: M or C.

For you, I would cross the line I would waste my time I would lose my mind They say, "She's gone too far this time"

( Power is magnetic.)

Asteria "Cassandra" Morozova is a constellation of contrasts, a figure who embodies both celestial grace, and siren-like cunning. Her personality is akin to the moon—a radiant beacon in the night sky with an enigmatic dark side hidden from view. Her outer self is friendly and approachable, her demeanor warm and engaging with those she favors. Yet, there is an aloofness to her charm, a deliberate barrier that guards the deeper, more intricate facets of her being. She wears her charisma like armor, disarming others with her glowing smile, but the moment someone breaches her carefully drawn lines, she transforms, revealing a side as cold and unyielding as the moon’s shadowed craters.

Her ability to balance sarcasm with moments of genuine sincerity makes her a magnetic presence. Her sharp wit is as mesmerizing as blue fire—a beauty to behold yet undeniably dangerous. Asteria’s boldness enhances this allure, drawing people into her orbit, but this boldness is tempered by cautious calculation. She walks a fine line between risk and strategy, weighing every move to ensure it aligns with her ultimate ambitions. She isn’t impulsive unless the situation calls for decisive action; even then, her decisions are shaped by the finely tuned intuition that feels more like a sixth sense, a gift that allows her to perceive subtleties others might miss.

Her confidence leans toward arrogance, but this is not without merit. Asteria knows her worth and the power she wields, seeing herself as the architect of her destiny. Her ambition often outpaces her humility, though, and this relentless drive is her greatest strength and her fatal flaw. Overreach—her hamartia—is a constant threat, pushing her to the edges of morality and sanity in her pursuit of greatness. She aspires to touch the sun, but she believes she can overcome anything in her way and reach her goals.

Comparing Asteria to the moon reveals her dichotomy. The moon, luminous and serene, holds a darkness that the world never sees, much like her hidden ruthlessness. For those fortunate enough to earn her loyalty, she is all smiles and warmth, offering protection as steadfast as the moonlight guiding travelers through the night. But cross her, and her transformation is immediate—her warmth turns to an icy blaze, her sarcasm cutting, her wrath merciless. She burns as blue fire does, a rare and beautiful phenomenon, incinerating all who dare harm her or those she loves.

She is not only ambitious but also strategic, balancing her pragmatic outlook with emotional depth. She thrives on human connections and experiences, yet her curiosity and hunger for power often eclipse her softer traits. Like the moon governs the tides, she exerts an almost gravitational pull over others, drawing them in while maintaining the mystery of her darker self. In this duality lies her essence—a being of transformation, freedom, and wisdom, whose beauty and brilliance mask the thorns she cultivated in her relentless pursuit of the stars.

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

Asteria Morozova (My OC) in the incredible story of @childrenofcain-if ! Secret society, romance, suspense and mystery. I am hooked and obsessed... Can't wait for more.

[bookloover35]

Shanks- Beneath the crimson tide.

The sea was calm tonight, its surface shimmering like black silk beneath the crescent moon. In the depths, hidden among the coral reefs, you—[Y/N], a mermaid—swam quietly, the cool water a familiar embrace. The open ocean had always been your home, far away from the clamor and chaos of the human world. But sometimes, even the deep blue brought its own surprises.

Tonight, the scent of blood drifted through the water.

Curiosity piqued, you glided towards the source. It wasn't uncommon for ships to clash on the seas above, but the aftermath often led to debris—and sometimes bodies—floating down to your realm. As you broke the surface, you squinted to see a wooden wreckage drifting in the moonlight. Among the shattered beams and broken barrels was a lone figure, barely clinging to a piece of flotsam.

Red hair gleamed under the silver light.

Your heart skipped. You recognized him: Shanks, the infamous pirate captain. Stories of him had spread even beneath the waves, tales of his laughter, his daring exploits, and the way he carried himself with that relaxed yet dangerous aura. But right now, he was no more than a wounded man lost to the sea.

Without hesitation, you swam closer, your iridescent tail cutting smoothly through the water. His eyes fluttered open as your face came into view, his usual confident smirk replaced with a dazed expression.

"A... mermaid?" he whispered hoarsely, eyes widening slightly.

You simply nodded. "Hold on," you murmured softly, your voice carrying a melodic quality that had always fascinated the surface dwellers. With a swift flick of your tail, you maneuvered beneath him, guiding his weight onto your back. Despite his injuries, he was surprisingly heavy, but you pressed on, propelling the both of you towards the closest island.

The journey took longer than you'd anticipated. Shanks drifted in and out of consciousness, his grip on you weak but determined. Occasionally, he murmured something—fragments of dreams or memories. Each word was a glimpse into a life you could never fully understand.

When you finally reached the shore, you carefully laid him on the sand, the waves gently lapping at his feet. His eyes cracked open, and he let out a low groan. Kneeling beside him, you pressed your fingers to his forehead, feeling the heat radiate from his skin.

"Why... did you save me?" he asked, his voice barely more than a rasp.

You tilted your head, considering the question. "The sea may be harsh, but it is not merciless," you replied softly. "Besides, I've heard enough stories about you. It would be a shame if they ended too soon."

He chuckled weakly, a shadow of the vibrant laugh that was said to echo through pirate taverns. "A mermaid with a sense of humor. I must be dreaming."

"You're not," you replied, flicking your tail playfully. You leaned down, inspecting the wound on his side—a jagged gash, likely from a sword. Without another word, you retrieved a pouch of seaweed from a hidden satchel around your waist and pressed it to the wound.

A hiss of pain escaped Shanks' lips, but he didn't pull away. "You're full of surprises," he said through gritted teeth.

"You haven't seen the half of it," you teased, your fingers deftly working to wrap the makeshift bandage. As you finished, your eyes met his, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade into the gentle whisper of the waves. His gaze was intense, a mixture of curiosity and something else—something that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Thank you," he said, his voice softer now, more sincere. "Not everyone would've bothered."

You shrugged, trying to play it off casually, but his gratitude warmed you in a way the sun never could. "The ocean has its ways," you said, flicking your gaze to the horizon. "It brought me to you."

Shanks chuckled again, this time with more strength. "I'll have to repay you someday," he said, attempting to sit up but grimacing in pain. "What's your name, mermaid?"

You hesitated. Names held power among your kind, but something about this man, this pirate who stared at you with those sharp, warm eyes, made you feel... safe. "Call me [Y/N]," you finally answered.

"[Y/N]," he repeated, testing it on his tongue like a sailor tasting a fine rum. "I won't forget it."

You offered him a small smile, a rare gift in itself. "You better not, pirate," you teased, flicking your tail playfully. "I'll be watching you."

As dawn began to break, you knew it was time to return to the sea. But before you could slip back into the waves, Shanks caught your hand, his grip surprisingly strong despite his injuries.

"Will I see you again?" he asked, his voice low, almost vulnerable.

You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, "Perhaps... if the tides are kind."

With that, you slipped beneath the surface, leaving only a ripple behind. Shanks watched the spot where you disappeared, his grin slowly returning.

He would recover, of that you were certain. And perhaps, one day, the sea would bring him back to you.

For now, you would swim beneath the waves, carrying with you the memory of a crimson-haired pirate and a promise made beneath the moonlight.

[littlefireball]

ᴀᴛᴇᴇᴢ ꜰᴀɴꜰɪᴄ ᴡɪᴘ (24/9-12/10)

(a/n: if you wanna to be added in the tag list, feel free to cm/dm/inbox me~thx)

ʜᴏɴɢᴊᴏᴏɴɢ -- ꜱᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ(ᴍ) (24/9)

ᴘɪʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ ʜᴏɴɢᴊᴏᴏɴɢ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ꜰᴋ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ)

Summary: The tranquil existence was shattered today by the merciless pirates. You surrendered to the overwhelming tide of despair, letting it engulf you. Yet, in that moment of darkness, a figure emerged to rescue you. But is this hero a beacon of hope or a harbinger of doom?

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

ꜱᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ -- ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍᴄᴀᴛᴄʜᴇʀ (ᴍ/ᴀ) (26/9)

ᴇxᴏʀᴄɪꜱᴛ (ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴀꜱꜱᴀꜱꜱɪɴ) ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ɴɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ

Write about a dream assassin who is tasked with fighting a nightmare that disturb people's sleep.

Summary: As an exorcist, your mission was clear: eliminate the demon. Yet, destiny had other plans. You found yourself captivated by him. Even after vanquishing his true essence, his spirit lingered within you, refusing to be forgotten. The only way to find peace was to confront him once more. But could you summon the strength to do it? Or would you surrender to the pull of your heart and let yourself love him all over again? 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

ʏᴜɴʜᴏ -- ʟᴏꜱᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ (ᴀ) (28/9)

ᴀɢᴇɴᴛ ʏᴜɴʜᴏ x ᴍᴀꜰɪᴀ ʙᴏꜱꜱ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Summary: After you die, yunho becomes a monster and kills everyone who hurt you before. Of course, it includes himself.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ --ᴄᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇʟᴘ ꜰ**ᴋ ᴍᴇ? (ᴍ) (30/9)

ᴘʟᴀʏʙᴏʏ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜰᴋ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

Summary: You hate him and he hates you. But what if the alcohol makes you beg for him? Well, that's not good.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ -- ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ʟᴜꜱᴛ (ᴍ)(3/10)

ᴇᴠɪʟ ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ x ꜰᴀɪʀʏ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Request: May I pretty please request A Yeosang X reader smut? She's a fairy and he's human or anything else you'd like, but she meets him in the woods and he notices how innocent she looks but can tell something is off. She doesn't understand what is happening as she grew up alone. Etc?

ᴡᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴛᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ (ᴍ) (5/10)

ᴘᴀɴᴛʜᴇʀ ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ x ᴘᴀɴᴛʜᴇʀ ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Request: Request for a hybrid Yepsamg x hybrid reader smut where he knows her and it's her first time being knotted etc. But the rest of ATEEZ walks in on them knotted together and They get really Embarrassed?

Prompt: your protagonist is an assassin and their newest assignment is their childhood crush.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

ᴊᴏɴɢʜᴏ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ ᴡᴇᴇᴋ 🐻

(a/n: some kind of kink series? haha)

ᴄᴀʀ ꜱ*x (ᴍ) (8/10)

ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴊᴏɴɢʜᴏ x ɢɪʀʟꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Short story series No plot

ᴅʀᴜɴᴋ ꜱ*x (ᴍ) (10/10)

ʜɪʀᴇᴅ ɢᴜɴ ᴊᴏɴɢʜᴏ x ʜɪʀᴇᴅ ɢᴜɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Summary: Through drunkenness, you confessed your love to him. Huh? Are you really drunk or are you pretending?

ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ Qᴜᴇᴇɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴅ ᴋɪɴɢ(ᴍ) (12/10 00：00KST）

Happy birthday to our cute baby bear💕

ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ Qᴜᴇᴇɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ʀᴇᴅ ᴋɪɴɢ ᴊᴏɴɢʜᴏ(ꜰᴀɪʀʏ ᴛᴀʟᴇ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ)

Prompt: Write a story where your hero is also a villain and your villain is also a hero

Summary: Jongho stands as your savior, the one who pulled you from the depths of despair during your childhood. Yet, to the outside world, he wears the mask of a villain—born of both demons and humans, his blood tainted, his temperament fierce and wild. Society has cast him into the abyss, but you refuse to accept this fate. You are determined to rescue him, no matter the toll it takes on your own reputation or even your very existence.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

[born-of-flames]

Entry Three...

(From Her Perspective...)

The bark of the tree was digging into my back as the stars began to twinkle in the dusky evening glow. Bugs were humming and birds still singing, unaware of my agony, my ecstasy.

The hands perusing my body as if I am no longer my own were human, rough and callused, and none too gentle with my skin, already pink and stinging from my hasty tripping and stumbling on the forest floor.

The chuckle he produced was so low that I can feel it rumbling in my own chest. I felt the vibrations in my bones, and an ache as deep and primal as time itself guided my hips to rock into his, no matter how merciless the eyes boring into mine were. I closed my eyes and surrendered to this tide. Every touch of his fingers on my skin filled me with an apprehensive, dreadful need for more.

When I was sure I would combust from the desire for more stimulation, burning hotter and hotter, dying for more of his touch on my skin, he broke away and the whine that escaped from my lips was eerily high-pitched as it echoed around the empty hills.

"Patience, lamb." And just as I reopened my eyes, the world flipped upside down and the blood rushed to my head. I've been thrown over his shoulder like I weigh nothing at all and I know my destination. My mind is racing with the terror of disorientation and my wordless cries are only met with silence. Some madness gripped me, and I fought. I kicked and struggled and scratched but none of it seemed to make a difference at all. Eventually, my squirming faded and the weak hits came farther in between until I was limp and exhausted.

Was it minutes or hours before I was placed on my back before that stone altar? The stars were finally twinkling alone in the dark sky, and the full moon just peeked over the trees.

I was alone for this moment, but not completely, I could hear the rustle of leaves and the striking of a match. Besides his ominous presence to deter me, I had no energy left to spend leading another ill-fated chase through the dark this time.

Was I imagining the shadows darting around the trees past the braziers, lit one by one from the candle in his hand? Surely the drum beat was only my own blood pounding in my ears. The blood on my back felt dry and sticky, the cool night breeze left goosebumps where it brushed over my skin.

But the masked silhouette approached, backlit from the firelight, the goosebumps morphed into a shiver and then a quaking as your one of his hands trapped my wrists, and the other dipped into the soaking wet apex at my thighs again, and the sound that fell out of his mouth was part sigh, part moan, and part growl.

Then the tears began to fall, products of my aprehension and desire, my humiliation at being exposed and wanting, nay, needing more of his touch. Closing my eyes did nothing to stop the warm tracks running down my cheeks.

"Please!" Is the only word I can think of to say, and it tumbled out of my mouth over and over and over as his fingers work me into a frenzy. I didn't know if I'm begging for a release or relief.

When he pulled away again, my eyes flew open, and even through the blurred tears I could see the danger and lust in the distinctly familiar eyes under the mask. Testing my hands, I realized in horror that while he toyed with me, he tied my to this tree stump.

And then I saw the candle in his hands. There was only a split second to anticipate the burn before he tipped the taper sideways and dripped a long line of red wax between my bared breasts.

I howled from surprise and struggled against his weight pinning me to the ground and my restraints, but he only chuckled again.

I felt the flames licking at my nipples and down my sides. Then he moved downwards, and my squirming did nothing to stop the stinging, now on my stomach and thighs. My pleas for mercy were swallowed by the starry night sky.

"Why are you doing this?" I cried into his chest as the wax fell like rain onto my thighs, and I felt my clit throb, still aching from the way he touched me before.

There was no reply, but the hand restraining mine tightened and the braziers glowed brighter, just as his teeth sank into my neck and surprised me. My back arched involuntarily, inadvertently pressing my wax covered body against his.

"I already told you, lamb. Because I know you want it."