#something unnervingly familiar

[good-beanswrites]

A drabble for an anon asking about the prisoners watching their music videos! This is focused on specifically Mikoto’s initial shock at seeing MeMe for the first time, but just know that Double comes with a whole new set of shocks as he truly listens to John for the first time ;-;

Mikoto was no criminal. 

He didn’t know how to break into locked rooms, or hack into complex prison security systems. He figured there was no way in hell he’d be able to see these so-called incriminating videos that the Warden was recording, and had resolved himself to an eternity of wondering what they could be. He was shocked when he didn’t need to do a single thing to gain access to them – Es simply adjusted the computer monitor and told him he could hit play when (and if) he wished. Then they left the room.

“A-are you sure?” he called, but they were already gone.

Mikoto blinked at the screen. It showed a stretched version of his apartment couch, near his bathroom wall, broken to reveal sky above. He thought he could spot his tarot cards at the bottom of the frame. Had Milgram broken into his home to film this? 

He scoffed, and hit play.

Distorted guitar started up. He flinched as his own face appeared for a moment – looking directly into the camera and making a wild expression he would never have made if someone was recording. His body tensed up more as he heard his own voice start to sing lyrics he’d never spoken before in his life. He wasn’t even a good singer, and here he was sounding like a professional. 

There were plenty of ways to accomplish all of this, of course. Software could mimic one’s voice, making him say anything these crazy reality hosts wanted. A team could easily add some digital effects to a stunt double and match his appearance perfectly. Knowing that didn’t make the experience any less unsettling.

He watched himself commit a nasty murder. He watched himself return home bloodied. But it was all ridiculous. How could Milgram even claim that this was him? He’d never raised a hand to anyone in his life. Were the other prisoners’ videos as outlandish as this one?

But then, a switch. 

The song shifted to a new melody. He appeared to wake up from his couch, and suddenly Mikoto got the sense that this was him.

He was struck with how familiar this new segment sounded. It simultaneously felt like a favorite song he must have played on loop not too long ago, and one that he’d never heard before. As it played, each new note and lyric felt right on the tip of his tongue. 

It ended as quickly as it began. The song returned to the heavy-metal-murder aesthetic it had started with, and once again he felt like he was watching a cheap copy of himself onscreen. He watched another murder, a shower scene (had the warden seen all that? How embarrassing…) and then he turned to his bathroom mirror.

At the same time as his musical counterpart, Mikoto leapt backwards in horror. 

His eyes remained glued to the screen. His hand flew up to grab the lower half of his face. It was fake, he told himself. AI and CGI and all that. It was fake. It had to be. 

Something deep inside of him said “no. That’s real. That’s me.”

Something else deep inside of him echoed the sentiment.

The video was less than four minutes of music, but by the end he was panting and tugging at his hair as if he’d endured hours of prison torture. He burst out of the room. He sucked in breath after breath. The melodies still played in his mind, lines repeating in his memory as he tried to put as much distance between himself and that little television screen.

He found the others in the common room. They gave him a knowing look, but somehow he knew his experience had been very different from their own. Es approached him.

They studied his expression for a moment. Thankfully, they didn’t ask anything stupid, like “how did it go?” or “what did you think?” 

Instead, they just told him, “if you ever want to watch it again, just let me know, I can get it set up for you.”

He would want to see it again. Of course, it would be better, then. He would take a moment to calm down. He’d watch it later and everything would be okay. He’d have a clearer mind. He’d pick out all the little camera tricks they used to make it. He’d be sure it was a fake, and laugh about how ridiculous he was being now. 

Of course. Of course. 

He nodded to Es, unable to produce any words. Es left him.

The rules in this prison never made any sense, but in this case, he was grateful. He wouldn’t need to figure out any snooping or hacking to get access to the video again. After all, he was no criminal.

… he wasn’t, was he?

[bi-writes]

anatomy of us (1) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

we cannot change who we are at our core.

type: limited series, part 1 (6.4k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

Whenever she woke up marked the last day of the rest of your life. One moment, the world inside of your head was unnervingly quiet. The next, someone else was there, whispering in the dark, taking over.

You aren't proud of her. No, you hate her. There is no one you hate more, you don't think, because she lets the direction of the fucking wind distract her from what really matters. She paints her environment in a soft, glazed picture, and she tries to hold up her canvas and convince you that her reality is real. But then you blink, and you get flashes of how dull the sky really is and the dirt that stains your shoes, and you know that she's just a liar.

A controlling, desperate thief.

When you heard her voice for the first time, you begged your reflection in the mirror to just kill you already.

If you were an alpha, maybe you could've just drawn away into yourself and lived a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. If you were a beta, perhaps the weight of nothing would've given you a little more freedom to do the things you wanted to do.

But no. You're an omega. Nature's servant. A natural follower. Destined for nothing except to open your legs and say, "yes, alpha, all for you," because if you are anything but complacent, you're unwanted and a waste of your very being.

Your eyes stung when you took your first little pill. They rattled in different colors in a little orange bottle, and it felt like sand as it dissolved under your tongue. Even though it makes you sick, you take them anyways. Even though the pills change colors and shape and efficacy because you buy them from someone different every time, you take them because it makes your omega shut the fuck up finally.

You bury her. And you won't let her out.

The truth of it is that you're only fighting yourself. Your omega, she is you, isn't she? She's a part of you, she makes up your very genetic makeup, and to hate her is to hate yourself. But nature is cruel–it gave you years of freedom. Years to know what life was like without her, when she was dormant, asleep, just waiting for you to finally wake up.

Then your very self locked the cage. Your fingers claw at the bars, but it's no use. It's your very own punishment. So in turn, you bury her, too, silencing her cries, quieting what she wants most in the world, because it isn't fair, fuck you, you whiny bitch.

She's a pathetic puppy; and you are more than happy to step on her fucking neck.

Your aim is off today. The sound is muffled through the earphones you wear, but they've never thrown off your balance before. When you lean over the railing and squint at the target papers towards the back, you can see the bullet holes just a few inches off center.

You're never off-center.

"Getting rusty on me, Kit?"

You turn around, setting the gun down, and you smile wide when you see a familiar face. You pull the headphones off, putting them aside before making your way towards her.

Kate Laswell is surprised when you throw your arms around her and hug her tight. She smells good; she smells like chocolate, dark chocolate, something bittersweet. She's got that edge to it that they all do, something a little heady and all-encompassing, but she's the only alpha that you've ever found comfort being near. You see her nose scrunch a little when she embraces you back.

You must stink like synthetics. You care, only because you hate to make her nose sting this way. It's never been meant for her. At times, you thought maybe you could do a little convincing; maybe if you batted your lashes enough, she’d take pity on you, hide you away in some CIA shack with her deep on a Montana farm and play house. You’d cook, and she’d protect, and you’d be perfect little alpha and omega until the end of your days.

But Kate doesn’t like baggage. Not even the sweet kind, and especially not the kind that makes it even more difficult to make the hard decisions.

Kate isn’t a soldier. She makes choices based on the greater good, the lesser evil. She doesn’t get to be selfish. She doesn’t have that luxury.

When you pull away, she looks down at you strangely. She looks tired. Her dark hair is in a mess of a braid tucked under a cap, and she looks like she hasn't slept in days. Her attempt of a smile emphasizes the lines around her eyes. You open your mouth to tell her something, but she shakes her head.

"I'm not here as a friend," she says softly, and you frown a little.

"Aren't...haven't we always been friends?" You ask, and Kate lets out a shaky sigh, nodding her head behind her.

"We need to talk. C'mon."

You retrieve the gun and holster it, fastening it into your thigh holster before you follow her. She has a car waiting outside, a big, black SUV with the door already open for her. When you get inside, she knocks on the divider, and the car immediately starts moving. You brace yourself against the side of the car as it speeds off, reaching for a seatbelt.

"Jesus, Kate, what's going on? I-I have training later, I can't–"

"You're not...going back to base," she says evenly. You frown a little, leaning back in your seat, and you put your hands in your lap as you try and get a read on her. Even exhausted, Kate is hard to decipher. She has a stone-cold expression, calm and unbothered, and you curse her CIA training for making her impossible to understand, to even get a glimpse of what she might say next. Her face makes you anxious, and the scent in the car that changes puts you on edge.

"Okay," you scoff a little. "Then where am I going?"

Kate sniffs a little, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't break eye contact with you when she says, "Wheels up in 30. I have an assignment for you." She reaches under the seat, pulling out a manila folder, setting it down beside you. When you pick it up and flip it open, you narrow your eyes.

"I'm..." You shrug your shoulders, "I'm not really CIA. You don't give me orders."

"As of one hour ago, you're mine. And this...this is your duty."

Your eyes blur as you skim the text on the pages. You flip through the papers flimsily, getting more and more irritated until you throw it at her, your chest rising and falling fast as you pant, barely able to see her through your tears.

Program. UK. Field assignment. Mate. All the keywords to make your stomach curl and your autonomy shrink in front of your very eyes.

"Kate, don't do this," you beg her softly. You soften your voice, and you let your omega drip syrup into it. You want to see her eyes dilate–you want to make her protectiveness kick in just enough that she might just appease you. It’s desperate, and you know it’s wrong, but you do it anyways, you have to. "Please don't do this. Please. You fucking promised me, you promised–"

"You need to understand that I don't have a lot of fucking choices," she says sharply. She pities you, that much you can tell. She looks pained, but it doesn’t matter how pained she might feel because it isn’t happening to her. It’s happening to you, and she put you on that base so that it wouldn’t happen to you, and she tricked you into getting into this car, and now it’s her–

"Kate, I'll do anything, please," you gasp. You reach over and grab her hands, tugging her towards you. "You know. You know what...w-what I've been through, what this all is, you know...please. Please..."

You promised me. You gave me your word.

"I can't–"

But the CIA can’t be trusted for shit.

"I'll be yours," you try, squeezing her palms. Appease. Beg. Bare your neck. Give her what she really craves. "Just claim me yourself, a-and...and we don't have to do this, w-we can...I-I can go back to–"

Her face contorts, offended, disgusted. You try and swallow down the sting of her rejection, but you cannot help yourself. You would do anything to not be subjected to this fate, to the fate she promised she'd save you from. The only alpha you have ever trusted, and she's pulling away from you, bit by bit.

"I could never do that to you," she interrupts, shaking her head. "I couldn't."

"But you'll do this instead?"

"It's the lesser evil," she says finally, pushing your hands back. It aches. Despite you never leaning towards her, it is still an alpha turning their nose up at you, and the thing inside of you cries at the feeling; she begs you to do more, but you swallow her down, fingers itching for another pill just so you can really squash her singing. "And in my world, that is the best I can hope for."

"It's punishment!" You cry, and she reaches over, cupping your cheeks, pulling you close. You scrunch your face at her touch. Her hands are cold, and they do not welcome you. "A-And for what? For being something that I can't change?!"

"It's mercy," she whispers. Her thumbs stroke your cheeks in soft circles. "I can't protect you anymore, do you understand? They don't want you there, and I can’t take you with me. Even taking meds, even spraying yourself to shit, they don't want you, and I can't protect you if they send you away, do you understand me?" You start to cry, closing your eyes, and you hear the familiar voice in your head preening. She's desperate, slipping through the cracks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try and force her backwards. You’re panicking, and maybe she’s trying to help, but you hate her. "I have to get you out of there, and this is the only way."

"Please..."

"I can't protect you," she says gently. "But he can. And he'll be good to you. I promise, this...this I can promise."

You rip yourself away from her, curling into yourself as you scoot away from her as far as possible. You press yourself against the door, tucking your knees into your chest. Whatever passes by outside is a blur, and your brain doesn’t register any of it. The only thing in your head is betrayal, traitor, those sick, stupid bastard alphas, all of them–

"Fuck your promises," you whimper, and when she reaches out for you again, you flinch, burying your face into your hands.

Kate is a liar. She never keeps her promises; that’s her job, it is what she does. The CIA is nothing if they aren’t incredible liars–it’s what they’re known for, and Kate takes to it like a fish to water. As far as you are concerned, she lured you in with bait, and now she's shut the door on a trap. It is lined with padding, soft, delicate, but it still holds you back, it still keeps you still and stagnant and forever chained to an existence that you detest more than anything. She used you; it was in her best interest to keep an omega under her thumb, to do with you as she pleased when she needed one, and you suppose once you are taken, she will find another to do the same with. She will give another desperate one like you false hope, and when she needs another omega to keep someone else complacent and willing, she will offer them up with her signature on paper–just like that.

She tries to touch your hand before you board the plane. She tries to meet your eyes, get your attention, anything. You cower when she reaches out, and when she steps backwards, you walk on.

You never look behind yourself. Not even when you sit, and not even as the ramp closes shut.

Fighting is futile when you are who you are. It's unexpected. It's frowned upon. You are made up of something that is intended to be docile, to be big-eyed and soft. If you were a dog, they would want you to roll over and bare your belly and forget how to do anything but obey, but that is not the kind of thing that you ever wanted to be, even when you were small, even before you knew what you really were.

You hate what you are. You medicate yourself to the point of being incoherent, you bare your teeth and aggravate the submissive nature you inherit to deter any kind of match. You make yourself undesirable, not just in your physical nature but in the very essence of yourself.

You want to start over, as something else, or you want to never have been at all. You hate this place, you want them to cast you out, you want to be left to your own devices because dying alone and unwanted is better than submission; it;s better than the imprisonment that your kind subjects themselves to, willing or not.

It sickens you. You watch your own kind fall to their knees, close their mouths, and allow their very being to disappear just to make another satiated. Happy. Their entire lives, reduced to being someone else's waiting hand, someone else's property. It's sad, it's pathetic, it rocks you to the very center of yourself, and you demand more of it, you reject this life and the voice in your head that fights with you every single day of it.

She hates you, too, your omega. She claws at your insides and begs for something to drink, but you dry her out. You don't allow her to even breach the surface of the wasteland you've suffocated her with. She is naïve; she doesn't know what is good for her, she doesn't know that you are saving her from a life of constant torture. She screams for you to let her out, but you take another pill and force her back into the dark.

Or at least you did. You haven't taken a pill in days. They won't let you, even when you asked, even when you began to beg. You promised to be good if they just appeased you. You promised to be quiet if they just slipped it under your tongue, even if they injected it into your very veins, anything, just please, please, I don't want to–

Everything is surreal. You feel like you're seeing everything in color. What used to be dull and uninteresting now sparkles in your very eyes, it glows under the sun. Everything is sharper and less blurry. Sounds are clearer. You can hear the wind more loudly in your ears and feel it under the soles of your shoes. But what dizzies you the most is your sense of smell.

Everything before had been so bland. You have been under the effects of suppressors for so long that you don't think food has ever smelled so bad and so good (eggs make you gag now, and the crisps they give you make your mouth water).

They keep you confined in a small room. You are not allowed in the presence of any alphas; you can smell them passing by the door, but whenever the stink of one of them lingers, there's loud voices, lots of heavy boots. A beta comes to collect you to do a daily workout and to shower, and then you are back in your room, your meals delivered on a tight schedule (and the food, after a few days of your tray being barely picked at, gets so much better–it's better quality than you've seen on any military base, and when you asked, all they said was "lieutenant's orders").

Today is different. Today, along with your breakfast, a large black hoodie is folded underneath the tray that they leave on the end of your bed. You set the food aside, picking up the hoodie, and when you unravel it, you spread it out, gawking at the size of it. Whoever this hoodie belongs to is more bear, more beast, than human. An enormous thing, but when you pick it up, you immediately pick up on its strong scent.

You press the front of it to your nose. Your eyes flutter shut, and you sink into the bed a little as you take a deep breath of it. Warm, but gritty, like charcoal. Cigarettes. Military-issue soap. Clean. Eucalyptus. Fire. Something with depth, something with teeth. You don't realize what's happening to you until it's too late.

Alpha. It smells undoubtedly like alpha, and you're certain by the size of it that it belongs to one. You nuzzle your face into it a little, instinctively, and you don't even register your omega knocking, peering through the door that's been cracked open for her.

She squeals with delight. She's getting dizzy, drunk, and you feel a soft noise in your chest bubble as she pets the back of your mind, keening at the introduction of it. She’s giggling. You can feel her tugging at your insides, whispering in your ear–See? I told you. I told you that you’d like it.

They smell strong. They smell capable. They smell pure.

When you put the hoodie down, your legs are pressed together, shaking from how hard your thighs are squeezed. When you relax, you refrain from the need to touch yourself, but you failed before you even started. You can feel how wet you are; your panties must be soaked, and you feel yourself pulsing with some sort of distinct urge to give in, give in, give in.

It's unnerving, the lack of control you have. Your omega has always been a few feet underwater, but she's breaching the surface now, her lips gasping for air.

You try to push her back.

Stay down.

When the clock strikes for dinner, you aren't surprised by the knock. But you are surprised that when the door opens, there isn't a beta in uniform holding your tray. Instead, you cover your nose a little, blinking harshly as a large man comes into the room. He's got a strange beard and a floppy hat, and when he smiles, he reminds you of a teddy bear. You can tell just by his physique what he is, but his eyes are kinder than you're used to.

You will yourself not to trust them. You trusted kind eyes before, and now you’re locked in a prison of your own making.

"'ello," he introduces himself, holding out his hand. "'m Captain John Price. 's nice to meet you."

You glare at him, not saying a word. When he figures you won't shake his hand, he just nods. He lets his hand drop, hooking his thumbs into his tact vest, and he rests at ease.

"I've come to collect you," he says lowly. "It's time."

You pick up your tray of food from behind you and hurl it towards him. He ducks just in time, moving one shoulder backwards as the metal hits the wall behind him and clatters to the floor in a splattered mess. John shakes his head a little, scratching the back of his neck, and he clicks his tongue. You’re unnerved and a little pissed off when a hint of a grin flickers over his face.

"Fuckin' hell," he breathes. "Yeah...you'll do."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Let's go," John snaps. "Won't ask again."

When he reaches for you, you swipe the fork from the bed, stepping close and sticking the little prongs up against his chin. You aren’t satisfied until you can feel his scratchy beard against it, piercing the skin just enough.

"If you touch me, I'll shove this right up your chin through your goddamn nose," you threaten, and John’s nostrils flare, his hands going up flat beside his head.

"Easy," he murmurs, and you feel like he’s talking to a skittish mare. "Just need to guide you, that's all."

"Well, I don't want to go anywhere."

"If you don't do this, I have to send you back," John explains. "And Kate made it very clear that is supposed to be my last resort. And you don't want to go back."

"Anything is better than this," you hiss, and he narrows his eyes.

"Not this. What they do to unruly omegas..." He leans forward, snarling a little. "Ones like you. Ones that bite. And scratch. They don't deal with them. They'll sedate you and use you as training practice. And while Kate might have a heart big enough to keep you outta that place, I don't have it. So get your arse moving. Now."

You put your hand down, dropping the fork, letting it clatter to the floor. He grips you by the collar of your shirt, urging you forward, and all the hairs stand up on the back of your neck as he gets dangerously close to scruffing you. It's enough of a threat that you immediately relax, your own body betraying your emotions as it tries to make itself smaller. To appease. To submit.

"This can't wait any longer," John mutters. "Has to happen today."

Your lip trembles.

"What has to happen today?" You ask.

"You're meeting your mate," he says. You know that was the answer, but you had to ask it anyways. You think of the hoodie you received all those hours ago. The smell of him, complete intoxication. "Simon."

Simon.

"Sounds like an asshole," you snap, irritated, and John chuckles a little.

"Mmm. He is. You'll adore 'im."

You flinch at the flickering fluorescent lights as he leads you down a narrow hallway. When you pass other soldiers, John puts you in front of him, glaring and baring his teeth a little. You're confused by this sudden display of aggression on your behalf, but when you spot the looks in others’ eyes, you're grateful for it nonetheless.

You know your scent is strong; piercing the walls around you, displaying your displeasure, discomfort, fear so plainly. It's an awful thing to not be able to hide how you feel, to not feel like you have any control over how you present to others, but you have no practice masking any of it. You have been drowning your omega for so long that you didn't realize the strength of her building up behind the synthetic walls you had built. She's livid, angry, permeating the spaces in your mind that you thought were solid and now are broken and hollow inside.

You stop in front of an unmarked door. John looks over you, eyeing the jacket you wear.

"Take tha' off," he says lowly. You frown, stepping back, but he nods again. "Take it off. You'll get it back, just give it to me."

You shrug your jacket off gently, handing it to him. John holds out his hand for yours, and when you cautiously give it to him, he rubs the fabric against your wrists to soak it in your scent before disappearing behind the door. You wait outside, pressing your ear to the metal, but you hear nothing but low mumbles. You do hear a heavy gait, big feet moving around that don't belong to Captain Price, and you close your eyes as you try and see if you can hear his voice.

You don't.

The door is opened just slightly, John cocking his head to the side.

"He wants to see you."

You raise a brow.

"Your mutt?" You ask smartly, and John scoffs a little, kicking the door open wide finally. Behind it, you can see a small little office situated. Dozens of file cabinets, a stained wooden desk, a peeling leather chair. There are papers everywhere, a disorganized mess and walls filled with medals, plaques, letters, pictures of faceless men. And standing beside the desk, towering over it with his head nearly hitting the ceiling is a bear.

A fucking bear.

He's so tall. Over six feet of hulking man, big shoulders taking up too much space. You can tell just by looking at him that he has to duck his head and move his body sideways to get through the doorway you're standing in. He has big hands and thick thighs, and your lips part when you realize his thigh holster has been released as much as possible just to still fit snugly around him. He's wearing dark jeans and a thick black hoodie, and he looks even bigger with a strapped tact vest that holds numerous little gadgets, weapons (fuck, he looks like he can kill you with the pencil laying haphazard beside him).

You can't see his face. He covers it with a mask, a snug covering tucked under his hoodie with the plastic front plate of a skull sewn to its front. He's holding your jacket in one hand, the other clenched in a tight fist as you step through the door.

"Is this your dog, Captain?" You ask finally. Simon doesn't speak. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing you, taking in the way you look from the tips of your combat boots all the way up over your head. His gaze lingers on your middle, the wideness of your hips and the curve of your body.

John crosses his arms over his chest.

"Suppose so," John shrugs, rolling his eyes a little. You blink, finally making eye contact with Simon. His eyes are dark and beady. He's intense, just as his scent had been. Your omega warms your throat and screams in your ear.

Grab him. Latch onto him. Don’t let him go. Do you see him? Look at him–

"Does it bark?" You wonder, glaring. Simon unclenches his fist, rolling his fingers out a little. They twitch beside his leg. His face twitches a little, too, you can see the mask move just slightly.

"When he wants to."

"Does it bite?"

John snorts. "Mmm. Afraid so." He opens the door behind him. "Don't kill each other. If I don't see her for supper, Simon, I'll hold you to it."

When you are alone, Simon still remains silent. He hasn't moved from his spot by the desk, still in a strange staring contest with you as you stand there trying to read him. Like Kate, he's impossible; this time, you don't even have the luxury of looking over his face, although you suspect even without the mask, he must have mastered some kind of expression of nothingness. He seems like the kind of brute to give nothing away. Not even his displeasure.

"Hope you're good on a leash," you say finally, crossing your arms over your chest. "I like to go on walks."

His face moves under the mask again. Finally, he moves. He unravels your jacket in his hand, holding it open for you to put on again. You eye him strangely before coming closer to fit your arms into it.

When you turn your back to him, you realize how much of his shadow you're tucked under. When he drops the fabric back on your shoulders, you still as he leans over one side of you, bending. Without thinking, your head tilts to the side, giving him more space into the side of your neck. You do it without even thinking. Your omega bleeds through you, and you feel her warmth everywhere now, making you move, but you let her this time.

Your scent gland pulses there under your ear. He can see it, hear it practically, rushing like the blood in his ears. You close your eyes when you feel him come closer, the cotton of his mask just barely grazing your neck as he takes a deep breath.

The growl he lets out shakes you to your core. Your pupils get blown wide at the sound, and your head flops back slow, exposing more of your neck. He uses the opportunity to bend just that much more, until the front of his mask is pressed against the gland, and he can breathe you in, right at the source.

He's snarling under the mask. You can hear his teeth knock together, his tongue wetting his lips. You shiver, leaning into him, your hand raising up to caress the back of his neck as he nuzzles his nose there, taking another deep breath. You step back enough that he presses up against you from behind. You can feel his pelvis right against your ass, and you arch your back just enough to fit him right where he belongs. A gloved hand catches you at your waist, and you put your free hand on the desk in front of you until his cock is right there between your ass.

Your omega is panting. She's clawing, right there at the edge, fighting against quicksand as she's desperate to meet him. The feeling of him, the scent of him so close, it's an aphrodisiac, potent, suffocating. Something warm is wrapping around you, sliding along your skin, tickling your toes. It's between your thighs, in your mouth, wetting your tongue. You're not sure what this feeling is, but it's thrilling.

He's purring. Big, rumbling sounds coming from deep in his chest. More animal than man as his tongue comes out under the mask, and you can feel him lick a nice stripe over the raised, warm skin under your ear. Your omega is being pulled to the forefront. She’s like a magnet to him. The closer he gets, the stronger she bites into you. Your mouth drops open when his hand falls between your thighs, gripping onto you and pulling you up against him in one, slow grind. You can feel the length of him, fucking enormous, and you’re leaking into your cargos as his fingers squeeze the fat of your thigh.

"Fuck–okay!" You pull away abruptly, turning to face him. You put your hands on his chest and push him back a little. He doesn’t move at your touch, but your voice startles him enough that he moves his hands up and away from you. He straightens up, blinking away the haze in his eyes, and you swallow hard. "T-Too much..."

He huffs, moving forward to bury his face into your neck again, but you step back, putting a hand on his chest firmer this time. You have stepped out of the cloud that surrounds him, but you can still taste it, and it’s pulling you back, and you’re losing control.

"Simon," you say his name gently, and he stops, his face scrunching a little under the mask before he stands back up again. "If I have to be your mate...we need to set some boundaries." He blinks, saying nothing. "Like...a-asking for permission."

You can tell by the way his mask twitches that he doesn't usually ask for permission. He wants, and he receives.

Typical.

“What?” You ask, scoffing. “You don’t talk?”

He doesn’t move. You crane your neck to look up at him a little better, and you smooth your hands lower on his chest. You can’t help but appreciate what you feel. He’s wearing a tactical vest, but you can still feel the deep breaths he’s taking, the strong, fatty muscle under your palms. He is the epitome of sheer strength and undeniable ability. Your omega draws your hands back up his chest, over his pecs that pull taut, and they wind up around his neck as you stand up on your toes and lean into the curve of his jaw. You put your nose to it, barely. Simon moves his hands down, cupping you under your ass and picking up your weight with not even a grunt until you can press your face deep into him.

Fuck, it’s like a drug. It’s addictive. His scent impales you. He smells like war. Like chaos and smoke, and your mouth starts to water as you keep breathing him in. You pull back just enough, blinking up at him. You look a little dizzy and intoxicated, and he squeezes your ass to hold you steady as he puts you back onto your feet.

“Uhm…” You sniffle a little, holding onto him. Your hands curl around his shoulders, and you keep yourself upright like this. “I didn’t wanna be here. I don’t…I don’t want this. I never did.” You blink away tears, but he sees them when you draw your eyes back up to his. “T-They made me. It hurts.”

“Wot hurts?”

His voice scares you when you finally hear it. Your lip shakes, and when you blink again, your tears fall down your face. Simon snarls when he sees them, reaching up with hands too rough and wiping them off your face, but they keep coming.

“I’ve never been o-off my meds–” You gasp, and your breaths start to come in panicked and too fast. “Everything hurts. T-The lights are too bright, everything hurts my nose, the sheets are too itchy, and I-I can’t breathe–”

Simon moves away from you immediately. He closes a fist and pounds the lightswitch, and only the yellow glow of the lamp on his desk illuminates the room. You curl into yourself, hugging your own arms, and Simon comes back to stand in front of you, narrowing his eyes.

“I did not want you either.”

“That’s just grand, this is perfect,” you hiccup, and Simon grunts.

“But I have orders.”

“You act like your Captain is just debriefing you for a fucking mission,” You snap, glaring at him. “I’m a fucking person. I know your kind may not see us that way, but I am. I’m not a mission. I’m not something for you to win or to conquer, you fucking asshole!”

When you raise a hand to hit him, he catches your wrist before it lands. He squeezes just enough to hold you at arm’s length, and you lean forward and spit on him instead. It wets the mouth of his mask, and he nearly loses himself as his eyes flash with something dark. He looks away from you for a moment to collect himself. When he turns back, he uses his other hand to cup the back of your head, silencing you.

“You listen ‘ere, omega–” The way he says your title makes the fight in you shrink. Your omega squeaks, ducking her head, that bubble of submission pilling in your throat as he holds you so close to your naked scent gland. “Dunno wot anyone told you, but I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” He ducks his head, pulling you closer, and you freeze when he presses his masked mouth at the base of your pulsing scent gland. It wafts into his nose, dilating his pupils, and he snarls. “And when you inevitably lose control of yourself–you already fuckin’ are, you reek of it–I’m goin’ to sink my teeth right ‘ere, and then it won’t fuckin’ matter ‘ow you feel.”

Your eyes blur with angry tears. You gasp, your breaths hitching, and Simon seems to feed off of your fear, your misery. If he wasn’t wearing a mask, you imagine he’d be licking your tears for a chance to taste your sadness. The worst part of it all is that your omega adores it. She’s been aching for so long for this kind of authority. For that edge to tickle her right under her chin where she likes it. The whiff of alpha that she’s getting is driving her out of control, and you don’t know how make her quiet down. She’s so loud in your head, banging against the walls–give it to him, give it to him, give it to him.

“You’re a fucking monster,” you whisper, glaring up at him. It’s no use–you will never scare him. Simon is what scares other alphas into submission. In one paw, he could crush your windpipe if he wanted to, with just a squeeze. Simon hums, and you imagine him smiling under that mask, some kind of vicious grin that you would love to smack off of him.

“Tha’s right, swee’eart,” Simon mutters. “I am. ‘n now you belong t’me. Everything that you are–” He smooths his hand down your neck. You seize when his hand slides over the curve of your waist until it cups under your ass and forces you up against him. “‘s mine. Your omega–’s mine. Your mouth–mine. Your arse–mine. That cunt that’s going to take my knot like a good little omega should–mine. So y’r gonna get y’r things, and y’r gonna move them into my quarters, and then we’re gonna go get supper, and y’r gonna shut y’r fuckin’ mouth.”

“I hate you. You’re the biggest son of a bitch I have ever met in my entire life, you are exactly the kind of asshole I knew you would be, you are no different than I thought. You’re a terrible, awful, horrible–”

“I can smell you,” Simon snaps. “Don’t try to be fuckin’ smart with me, I can smell how wet your cunt is, so why don’t you just be a good girl and do as I say?”

You bare your teeth a little, and Simon sticks a gloved thumb into your mouth. Without thinking, you relax. You suck it into your mouth and sigh, and Simon rubs his thumb against your tongue, shutting you up nice and well. He traces your teeth with it, and you start to cry. You cry because you don’t know why you can’t fight. Your grip his forearm, but your nails won’t dig. Your feet are planted to the ground, and you can’t move. Your mouth sucks, and he pushes, and you’re frozen here.

He knows what to do. Doesn’t he taste so good?

He seems to like your teary eyes. The big, fat tears. His eyes crinkle, and you know he’s smiling, and you wish you could rip that expression off his face, but all that stares back at you is death. Simon growls, and every bit of resistance in you fails. Slow, like molasses, your knees buckle, and he catches you. He pets your mouth, and when he leans in and presses his mouth to your ear, all you can do is cry.

“That’s it. Good kitty.”

NEXT

[mingapace]

I’m going absolutely feral for Pet!Remmick. More please, I beg of you 🙏🏻

Not sure if this is a request but...There's always time to write a quick thing for Pet! Remmick!

𝕾𝖊𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖙

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ᴄʟɪɴɢʏ-ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ-ᴘᴇᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ

𝘼/𝙣: 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 (𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵), 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵. 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰. 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘐’𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘮𝘴.

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 2,8ᴋ

The bed is too warm.

Too soft.

Too… occupied.

You stir beneath the quilt with a muffled groan, arms tangled in the sheet, sweat gathered along the line of your spine. Summer’s crept in through the window crack you forgot to close, dragging its humid breath across the room.

And wrapped around your leg, from calf to thigh like a python, is Remmick.

You blink up at the ceiling, half-blind in the gray dawn light, and shift slightly.

His grip tightens.

A low, contented sound escapes his throat—something between a sigh and a purr—and his nose presses into the bend of your knee, cold and unnervingly still for a second. Then he breathes you in, slow and deep, like you’re the last good thing on Earth and he has to memorize it before it disappears.

You’re not sure if he’s awake.

Probably.

You’ve learned over time that he doesn’t actually sleep the way you do. Not really. It’s more like a low-energy state, like hibernation mixed with watchfulness, as if one part of his mind is always wired into the dark.

You stretch your arms above your head with a groan.

It was finally the weekend and you could lounge around in your bed until the next morning and the morning after that.

“Remmick.” you mutter.

“Mmh...” he replies, noncommittal. The wordless sound of a creature who does not want to move.

You glance down at him.

His head rests half on the sheet, half against your thigh, dark hair mussed from sleep—or what passes for it—and one hand lazily splayed across your hip, possessive and relaxed at the same time.

He looks younger like this. Not in years, exactly, but in affect. The sharpness is gone. The edges dulled. No smirk. No deflection. Just a heavy kind of closeness that feels more animal than man.

You shift again.

“Leg’s asleep.” you murmur.

“You’ll live,” he rasps. Voice wrecked with disuse and something close to smugness. He nuzzles closer, dragging his cheek along your skin. “I like this leg.”

You sigh. “It’s attached to a person, you know.”

“Aye, I copped that.”

His lips brush your inner thigh when he says it.

You suppress the shiver that crawls up your spine.

“Your possessiveness is getting worse.” you mutter.

He hums, content. “You let it.”

You don’t argue. You can’t.

You’re the one who started letting him stay in your bed. The one who reached for him that first night, hand fisted in his shirt. The one who said yes, again and again, until yes stopped being a word and started being a state of being.

You comb a hand lazily through his hair. It’s longer now. You haven’t asked him to cut it. Sometimes he sleeps like this—curled around your body, limbs heavy, skin cooler than yours, but familiar now. Trusted.

Sometimes you catch him watching you after. After sex. After sleep. After silence. Watching like a thing starved for a long time, still not convinced the feast won’t vanish.

“Still hungry?” you ask.

It’s a quiet question. Not really about food.

Remmick shifts, the edge of his jaw brushing against your stomach. “Mmh. Not yet.”

You feel him breathe, sharp and slow.

“You’ve that look on you.”

You tilt your head. “What look?”

He lifts his gaze to yours. Pale irises, eyes open now—really open. That strange gray shade they turn when he’s comfortable. When the thirst is distant and the beast quiet.

“The one says you're thinkin' of sendin’ me off,” he murmurs. “Even just for a bit.”

“I’m thinking about coffee,” you retort, dry.

He chuckles into your skin. “Same thing.”

You swat at his hair.

He catches your wrist with a deft hand, then presses a soft kiss into the inside of it. Gentle. Reverent.

It disarms you more than anything else he’s ever done.

You stay like that for a while. Just the two of you. Draped over one another, quiet. The hum of the world outside your shuttered windows, the drip of the faucet you haven’t fixed yet, the murmur of wind through old screens. All distant.

Then:

“I could make breakfast,” he offers.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t touch the oven again. Last time, you burned all the toast because you cranked it up to the max.”

“I’ve matured, y'know” he says, far too seriously. “Emotionally and culinarily.”

You lift an eyebrow. “That’s not a word.”

He grins. “Yet.”

You shake your head. You don’t mean it, but the smile that creeps into the corner of your mouth gives you away.

Remmick notices. He always notices. He doesn’t comment, but the way he stretches—curling himself over you like a weighted blanket—tells you everything.

“You after anything?” he murmurs into your shoulder. “Anything at all.”

You hesitate.

He pulls back a little, meeting your eyes.

And you see it again.

That look.

The one that says: Just say the word. I’ll bring it. I’ll fetch it. I’ll burn for it.

It’s not a game. It never was. Not since the day he crawled into your life with blood on his shirt and soft words on his tongue.

You trace a finger along the edge of his jaw. His eyes flutter just slightly.

“Maybe just…” you pause. The request feels stupid. Small.

But Remmick leans into your hand, waiting.

“…just lie here,” you finish. “Stay like this. Just a little longer.”

He exhales. Relief, almost.

“I can do that.”

He nuzzles into your chest, wrapping an arm fully around your waist now. His body covers half of yours like armor, like instinct.

You scratch lightly at his scalp. His fingers curl into the small of your back and presses his face against your sternum, breath trembling against your skin.

You don’t speak again.

Not for a long while.

It starts with a text.

NADIA: in town for the weekend—group dinner at Aedan’s tomorrow night, 7pm. You have to come. haven’t seen you in forever.

You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary. Then glance across the room.

Remmick’s on the couch, legs spread, head resting against the back cushion. He’s flipping lazily through one of your dog-eared paperbacks, upside-down. The spine’s bent, and he’s mouthing the words as if reading is some quiet ritual meant only for your furniture and him.

You clear your throat. “Hey.”

“Mmh?”

“Nadia’s back in town.”

He looks up. “The one with the ankle tattoo?”

“…Yeah.”

“The one who gave ya the number of some lad even after ya told her you were seein' someone?”

You blink. “You remember that?”

“I remember everythin',” he says evenly.

You pause.

“She invited me to dinner. Just friends. A group thing. Aedan’s place.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he closes the book.

Gently.

Sets it down. Stands up and walks into the kitchen.

You follow.

He’s rinsing out a mug that was already clean. The tension in his shoulders is stiff. Practiced.

You lean against the counter.

“It’s not a date.”

He doesn’t look at you. “Didn’t say it was.”

“You’re… doing the mug thing again.”

“What mug thing?”

You point. “That mug was clean.”

He stares at it. Then puts it down carefully.

When he speaks, his voice is casual. Too casual. “You goin’?”

“I might.”

He nods. Just once. Tight. “Alright.”

You wait. Wait for the real thing under his skin to show itself.

And then:

“I should come with ya.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks at you—finally looks at you—and you see it. The quiet need. The line of uncertainty drawn tight across his brow.

“I should be there with ya. Just sittin' quiet, smilin', not bitin' anyone.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Let your friends see who you’ve dragged home.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You dragged yourself into this house, Remmick.”

He makes a quick wave of his hand, as if to swat away an annoying fly.

You hesitate because you know what he’s really asking.

He wants to be included.

He wants to be seen. Not just by you, but by the people who knew you before he ever existed in your orbit. He wants them to look at you, then at him, and understand that the line between you isn’t temporary.

“I don’t know what kind of crowd it’ll be,” you say carefully. “They’re old friends. People from college. Loud. Invasive. Judgmental.”

“Let ‘em judge,” he says.

“Remmick—”

He steps forward, hands braced on either side of the counter, leaning in just enough to make your pulse flicker.

“I’ll wear sleeves, alright? I’ll slick me hair back. I’ll even shave, if that's what will stop ‘em from starin’. But I want to be there.” His voice softens. “I want to see how you laugh when you’re with them. I want to know what you look like when you’re not holdin' me like a secret.”

You go still.

Because the words hit too deep. Too true.

You nod once and the relief on his face is immediate.

You’re standing outside a cramped apartment building on the edge of downtown. You can hear music already—muffled bass, someone laughing too loud, clinking glasses.

Remmick’s beside you, dressed like a man trying very hard not to look like a vampire.

Slim white shirt. Clean jeans. Hair pulled back as he promised. Sleeves rolled once at the forearms. He’s got that polite expression that means I’m calculating every exit in this room while trying to look charming.

“You don’t have to say much,” you murmur. “Just sit next to me. Smile when appropriate. Don’t use any words older than 1950.”

He grins. “So no verily or mayhap.”

You nudge him with your shoulder.

The door swings open before you can knock.

“Holy shit,” Nadia says, pulling you into a hug that smells like citrus shampoo and ambition. “You actually came!”

You barely get a word out before she notices Remmick.

“Oh.” Her eyebrows lift. “And you brought…”

“This is Remmick,” you say firmly. “My partner.”

Remmick extends a hand. Calm. Perfectly controlled.

She hesitates—but shakes it.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, that quick, sharp social instinct kicking in. “You’re not what I pictured.”

Remmick tilts his head. “Good or bad?”

“I plead the Fifth.”

Inside, the party is already full. A mix of art school burnouts and small-time professionals who wear boots worth more than their rent. You recognise a few faces. Others blur. Remmick stays close—one hand lightly brushing your lower back whenever someone walks too near. Always just touching.

Nadia watches it. You see her, even when she tries not to stare.

Remmick notices too.

“She not too fond o' me,” he mutters under his breath, nursing a glass of ginger ale with a twist of lime (because “blood at dinner parties” is still a no).

“She doesn’t know you.”

“She doesn’t want to.”

You touch his hand under the table. “She doesn’t get to decide.”

He relaxes. Just slightly.

Until Aedan sits down next to you. He’s a tall, easy man in his early thirties—blond hair tied in a studious bun. His smile to you flickers like sunrise.

Aedan—who’s always been too familiar, too loud, too casually handsy.

“Still drink red wine?” he asks, sliding a glass toward you. “Used to make that face when it was too dry. Remember that?”

You open your mouth to answer.

Remmick cuts in.

“She's not who she was,” he says. Calm. Friendly. His hand tightens around your knee beneath the table. “Doesn’t like wine now.”

Aedan raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you knew her so well.”

Remmick smiles.

And it’s terrifying.

“You’d be surprised what I notice.”

There’s a beat of silence. The conversation dips but fortunately Someone in the centre of the room took the microphone and called on Aedan to sing. The boy stood up, shrugged, and rolled his eyes in your direction—like he didn’t want to, when really it was the exact opposite—and stepped forward. Every eye in the room was on him.

You lean toward Remmick, whispering against his ear, “Don't be hostile.”

He blinks. “What? I was polite.”

“You were growling politely.”

He tries to look innocent. It doesn’t work.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you.

You step inside, shoulders sagging, the weight of the night peeling off you like a too-tight coat. You toe off your shoes in the dark, drop your keys into the bowl with a clatter, and sigh.

You only get as far as the hallway before you feel him behind you.

Not close. Not touching. But radiating heat and want.

You don’t turn around. You know that feeling too well now — the tension coiled inside him like a knotted spring. The way he holds it in, perfect and patient, until you’re alone. Until it’s safe. Until he doesn’t have to act like something he’s not.

“Remmick.”

“Yeah?”

His voice is low. Tighter than usual.

You finally turn.

He’s standing near the door, head tipped down, hands clenched at his sides. Hair loose now. His shirt’s wrinkled from where you’d clutched it once, hours ago, without thinking.

He looks beautiful. Frustrated. Barely human.

“You did fine,” you say gently. “You didn’t bite anyone. You smiled, made eye contact, spoke like a functional member of society—”

“I hated the whole lot of it.”

The words come out like a rupture. Sharp. Honest.

“I know.”

“I hated the way they looked at ya. The way he touched your arm. No one of them asked how I was. Like I was just a bit of furniture you dragged along to keep your seat warm.”

He starts pacing. Restless. You thought he was blaming you and you are about to snap when he added:

“Like they'd snatch you back the second I turned me head.”

You stared at him, blinking a couple of times. It was always hard to follow Remmick’s train of thought. He seemed to live in a world of his own.

You cross your arms. “They couldn’t.”

“I know that,” he snaps, eyes flashing up. “I know.”

You watch him. Quietly. Let him wear the edges off. Let the words spill out until he has nothing sharp left to throw at the walls.

Finally, when the room goes still again, you speak.

“You think they didn’t see how you looked at me?”

He stops mid-step.

“You think they didn’t see how you sat too close? How you only ever touched the glass I drank from? How your fingers didn’t leave my back for more than ten seconds the whole night?”

Remmick blinks.

You take a step forward. Slow. Deliberate.

“They know I’m yours.”

Another step.

“But do you know you’re mine?”

That does it.

The tension in his shoulders buckles. He stands frozen, jaw tight, breath shallow.

You close the final distance, hand sliding under his jaw, tilting his head up just slightly.

“Because I’m not some prize you guard. I’m not a thing to claim.”

You press your forehead to his.

“You’re not the shield. You’re the treasure. Mine.”

His breath catches. His hands twitch once, like he wants to grab you—hold, crush, worship—but he waits. Always waits for permission.

So you give it.

“Touch me.”

It’s not even a second. He’s on you like a starving man.

Mouth to mouth, hands at your hips, body pressing you gently but firmly back against the hallway wall. His touch is desperate, reverent. Like he’s making up for every second he had to act human.

“Say it again, would ya?” he mutters between kisses.

You grip the back of his neck. “Mine.”

“Again.”

You laugh and he gently bites your lower lip. “Mine.”

He groans into your mouth, knees buckling slightly, like the word is a drug he doesn’t know how to process in proper doses.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him shudder. He drops to his knees in one smooth movement. Hands at your thighs now, mouth dragging across your skin like he’s trying to brand it.

“You didn’t look at anyone else tonight,” he murmurs, voice trembling.

“No.”

“You didn’t laugh the way you do with me.”

“No.”

His hands grip harder. “You didn’t want them.”

“Never.”

He buries his face against your stomach, like he needs to drown in you to believe it.

You cradle his head. You let him stay like that — pressed to you, trembling, breathing you in like he’ll die without the scent.

“I’m sorry, love” he whispers eventually. “I’m tryin'. I’m tryin' to be good.”

“You are good,” you whisper back.

He looks up, eyes shining.

“Can I stay like this?”

You nod.

“Please,” he breathes. “Just… hold me, darlin'.”

And so you do.

You slide down the wall, pull him close, and let him cling. Let him pant and press and murmur I love you without ever needing the words.

You don’t need dinner parties.

You don’t need social approval.

You need this.

A creature who tries.

A man who kneels only for you.

A pet who doesn’t know how to be tame, but tries anyway — because it means he gets to stay.

[ditzyrafe]

— sending dom!rafe a video of u touching urself

warnings — masturbation, lewd language

a/n — part two!

the house is quiet, almost unnervingly so. rafe is out — a late meeting, he'd said — leaving you alone with the silence and the low, insistent thrumming beneath your skin. it's that familiar ache, the one making your panties moisten with anticipation. the one you're supposed to ignore, supposed to wait patiently for him to address.

but tonight, the rules feel distant, hazy. the need is sharp, demanding, coiling tight in your belly. you shift restlessly on the living room rug, wanting so desperately to feel something satisfy your need. then an idea sparks, dangerous and thrilling, blooming hot in your chest: what if he saw? what if he knew you couldn't wait for him to come home?

it's defiance, plain and simple. a deliberate step over the line he drew so clearly.

your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for your phone, propping it against a cushion on the floor. you angle it carefully, making sure the lens captures your open legs and face all in one. your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic beat against the backdrop of silence. this is wrong. forbidden. exhilarating.

taking a deep breath, you hit record.

then, your hand slides down, hesitant at first, over the smooth fabric of your pink silky shorts rafe got you a while back, pressing lightly against the heat building between your legs. a soft gasp escapes your lips, startlingly loud in the quiet room. you glance at your phone, at the little red recording light, imagining his eyes wathching this. that thought alone fuels the fire inside of you.

you slip your shorts and panties off and toss them somewhere across the room. the first touch is electric, sending shivers radiating through your entire body. you close your eyes for a moment, focusing on the sensation, letting the pressure build, deliberately slow. this isn't just about release; it's about the act of disobedience. and you're kind of excited to see how rafe will punish you for it.

your fingers learn a rhythm, chasing the pleasure points you know so well. each sigh, each soft moan feels amplified like you're putting on a show. your back arches slightly, lost in the building sensation, acutely aware that every second of this stolen pleasure is being recorded for him. for the man whose permission you actively disregarded.

when the peak finally reaches, washing over you in hot, shuddering waves, a final, choked cry escapes you. you collapse back onto the couch behind you, trembling, breath ragged.

after a moment, catching your breath, you reach forward, fingers still slick, and stop the recording. the file sits there on your screen, a tangible piece of evidence of your disobedience. your thumb hovers over rafe's contact. sending this is crossing a line. and there's no going back after you hit send.

a thrill, sharp and laced with fear, shoots through you. you press send.

the delivery notification pings softly almost instantly, followed quickly by the double checkmarks indicating it's been seen. the speed of it steals your breath. he must have been looking at his phone. the silence in the house suddenly feels suffocating, stretching into eternity as you wait, knuckles white where you grip your phone.

just as you start to second-guess your impulsive act, the screen lights up. a new message from rafe. it was laced with something that made you instantly wet all over again.

rafe: get on all fours for when i get back, doll ♡

taglist ; @13hischiers @rafesprecious @mayanqueenxx @dreewsepj @zoenighshade555 @feverg1rl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @onxlyemery @yncoded @millie--billie @laniirackssss @slut4you @g3t2kn0w @kravitzwhore @dollyfiles @kild4re @zzhenyac @sparklyananas @dsfault @athaliahxoxo (join here) | divider creds ; @/anitalenia @/fairytopea

© written by ditzyrafe — do not steal or claim as ur own, stealing will result in me blocking u, any resemblance to any other story is simply coincidental!

[heliosunny]

Yandere!Phainon x Assistant!Reader

Summary: After being isekai’d into the world of Honkai: Star Rail, a game where players explore intergalactic civilizations and fight cosmic threats, you awaken in the city of Amphoreus as the assistant to Phainon.

In this fic contains different details from the original game.

A sharp chill ran down your spine as you opened your eyes. The first thing you noticed was the crystalline glow of Amphoreus stretching endlessly before you, its otherworldly beauty rendering you speechless. You blinked, expecting to see your screen, your controller, your familiar surroundings—but no. This wasn’t your room, and this wasn’t the game anymore.

“You’re awake.”

The voice was smooth, melodic, but carried an undercurrent of control that sent goosebumps crawling over your skin. You turned your head, and there he was—Phainon. Standing close, too close. His eyes, the same shimmering turquoise you had admired on screen, seemed to pierce right through you.

“Are you just going to stare, or do I need to remind you of your duties?” His lips curled into an amused smile, though his tone was sharp.

Duties? Wait—what was happening? You looked down at your clothes, now a sleek uniform of dark fabric adorned with golden embroidery. A datapad rested in your hands, glowing faintly with information that you couldn’t process. Your heart pounded as realization struck.

You were in the game.

And not just as a spectator—you were his assistant.

“I—uh…” Words caught in your throat. How were you supposed to explain this?

Phainon’s smile faltered, and his gaze turned calculating. “Are you unwell?” His hand reached for you, his fingers brushing against your forehead as though checking for a fever. “Strange. You’re not one to falter in your tasks.”

His touch felt unnervingly real, and you couldn’t help but flinch. That small reaction was all it took for his expression to darken.

“You’ve changed.” His voice dropped an octave, and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t like it.”

Before you could respond, a shimmering figure emerged from the nearby crystalline canal, interrupting the moment. A council envoy approached, their translucent form glowing faintly in the twilight.

“The council has summoned you, Lord Phainon.” the figure said, its voice echoing like a chime. “They request an update on the breach in the southern district.”

Phainon dismissed the envoy with a wave of his hand, his attention returning to you almost immediately. “Follow me,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And don’t stray.”

You stumbled after him, still trying to process the impossibility of your situation. As the two of you entered a grand hall bathed in twilight, the weight of countless eyes settled on you.

Phainon took his place at the center of the room, his aura dominating the space, but he kept you close—so close you could feel the brush of his robes against your arm. When a council member dared to question your presence, Phainon’s turquoise eyes burned with something dangerous.

“They belong to me” he said simply, his voice cold as ice. “And that’s all you need to know.”

The possessiveness in his tone sent shivers down your spine. You couldn’t tell if it was part of the game’s narrative or if Phainon—the character you had once admired from afar—had taken his obsession with his assistant far beyond what you’d ever imagined.

As the meeting concluded, you found yourself alone with him once more. He turned to face you, his gaze unreadable.

“Something’s different about you,” he said, stepping closer until you had nowhere to retreat. His hand tilted your chin upward, forcing you to meet his eyes. “But no matter what’s changed, you’re still mine.”

You followed Phainon through the shimmering corridors of Amphoreus’ central council chamber, your footsteps echoing against the marble-like floors. Every now and then, his sharp turquoise gaze flicked back to ensure you were still behind him. The air between you crackled with an unspoken tension—a mixture of curiosity and something far darker.

Your mind raced. This has to be a dream, you thought. But no dream had ever felt this vivid. The coolness of the air, the hum of energy radiating from the crystalline walls, the weight of Phainon’s presence—it was all too real.

As you walked, fragments of your memory returned. Before waking here, you had been playing the new update, marveling at the Amphoreus map and Phainon’s enigmatic character. You had admired his aesthetic, his power, his complexity. But now that you were face-to-face with him, every instinct screamed that he was far more terrifying than you’d imagined.

“Stop daydreaming” Phainon said sharply, breaking your train of thought. He paused at the entrance to an elegant chamber, gesturing for you to step inside. “We have work to do.”

You hesitated, glancing into the room. It was a war room of sorts, with a large, glowing table projecting a holographic map of Amphoreus. Streams of data and symbols floated in midair, all indecipherable to you.

“I…” You faltered, unsure how to respond. You were supposed to be his assistant, but you had no idea what your responsibilities actually were.

Phainon’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. “What’s wrong with you today?” His voice was soft, but it carried a dangerous edge. “You’ve been acting strangely since this morning. If you’re hiding something, I’ll find out.”

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t tell him the truth—he wouldn’t believe you, and even if he did, there was no telling how he’d react.

“I’m just… tired” you said, forcing a weak smile. “Maybe I need some time to adjust.”

He studied you in silence, his gaze piercing. Then, to your surprise, he sighed.

“Fine,” he said, his tone softening ever so slightly. “You’ve always been diligent. I’ll overlook it—for now. But don’t make a habit of this.”

Relief washed over you, but it was short-lived. Phainon stepped closer again, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was almost tender, but his next words sent a chill down your spine.

“Whatever is going on,” he murmured, “don’t forget your place. You’re mine.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yes, Lord Phainon.”

Adjusting to life in Amphoreus was far from easy. You quickly realized that the assistant’s role was far more integral to Phainon’s work than you had anticipated. Not only were you responsible for managing his schedule and monitoring intelligence reports, but you were also his confidant, someone he trusted implicitly—perhaps too much.

Phainon’s possessiveness became more apparent with each passing day. He refused to let you out of his sight for too long, insisting you accompany him to every meeting, every inspection, every event. When other figures of authority—council members, envoys, or even subordinates—spoke to you, his gaze would darken, and he’d find subtle ways to end the conversation.

“You’re wasting their time” he’d say coldly, guiding you away with a firm hand on your shoulder.

Yet there were moments of softness, too—moments that made it difficult to reconcile the man you’d admired in the game with the one standing before you now. Late at night, when the weight of his responsibilities bore down on him, he’d sit with you on the terrace overlooking the crystalline city.

“I never asked for this” he once admitted, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Power, duty, control—it’s all meaningless without someone to share it with.”

You didn’t know how to respond. The intensity of his gaze as he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t speaking in generalities.

As you tried to navigate your new reality, a troubling realization began to take root. Phainon seemed to suspect that something about you was different, but he didn’t push the issue—perhaps out of fear that he’d lose you if he did. His obsession only grew stronger, manifesting in subtle yet suffocating ways.

When you finally found a moment alone, you attempted to access the datapad he had given you, hoping to find some clue about how to escape this world. To your shock, the datapad seemed to respond to your thoughts, displaying fragments of your real-world memories.

“Curious, aren’t you?”

You froze. Phainon stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“I knew you were hiding something” he said, stepping into the room. “But I didn’t expect it to be this.”

He moved closer, his turquoise eyes glowing faintly. “Tell me” he said, his voice dangerously soft. “Where are you really from?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. His smile widened, but there was no warmth in it.

“It doesn’t matter” he said, his hand reaching out to cup your face. “You’re here now. And I won’t let you leave.”

Phainon’s hand lingered on your face, his fingers impossibly cool against your skin. His gaze bore into yours, far too perceptive for comfort. You tried to pull back, but he caught your wrist with his other hand, holding you in place effortlessly.

“You’ve been acting strange since the day you woke up” he murmured, his voice low and measured. “Avoiding questions, hesitating with tasks you used to handle flawlessly… Do you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about” you stammered, your heart pounding in your chest.

His smile darkened, the turquoise glow in his eyes intensifying. “Lying to me, little one? That’s unwise.”

Before you could protest, he guided you toward the chair near the glowing map table. His grip was firm but not painful, though there was no mistaking the underlying strength in his movements. “Sit” he commanded, and though you wanted to resist, your legs betrayed you, folding beneath his imposing presence.

He leaned over you, one arm braced on the chair’s backrest, trapping you in place. “Let’s try again” he said, his voice soft yet sharp as a blade. “Who are you really? Because I know this isn’t the assistant I’ve trusted for years. And don’t bother lying—I’ll know.”

The intensity in his gaze made your throat tighten. You tried to think of a believable story, anything that wouldn’t reveal the impossible truth. But before you could speak, his hand brushed your cheek, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw with unnerving precision.

“Let’s make it easier” he murmured. “I’ll take the truth myself.”

You barely had time to process his words before a golden glow spread from his hand, sinking into your skin. It wasn’t painful, but it felt invasive, like his presence was sinking into your very mind. You gasped, trying to pull away, but the energy surrounding you was unyielding.

“No, no” he whispered, his tone almost soothing. “Don’t fight it. Let me see.”

Images flashed before your eyes—your life in the real world, the moment you were pulled into this game, your growing dread at being trapped here. You could feel his mind brushing against yours, unraveling your thoughts, your secrets, your fears.

When the glow finally faded, you slumped in the chair, trembling. Phainon straightened, his expression unreadable as he processed what he had seen.

“So,” he said slowly, his voice tinged with a strange mix of amusement and fascination. “You’re not from this world. You don’t belong here.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but his finger pressed gently against your lips, silencing you. “Hush” he said, his smile returning—but this time, it was tinged with something darker. “I understand now. You came here from another place, another reality. But you’re mine now. And I won’t let you leave.”

He straightened, stepping back slightly, but his presence still loomed over you. With a wave of his hand, golden chains of light materialized around your wrists and ankles, locking you in place.

“Phainon, please—” you began, your voice shaky, but he cut you off with a raised hand.

“This is for your own good” he said calmly. “Amphoreus is dangerous for those who don’t know its rules. And now that I know what you are… I can’t risk anyone else finding out.”

His fingers traced one of the glowing chains, and the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “You should feel honored,” he said. “I don’t let just anyone stay this close to me.”

You shivered as he leaned down once more, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But don’t misunderstand me. If you try to escape, if you try to defy me…” His voice dropped to a whisper, sending chills down your spine. “I’ll remind you exactly who you belong to.”

His hand moved to your chin, tilting your face upward to meet his gaze. For a moment, the intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by something almost tender.

“I’ll take care of you” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You don’t have to be afraid… as long as you don’t forget your place.”

Your heart raced as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. His lips ghosted over yours, teasingly close but never fully connecting. “That’s my assistant.” he murmured, his voice dripping with possession.

Then, as quickly as the moment had begun, he straightened, leaving you breathless and trembling.

“I have business to attend to” he said, turning toward the door. “Rest here for now. We’ll continue this… discussion later.”

The golden chains binding you faded slightly, enough to allow you to move, but you could still feel their weight—both literal and symbolic. Phainon glanced back at you one last time, his smile as enigmatic as ever.

“Don’t go anywhere.” he said, his tone both a warning and a promise.

[eeridyllic]

MANEATER

kinich x saurian! reader

cw: no pronouns. reader is an ancient sealed saurian much like ajaw but you’re in your human form all the time. flirting and makeout. 3.5k words. not proof-read.

There were a lot of adjectives Kinich could use to describe you. Irritating would be the first, though it barely scratched the surface. 

You were cunning, nosy, and far too pleased with yourself. He could have gone his entire life without meeting you and slept soundly at night. You enjoyed testing his patience, dancing around with that sharp smile as if you knew something he didn’t. 

In your eyes, everything seemed like a game—a tiresome one, at that, with endless rules Kinich had no interest in learning. His life had been simpler—at least—before you’d come along; before your mocking laughter, your constant, uninvited insights, and that way you had of observing him, as though he were an oddity you couldn't quite figure out, or a mere prey to hunt. 

But despite everything, there was no ignoring that you had added a strange new rhythm to his days.

The memory pulled him back to that pivotal moment—the point where, he realized now, everything had shifted. 

______________________________________________

He and Ajaw had been partners for some time already, surviving one mission after another. So when another one arrived, promising a huge payment in exchange for exploring ancient ruins, Kinich barely batted an eye. The contractor was vague and evasive about the reasons, claiming he needed a specific artifact hidden within. Suspicious, maybe. But money was money.

Navigating the ruins was a gauntlet. Kinich lost count of the traps, the decaying pillars that threatened to collapse with each step, the puzzles and mechanisms clearly designed to keep intruders out. The place was a maze of broken stone and silent challenges, yet he felt a familiar surge of satisfaction with each step deeper into the heart of the ruin.

At last, he reached a final chamber, where the object of his commission stood on a dais—a fragment of the past unlike any he’d seen before, emanating a strange energy that felt older than time itself. It was no wonder his contractor had wanted it, though Kinich couldn’t begin to guess what it was for.

The moment his hand brushed the relic, a surge of ancient power pulsed through the room. Ajaw, strangely quiet but ever alert, shifted beside him, his eyes narrowing with a cautious awareness. And then, from the shadows, a voice drifted through the room, light and smooth with an undercurrent of menace.

“Well, well. Another little human wandered in.”

Kinich whirled, looking around through the darkness of the place for the source of the voice, when he finally met you.

The figure before him was both mesmerizing and unnervingly unnatural. Even as he felt his guard rise, there was no denying you were the most otherworldly, hauntingly beautiful being he had ever seen. But your draconic eyes betrayed your true nature. You were one of Ajaw’s kind, another ancient sealed entity—alive and as dangerous as the power coursing through the chamber.

Ajaw stirred, his presence crackling with a familiar hostility. “Hunf. Long time no see, (Y/N),” he greeted you, his tone a blend of wary sarcasm and grudging acknowledgment. 

You met his words with a raised brow and an amused smile.

“My, you’re still alive, Ajaw? And leaning on humans above all. How unfortunate,” you replied dryly, crossing your arms. Ajaw grumbled irritated earning a gaze from Kinich who was watching your interaction with almost amused interest. 

“So, human”, you said, your voice edged with a touch of boredom as you sat on a rock, “What do you want with me? What’s the plan? Drag me off to that contractor of yours perhaps?”

Kinich maintained his composure, though he was a bit surprised by how you already knew the reason why he stepped into your domain.

Without further ado, the hunter started to explain the details of his commission—he was the first, but surely he wouldn’t be the last either. 

The moment he finished, your expression twisted, a flicker of disdain evident.

“As if I’d go along with that. Typical mortals, always seeking what they don’t understand, eager to trap things they have no right to touch,” you hissed, earning a followed amused chuckling from Ajaw. 

You paused, the resentment burning in your chest, however, Kinich noted there was something else too as your eyes lingered on him.

Leaving your throne behind and stepping forward, your presence filling the space between all three of you. 

“I have a proposition for you only, though. A contract, let’s call it,” your smile was both inviting and taunting. “We’ll work together, for our mutual benefit. To be frank it is more for my selfish desire than to help you. I’m tired of talking to walls, you see,” your eyes traveled through his body before meeting his gaze again, “Surely, you wouldn’t want to go back with nothing, right?”

Kinich weighed your words carefully, his mind racing through the possibilities and costs. 

He already bore the weight of a pact with Ajaw, and he understood the price of balancing multiple contracts with creatures of such power. Yet the allure of your knowledge, your abilities, was too great to ignore.

Ajaw seemed to be on his edge, cursed both of you facing the absurdity of the offering and what it could bring. 

Nevertheless, Kinich’s mind was set already. With a final, steady breath, he nodded, sealing his decision. Your eyes flashed with a glint of satisfaction, your smirk widening into something altogether dangerous, seductive. You leaned on his ear, your voice dropping to a near-whisper.

“I look forward to working with you, Kinich.”

______________________________________________

That day, Kinich hadn’t earned a paycheck. However, he hadn’t left the ruins empty-handed, either.

From then on, his life became a delicate balance of managing two unpredictable forces. Ajaw, with his bristling sarcasm and an unending appetite for murder, had been challenging enough on his own. But adding you, with your teasing demands and cryptic ways, turned Kinich’s daily life into a finely tuned exercise in patience.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks to months with Kinich adapting himself to the peculiar rhythms of his two ancient companions. 

Ajaw kept volatile, ever-ready to lend his power with a razor-thin line between aid and sabotage. Kinich could call on his abilities freely; but each time, the pixelated dragon took the chance to push him to his limit, toying with him like prey and testing the boundaries of their contract.

You, however, were different. Your contract was filled with stipulations, each one more elusive than the last. Kinich could request your power, your wisdom on ancient lore and mystical ruins, your understanding of secrets hidden for centuries—but each favor required a price. 

He remember the first time he’d needed your help, you smiled wide and said, “Fetch me a Cecilia.”

At first, Kinich hadn’t thought much of it—a flower, seemingly simple enough. Then he realized that Cecilias only bloomed on the cliffs of Mondstadt, a land far from Natlan. And anyone leaving Natlan without permission of the Wayob risked losing themselves, a curse bound by ancient magic. 

That he’d managed to find one spoke to his sheer stubbornness, his ability to navigate through obstacles that should have been impossible.

When he’d finally placed the flower in your hand, your satisfaction had been infuriatingly clear.

It was never straightforward with you. Another time, he’d requested a map of an old ruin rumored to be full of hidden dangers. In return, you’d demanded a simple luxury—a crystal pendant, clear as water, something you could admire as you traveled through dark caves and shadowed forests. A trivial thing, but your smile as you held the pendant was somehow worth the trouble.

Through it all, Kinich found himself unwillingly entangled in your games, constantly navigating the space between the three of you, keeping a balance that was tenuous at best. And even as you continued to provoke him with your playful, cutting comments, he found himself grudgingly relying on you.

There were commissions where you proved to be an invaluable ally. Your intelligence was formidable; your strategies were sound, your insights swift, and you saw through traps that Kinich sometimes missed. Your pride might have been infuriating, but your strange loyalty, he realized, was something rare. 

You kept him on his toes with your challenging personality, pushing him to improve even as you drove him to distraction. And on rare nights, after a long day’s journey or a grueling fight, you’d sit in silence, the air between you calm and oddly comfortable. There were times, with the firelight flickering and casting shadows on your face, that he found himself almost… dazzled.

If he had to do it all over again, he wouldn’t have done it differently. Not that he’d ever admit it to you.

Now, back to present on yet another commission, Kinich found himself partnered with you once more. 

Ajaw had declared the mission too dull to follow, muttering something about it being more suited to “(Y/N)’s ridiculous logic puzzles” than to his taste for battle. Kinich was grateful for the reprieve, though he knew the real challenge would be handling your endless demands and your habit of testing his patience.

You were intelligent and efficient, he could admit that much, but your sharp wit and flirtatious ways were exhausting. You never missed an opportunity to prod at him, to see if you could break through his carefully constructed guard.

As you two moved deeper into the cave, Kinich couldn’t help but feel your eyes on him, watching for every reaction, every flicker of emotion. 

You’ve made a sport of it, brushing close, a sly smile playing on your lips whenever you sensed his irritation, always aiming to get under his skin. And yet, you had an uncanny sense of his well-being. You’d sidestep a trap just in time, then look back to ensure he’d done the same. It was an odd, unspoken protection, one that both irritated and relieved him.

The ruin was as treacherous as any he’d encountered, with more than a few puzzles that made Kinich silently grateful for your presence. You disarmed traps, deciphered carvings he’d never have managed, and stepped through mazes with a precision that bordered on the supernatural. And though you complained all the way through, your pride and determination drove you to succeed.

You both just completed the commission, retrieving the artifact you’d come for, when you turned to him, wiping the dust from your hands. You gave him an amused look, a glint of mischief in your eyes.

“Well,” you started, your tone laced with that familiar teasing edge. “We’re done here.”

He nodded, grateful for the relative quiet that would follow—until you tilted your head, regarding him thoughtfully. “You’ve been awfully quiet today, Kinich. More than usual. A mora for your thoughts?”

Your tone was light, almost offhand, but your gaze was anything but casual. Something was probing in the way you looked at him, as though searching for an answer he hadn’t voiced. The saurian hunter held your gaze, his own expression carefully neutral, as he considered his response.

He stood still, his gaze lingering. Kinich told himself it was merely to study your expression, to gauge your intentions. But his mind betrayed him, tracing the fine details of your face—from the sharp line of your jaw to the glint in your dragon-like eyes and the slight curve of your lips that seemed forever on the edge of a knowing smile. Your beauty was the kind that defied logic, pulling him in even as he resisted.

“It’s nothing,” he replied finally, his tone measured, distant. He turned, motioning for the two of you to leave. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

But you didn’t follow. Instead, you remained where you were, arms folded, head tilted to one side as if you’d only just begun to consider something. The look you gave him was a little too knowing, the glint in your eyes far too familiar. He knew that look of yours. Most of times it meant only thing one: problem.

“Kinich,” you said, a slow smile spreading across your lips. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

The hunter stopped, exhaling slowly as he turned to face you. His eyes narrowed. You were up to something—that much was clear. You had that dangerous, cat-like look about you, your gaze dark and sharp, as though sizing him up, anticipating his every move. He lifted an eyebrow, his voice a shade more cautious than he’d intended.

“And what would that be, (Y/N)?” he asked.

For a moment, you didn’t reply. Instead, you took a single step closer, your eyes never leaving his. He felt his pulse quicken, though he kept his expression blank.

You moved toward him slowly, a faint, predatory gleam in your eyes. You were close now, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from your skin, and could catch the hint of some exotic scent lingering in the air. A blend of something earthy and sweet, entirely unique to you.

Kinich steeled himself, forcing his mind to stay sharp, though he found himself captivated despite his best efforts. You paused just a breath away, your gaze flickering over him with the lazy, confident ease of someone who knew exactly the effect you had.

A hint of amusement crept into your smile. “It’s payback time,  Malipo”, you began, your voice low and smooth, laced with an almost sinister edge, “I’ve worked hard today, you see, so I’m feeling a bit… greedy.”

His eyes narrowed further.

“What do you want, (Y/N)?”

You giggled. “Oh, I could ask for any number of things,” you took a deep sigh and started to circle him. “Power… influence… control of your soul, even.”

He remained quiet. Your smile widened at his lack of reaction, your teeth flashing in the dim light of the ruins. You were enjoying this, taking your time, savoring every second as if you were unwrapping a carefully chosen gift.

“But…,” you murmured, drawing the word out, “I think I’m more fond of something else.” You paused, letting the silence build, each second stretching as you watched him, relishing his quiet wariness.

Finally, your eyes locked with his, and you spoke with deliberate slowness. “Kiss me.”

Silence.

For a moment, Kinich felt his mind go blank, his eyes widening briefly in stunned silence before he quickly regained control, his expression hardening. 

It had to be a game. Another one of your tricks, another way to unsettle him, to get under his skin. But your gaze didn’t waver, your expression calm, almost serene, though he saw the gleam of anticipation behind your eyes.

A dozen thoughts raced through his mind, each one colliding with the next. His heart hammered in his chest, the sound loud and unsteady, and yet he kept his face neutral, his stance calm. This was you, after all. You thrived on unsettling him, on watching him squirm—though he’d learned, over the months, never to give you the satisfaction of seeing his reactions.

But your eyes… you weren’t blinking, weren’t moving. You waited, utterly still, your lips curved into the faintest smirk as you watched him wrestle with himself. He almost thought he saw something genuine in your gaze, something more than the surface-level teasing, but he dismissed the thought quickly. You were you. Cocky, calculating—you had to be playing with him.

“Don’t tell me there’s something you can’t manage, Kinich,” you sighed, your tone equal parts challenge and mockery. “Well. That’s rather disappointing,” you turned, as if prepared to leave, already dismissing the moment with that same enigmatic smile.

Without fully thinking, Kinich’s hand shot out, catching you by the wrist. You stilled, surprise flickering across your face before you concealed it, though your eyes flashed with something he couldn’t name yet. 

For a heartbeat, you stood in silence, your pulse quick and light beneath his fingers. Slowly, he drew you toward him, his arm encircling your waist, anchoring you against him as his other hand found your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

He exhaled a soft, reluctant sigh. “You’re nothing but trouble,” he murmured, his voice laced with resignation.

You only laughed softly, a sound that was both daring and pleased, and he could feel your smirk against his skin as he leaned down, finally pressing his lips to yours.

The first contact was a mere tentative brush, barely more than a fleeting touch between your mouths. It was a moment suspended in uncertainty, as though both were testing the boundaries of this unexpected closeness. 

For a breath, you held still, neither moving nor daring to deepen it. But something simmered beneath the surface, a quiet intensity that broke through the silence with an undeniable pull.

Before either could pull away, though, the kiss grew deeper, hungrier, an unspoken desire erupting between you two. 

Kinich’s hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, feeling the warmth of your body pressed to his. He could taste the faint, exotic sweetness of your lips as you yielded to him instantly, only to counter with your own ferocity. But it was when your lips parted that a dam seemed to break. 

Eagerly, Kinich took this opportunity and deepened the kiss, your tongues meeting in a dance of defiance and passion. There was a taste of something otherworld in you, a hint of mystery and danger that drew him in even as it warned him. But he ignored the caution, letting himself be consumed by the moment, by the heat, by the softness of your mouth against his, the way you met his every movement with your own, never yielding, never backing down.

It was a silent battle, a clash of wills and sublime frustration as each sought to take the lead, the kiss growing fierce and excited, your breaths mingling with a fervor you could no longer contain.

Your hands slid up from his chest, your touch lingering, savoring the feel of him as your fingers trailed up his neck and into his hair. You tugged slightly, demanding, as if daring him to give you more. Your fingertips were cool yet electric against his skin, igniting something primal, something he rarely let surface.

Kinich responded instinctively, his own restraint slipping as he pressed you back, guiding you toward the rough wall of the ruin. The space between you dissolved entirely as your back met the stone as he lifted you, the pressure of his body firm, claiming.

Your breaths grew heavier. Your hands gripped both his hair and shoulder, your nails lightly pressing into his skin. His hand slid from your waist, tracing the curve of your thighs and ass, pressing your body into his as though anchoring you there. Every inch of him was focused on you, on the feel of you against him, on the pulse of energy that crackled between you, too powerful to ignore.

When you finally broke apart, the world around seemed to settle, the heavy silence filling the air once more. 

Kinich’s breathing was ragged, his pupils wide, and dilated, his pulse still pounding with an intensity he rarely allowed himself to feel. He could feel the warmth of your breath still lingering close, your lips barely an inch apart, almost as if you were challenging him to give in again.

Your expression was slightly unfocused, your usual composure replaced by something vulnerable, exposed. Kinich caught himself enjoying this version of you. There was a faint flush across your cheeks, a look of astonishment that you quickly masked, though it didn’t disappear entirely. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke the weight of what had just happened hanging heavy, charged with unspoken thoughts, things that might have been, things neither of you would admit.

And then you chuckled softly, your voice laced with amusement, your lips curving into a smirk. “My,” you murmured, your tone both teasing and provocative, “I didn’t expect that. Although I can’t say I didn’t like it either.” You tilted your head, your eyes gleaming with a playful glint. “As always, it’s a pleasure to do business with you, Kinich.”

Kinich didn’t reply immediately, his gaze steady, his expression indecipherable, but there was a depth in his eyes that betrayed him, a lingering trace of something he couldn’t quite banish. 

With a sigh, he finally stepped back, putting a carefully measured distance between you. “Anytime,” he said, his voice low, raspy. “So? Let’s get out of here?”

He turned, giving you space to follow, his demeanor returning to its usual calm, composed state. 

Yet as he moved, he couldn’t ignore the lingering taste of you on his lips, the faint, intoxicating trace that refused to fade. The rational part of him knew this shouldn’t change things—that it couldn’t. You were tied by a pact, bounded by terms he should have expected. This was simply one of your “favors,” a twist you’d added, nothing more.

But as you left the ruins, a sense of awareness settled within him, the quiet realization that for all his caution, he’d succumbed, letting himself be drawn into your orbit, your game. It was dangerous, foolish even, to think this meant anything, to risk feeling for someone who thrived on unpredictability and cunning.

Even so, he couldn’t shake the way you had looked at him, the warmth of your touch, the sensation that still lingered, refusing to be dismissed.

And though he would bury it, push it away, he knew, somewhere in the depths of his guarded heart, that this would stay with him, a taste of something forbidden, lingering, marking him in a way he’d never intended.

[ravenclaw-for-all-seasons]

His Soft Spot (11) - Mattheo Riddle

A/N: Thank you so much to the wonderful anons who have sent me so many requests, I’m having a lot of fun working through them 🥰

-

It all started with an unfair detention.

You, a Ravenclaw with top marks and a clean record, had never been in trouble before — but Professor Snape had decided your whispered quip during a particularly dull lesson was “blatant disrespect.” The fact that it had made the whole class laugh didn’t help your case.

Detention. That very night.

In the Forbidden Forest, no less.

You were too stunned to argue — or rather, you tried, but the old professor’s glare told you it was final.

Mattheo was in Charms when it happened. Which, if you were smart (and you were), was the only reason you told Theo and Enzo instead. You cornered them on your way out of dinner, eyes wide, voice low.

“I need you to promise not to tell Mattheo.”

Enzo raised a brow. “That’s usually what he says before doing something illegal.”

Theo blinked. “What’s going on?”

“I got detention.” You winced. “In the Forbidden Forest.”

Theo’s face instantly shifted. “What? That’s insane, why—?”

“It was a joke in class,” you muttered. “Not even a bad one. But I think Professor Snape was in a mood.”

Enzo frowned. “You shouldn’t go in there alone.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly. “There are a couple other students going. Hagrid’s supervising.”

“Still—”

“Promise me,” you cut in. “Please. Mattheo will lose his mind and I don’t want to make this worse.”

They exchanged a look.

Then Theo sighed. “Fine. But if you’re not back in two hours, we’re sending a search party.”

You smiled. “Thank you.”

And with that, you slipped off toward the edge of the forest, cloak drawn tight around your shoulders.

———

Mattheo strode in to the Slytherin common room, still slightly disheveled after a gruelling double lesson, and immediately scanned the room.

“Where is she?”

Theo looked up from the couch, eyes going a little too wide. Enzo coughed into his sleeve.

Mattheo’s gaze sharpened.

“Where is she?” he repeated, slower this time.

Theo fidgeted. “She—uh—just went out.”

Enzo tried to be casual. “Library, probably.”

Mattheo raised a brow. “Without her books? Without telling me?”

Silence.

Mattheo tilted his head, stepping closer like a panther scenting fear. “Where. Is. She.”

Theo cracked first. “Don’t be mad.”

“She made us promise not to tell you,” Enzo added quickly.

“Spit it out.”

“She’s got detention,” Theo admitted, flinching slightly.

Mattheo’s jaw locked. “What?”

Enzo threw his hands up. “It’s not even real detention! Professor Snape was being a dramatic old bat, it’s nothing.”

“She’s never had detention before.” His voice dropped an octave. “Where is it?”

Now they hesitated.

Mattheo stepped forward, and suddenly the air felt charged, darker somehow.

“Where. Is. It.”

Theo exhaled. “Forbidden Forest.”

Silence.

Mattheo didn’t yell. Didn’t curse. Didn’t even move for a second.

He just went completely, unnervingly still.

Then—without a word—he turned on his heel, cloak swirling, and stormed out of the common room.

“Wait—Mattheo!” Enzo called. “She said not to—”

But he was already gone.

Theo sighed, flopping back onto the couch. “He’s gonna kill someone.”

“Or get detention himself,” Enzo muttered. “Again.”

———

The sky was a moody grey, clouds threatening rain as you stood with three other students and Hagrid at the forest’s edge. The massive trees loomed tall above you, branches twisting against the fading light.

“All right,” Hagrid was saying, “we’re just gathering some medicinal herbs tonight — harmless stuff, nothing too deep in.”

You nodded, hugging your cloak tighter. The other students looked vaguely unimpressed. You, on the other hand, were already trying not to imagine centaurs or acromantulas behind every bush.

You’d just started moving toward the forest line when a familiar voice rang out behind you:

“Wait for me.”

You turned so fast your neck cracked.

Mattheo Riddle was striding toward you, eyes like a stormcloud and cloak whipping in the wind. He stopped beside you like he belonged there, one hand brushing your elbow protectively.

Hagrid raised a brow. “Mr Riddle. You’ve got detention too?”

Mattheo didn’t miss a beat. “Always do.”

Hagrid shrugged. “All right, pair up then.”

You pulled him aside as the group started walking, glaring up at him.

“What are you doing here?”

His expression didn’t soften, didn’t flicker. But his voice—when he looked at you—was lower. Rough. Fierce.

“You think I’d let you walk into the Forbidden Forest without me?”

“I told them not to tell you—”

“Yeah, well,” he interrupted, “they did. Eventually.”

You crossed your arms. “I was fine, Mattheo.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You weren’t. Because the moment you walk in here, anything could happen. You could get separated, or scared, or hurt, and I’d be half a castle away, useless.”

You blinked.

He stepped closer, eyes intense. “I don’t care if Hagrid’s here. I don’t care if there’s ten other students. If you’re anywhere near danger, I’ll be there. End of story.”

Your heart fluttered.

And then his tone changed—quieter, gentler. “You’re my girl. You’re the one person I can’t afford to lose. Not to monsters, not to fate, not to some bloody detention assignment. Over my dead body.”

Your breath caught.

He touched your hand.

“You told them not to tell me,” he said softly. “Which means you knew I’d come, they can’t hide anything from me.”

“…I knew you’d freak out.”

He smirked. “You know me so well, darling.”

You sighed, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m yours,” he murmured. “Same thing.”

And so the two of you walked deeper into the forest, side by side. Every time you reached down to collect a plant, Mattheo’s hand hovered near yours. Every branch that snapped made him instinctively shift in front of you. You weren’t scared — not anymore.

Not with him.

Because the forest might’ve been dark.

But with Mattheo there?

You were untouchable.

[smartkookiee]

How to Lose A Guy in 30 Days! || Ch.1 — jjk.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀° ❥pairing: Jungkook x Reader (she/her, afab) ❥genre/rating: strangers to lovers, 18+ ❥chapter warnings/tags: software engineer!Jungkook, writer!Reader, flirting, drinking, nothing crazy happens in this chapter tbh, idiots, have fun (I’m so excited to see what everyone says, thank you to everyone for all the love on the teaser post!) ❥word-count: 9.4k ❥Series Masterlist ❥|| Next chapter ❥Playlist fic is cross posted to ao3 - send an ask or comment on post to be added to the tag list. ❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°

Day 0

“Y/N, can I see you in my office?” Yoongi’s voice cut through the ambient buzz of the office as he appeared at your cubicle. You blinked up at him, his request causing a ripple of curiosity among your surrounding coworkers, though no one dared to show it openly.

You hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing your mind. Was I in trouble? Did he hate my last research project? Your mind raced through the possibilities. Yoongi had praised your work just last week, but what if he’d changed his mind? The thought of him taking back his compliments made your stomach twist. With a sigh, you saved your work and rose to follow him. The walk to his office felt unnervingly like being summoned to the principal’s office in high school.

Though your colleagues barely glanced in your direction, the nerves still had your palms sweating. You tried to wipe them discreetly on your pants as you stepped inside his office.

Yoongi moved behind his desk with casual ease, sinking into his chair as though he hadn’t just rattled your nerves with his sudden appearance. You stood awkwardly for a moment until he waved you toward the chair in front of his desk.

“You can relax, Y/N. You’re not in trouble.” He said, his tone gentle but amused. It was clear he could feel the tension radiating off you.

“I know, I know. I’m just a worrywart. You know that.” You laughed softly, though it came out more anxious than you’d intended. “So… why did you want to see me?”

Yoongi leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the desk as he watched you. “I’ve have an assignment for you. Something better than your usual research work.”

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued as he began rifling through the disorganized pile of files and papers littering his desk. You’d been at Composure for a while, mostly doing background research for other writers’ articles. But you’d been hoping for an opportunity to step out of the shadows, to prove yourself as more than just a behind-the-scenes contributor. Maybe this is it?

When Yoongi finally found what he was looking for, he pulled out an old magazine and dropped it in front of you with a soft thud. You glanced down at the cover, your eyes widening as you saw the issue was from 2003.

“How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.” Yoongi said, leaning back in his chair with a knowing glint in his eyes.

You picked up the magazine and began flipping through it, skimming the pages until you found the article. A sense of familiarity washed over you—this was one of those interesting pieces people still whispered about around the office. “I’m confused.”

“This piece was a massive hit when it came out.” He explained, lacing his fingers together as he leaned back. “Lana, one of the higher-ups, was the editor at the time this particular piece came out. She brought it up recently, said she thinks it’s time for something like this to make a comeback.”

“You want me to do this?” You asked, still reeling from the audacity of the concept. You skimmed through the details, noting the original author, Andy. She had gone to extreme lengths to sabotage a relationship for the sake of the article. You couldn’t help but cringe at some of the tactics she’d employed.

“Not exactly.” Yoongi replied with a small chuckle. “The feedback back then was that the whole experiment felt a bit too unrealistic. Readers loved it and it was a funny read, but many thought they don’t do things this intense. Lana’s idea was to take the same concept, but… stretch it out.”

“Stretch it out?” You echoed, still trying to wrap your head around the idea.

“Yeah. Ten days is too quick for something like this. We want to make it feel more genuine. Instead of a mad dash to drive the guy away, we want to see what happens over a longer period. A month, maybe two. Let the tension build naturally.”

You leaned back in your chair, letting the idea swirl around in your head. It was ambitious, maybe even a bit reckless, but there was no denying it would be a challenge.. “So… you want me to date someone and—what? Subtly sabotage it over time?”

“Exactly. Actually date but do all the classic early relationship mistakes.” Yoongi explained, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the concept. “It’s an experiment in human behavior, relationships, and how much people are willing to overlook.”

“So like talking about something personal way too fast, or inviting yourself into their life way too quickly and then write about it?” You prattled on a bit, it was picking at the ideas in your brain in the right way.

Yoongi smiled, clearly pleased with your interest. “I brought this to you because you have more than proven yourself here. You’ve been doing excellent research, and I want to see how you handle something of this scale. Especially because this would be a feature piece.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the compliment, but there was still a question gnawing at you. “I’m glad you are trusting me with something like this, especially with such a high-profile piece. But… I have to ask, sir—why do you think I’m the right person for this?”

Yoongi leaned forward slightly, his expression more thoughtful. “Because I want to challenge you. I like your research and I like how you write, you understand the people who read our columns on a deeper level. I think you have more in you. I want to see if you can handle something outside of your comfort zone.” His voice softened, but the weight of his words wasn’t lost on you. “And after something like this, I’d be more than happy to move you on to bigger and better pieces.”

The subtle hint of a promotion sent a jolt of excitement through you. “Really?”

“Really.” Yoongi confirmed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

It was all you could do to keep the excitement from bubbling over. An actual writing assignment, something that could elevate your standing in the magazine, was exactly what you had been waiting for.

“I don’t even know what to say other than thank you.” 

You fidget with the magazine in your hands, resisting the urge to curl the edges. Your mind raced, trying to think of what a realistic timeline for the piece could look like—something ambitious, but doable.

“How about… How to Lose a Guy in Thirty Days ? A longer timeline, more idealistic. A month in is usually when new relationships start to fall apart. It’s after the initial getting-to-know-someone phase.” You suggest, throwing the idea out there, hoping Yoongi would take the bait.

“Thirty days, huh?” He raises an eyebrow, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You sure you’re up for it?”

“Yes, sir.” You nod, your confidence building as you think about the possibilities.

“Good.” Yoongi replies, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied look. “Let’s start on Monday, after we get through this print run. That gives you a few days to find the poor guy.”

“Right. Thank you, Mr. Min.” You stand up, your heart racing as you try to play it cool. But as soon as you exit his office, you can barely contain your excitement.

“Oh my god, oh my god.” You mutter under your breath as you rush to your desk. Your fingers fly across the keyboard as you start jotting down notes, pulling out sticky notes and scribbling ideas, trying to organize your thoughts.

Ronnie, sitting in the neighboring cubicle, leans back to peer around the divider, noticing your frenzied state. She rolls her chair into your space, sliding up next to you with a curious look.

“What’s got you in such a hurry?” She asks, raising an eyebrow as she watches you type furiously. A laugh escapes her when she sees the pen stuck in your mouth and the growing pile of sticky notes attached to the old magazine.

“I gob a columb.” You mumble through the pen, barely pausing your typing.

Ronnie plucks the pen from your mouth. “Try that again.”

“I’m writing my first column.” You repeat, finally turning to face her, your excitement breaking through.

“No way!” Ronnie stands, her voice a little too loud, drawing a few glances from nearby desks. She sits back down and grabs your shoulders. “That’s so awesome! Your first column! What’s it going to be about?”

You hand her the magazine, pointing to the title. “This.”

“How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days?” She raises her eyebrows in surprise, flipping through the article. “You’re seriously going to do this?”

“Well, not exactly the same.” You say with a grin, watching as she reads through the outlandish tactics in the original piece. “Just similar.”

Ronnie’s eyes widen as she reaches some of the more extreme parts of the article. “Okay, this is crazy, all the things this girl did to this guy. Oh my god.” She rocked in disbelief, continuing the read through. “Awe, ends bittersweet though.” 

“It’s going to be How to Lose A Guy in Thirty Days this time.” 

“A month?” She laughs and shakes her head, you give her a confused look. 

“What? I can do this!” You bump her shoulder. 

“Do what?” Namjoon strolls into your cubical looking between the both of you.

“Kid got her first column.” Ronnie sings she has a proud grin on her face. You spin around to look at Namjoon. 

His face lights up at the news, “That’s so awesome! Congrats!” He rubs your hair messing it up, you bat his hands away smoothing out your hair. 

“Thanks Joon.” 

“What’s it on?” Namjoon leans against your desk along side Ronnie. 

Ronnie hands him the magazine flipped open to the article. He takes it and examines it for a moment, he reads along and his eyes widen at times. You continue scribbling down some thoughts while he does this. Namjoon was a silent reader but would always share his full thoughts when he was done. 

“Woah, this is wild.” Namjoon flips back to the beginning of the article, like he had to read it over again. 

“I know the original one is a little insane but we are doing it differently this time.” You explain, Namjoon had concern written all over his face reading through the article again. 

“Quote, ‘after five days I decided to go ahead and take things to the next level between us. I completely redecorate his apartment with pink attire and stuffed animals everywhere.” Namjoon reads the section out loud. “She only knew him for five days?” 

You nod, “I don’t know how she was so brave to do all of that. Luckily Yoongi said I don’t have to be as extreme as this. Just more casually clingy and needy, do small things that most people think are normal but seem to send guys running before anything serious can begin.” 

“Yeah, I definitely hope you don’t end up ‘photoshopping your baby pictures together.’” Ronnie adds with a grin.

You laugh, shaking your head. “God, no. I’d sooner die of embarrassment. I don’t have the energy for that level of crazy.”

Namjoon leans back in his chair, one eyebrow raised in slight  concern. “So, what is the plan then? You’ve got something in mind, right?”

You sigh dramatically. “Not sure yet. I’ve got until Monday to find a guy and come up with some sort of idea of how I want to do this.”

“Oh, can we help?” Ronnie’s eyes light up as she bounces in her chair, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Help find the guy?”

“Obviously, and with the torture.” She adds, looking way too enthusiastic.

“I’m not torturing him.” You chuckle, “just… irritating him a little. You know, for research purposes.”

“Uh-huh.” Namjoon’s teasing grin softens as he looks at you, a hint of doubt creeping in. “But are you really sure you can do this, like… casually?”

You blink at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, come on.” Namjoon says with a snort, gesturing vaguely at you. “You wear your heart in a pink, sparkly basket for everyone to see. Are you sure you won’t fall for the poor guy instead?”

“I don’t do that! And I will not!” You protest, but Namjoon and Ronnie exchange a look that screams they definitely think you do.

“I’ve never seen you not get your hopes up after a date or two.” Ronnie says, shrugging sympathetically.

“Well, this time will be different.” You say, folding your arms defiantly. “It’s just business. I have to get the guy to break up with me anyway.”

They weren’t wrong, though, and you know it. You’ve always been one of those people who swoon at love songs and daydream about movie-perfect endings. You were the exact type of person this article was written for in the first place. You did get attached too quickly and were getting hurt too often. But this? This was just an assignment. A game. You wouldn’t get hurt if you knew it had to end from the start.

“You’ll see.” You add with more confidence, determined to prove them wrong.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Ronnie teases, rolling her chair back toward her desk. It was well past time for her to get to her own work. 

Namjoon shakes his head with a chuckle. “Good luck to this guy, I guess.” He mutters, though there’s warmth in his voice. He’s seen you get your hopes up too many times to believe you could really keep things casual.

But this time, you were determined. No expectations. No daydreaming. It was all just work.

Across town, though, someone else was perfectly content with his easygoing, no-strings-attached lifestyle. Jungkook, waking up in someone else’s bed was just another morning for him. He opened his eyes but was blinded by the morning light. He rolled over and looked around, he had no idea where he was. Memories of last night vaguely coming back to the front of his mind. 

He looks over to see a sleeping girl in the same bed. He stands from the bed and manages to find his phone. Seeing the time. 

“Shit.” He rushes to find his scattered items and puts his clothes back on. Tip toeing his way around the room and manages to get out the front door without a fuss. 

Getting out of the building, Jungkook blinked as the morning sun hit him square in the face. He rubbed his eyes, still groggy from a less-than-restful sleep. Scanning the unfamiliar streets, he had no idea what neighborhood he was in, but that was par for the course these days. He pulled out his phone and called for an Uber, slipping his sunglasses on as he waited.

Another late night, another random bed. This wasn’t exactly new territory, but he couldn’t help feeling off. Normally, Thursdays were a quiet night in, but when Jimin and Taehyung wanted to go out, Jungkook wasn’t about to turn them down. And, as always, the night had ended the way it usually did for him—blurry and chaotic.

By the time Jungkook made it to the office, it was later than he would normally prefer to arrive. Slipping through the doors, he did his best to avoid attention although Hoseok’s keen eyes were already tracking him. Jungkook tried to get settled quietly, but it was pointless. Hoseok’s desk, conveniently right next to his, made stealth impossible.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Hoseok sang, swiveling in his chair to grin at Jungkook. He tapped a few keys on his keyboard, then gave Jungkook an exaggerated once-over. “Did you lose a bet, or is that last night’s shirt?”

Jungkook smirked as he slid into his seat. “Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but in yesterday’s clothes. What’d you do? Roll straight from the bar to your desk?” Hoseok raised an eyebrow, clicking away on his mouse as he pulled up their latest coding project.

“Pretty much.” Jungkook admitted, booting up his own computer. “I’ll head home at lunch and change. No one cares what I wear to debug.”

Hoseok shook his head with a laugh. “You’re gonna blind the clients with your wrinkled t-shirts one of these days.”

“Fair enough.” Jungkook chuckled, typing in his password. “But I’m still better at the code reviews, so they can’t complain too much.”

Hoseok conceded with a nod, leaning back in his chair. “Rough night?”

Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck. “You could say that. Taehyung and Jimin were relentless. Didn’t stop until the bar kicked us out.”

“Ah, classic.” Hoseok said with a grin. “They never know when to quit.”

Jungkook smirked, though he felt the exhaustion settling in his bones. “They’ve got energy for days, man. But, hey, what about tonight? You in?”

Hoseok hesitated, glancing at the lines of code on his screen before looking back at Jungkook. “Again? You don’t look like you’re dying to go out tonight.”

Jungkook chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, I’m wrecked, but you know I’m down. Someone’s gotta keep Taehyung from getting us banned from another bar.”

Hoseok shook his head, clearly amused. “I dunno, man. I might actually take it easy tonight. Jimin’s been texting like he’s planning another big one, and I don’t know if I’ve got the energy to babysit.”

“You? Too tired to party?” Jungkook teased, raising an eyebrow. “Weren’t you just complaining last week that we only go out when you’re drowning in deadlines?”

“I didn’t say I’m backing out.” Hoseok defended, though his reluctance was obvious. “I’m just... thinking about it.”

“Thinking about it, my ass. You’ll be there. I’ll text Jimin, tell him to go easy on the plans.” Jungkook turned back to his monitor, his fingers flying over the keys as he opened the project files for their current assignment.

Hoseok chuckled. “Yeah, alright. But if I show up and Taehyung’s dancing on tables again, I’m leaving early.”

“Deal.” Jungkook said with a grin.

 Then Hoseok’s smirk deepened, and he shot a glance at Jungkook. “By the way, has she called you yet?”

Jungkook frowned, glancing sideways. “Who?”

“Channel. She’s been texting me . Again.” Hoseok’s grin turned into a mock look of annoyance. “Seriously, bro, how is she still hitting me up to ask about you? You need to fix that.”

Jungkook groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I thought I made it clear we’re done.”

“Well, apparently she didn’t get the memo. She asked me yesterday if you were ‘okay,’ like I’m your personal messenger or something.”

Jungkook sighed, his fingers stilling on his keyboard. “I haven’t heard from her in weeks. She’s probably fishing for info, trying to get back in touch. She wanted something serious, and I was always upfront about keeping it casual.”

Hoseok raised an eyebrow. “And she didn’t take that well?”

“She acted like she understood, but... yeah, not really. I broke it off before things got messy.” Jungkook sighed. “Now she’s bugging you instead.”

“Lucky me.” Hoseok muttered. “She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. But seriously, dude, she’s asking me if you’re, like, in a dark place or something. I think she’s hoping for a window to swoop back in.”

Jungkook groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Tell her I’ve joined a monastery.”

Hoseok laughed. “Sure, I’ll let her know you’ve taken a vow of silence and reflection.”

The rest of the morning flew by in a blur of coding and testing modules. By the time lunch rolled around, Jungkook had managed to convince Jimin to keep the plans for the night low-key—just a few drinks at a bar they liked. Hoseok seemed more on board with the promise of a relaxed evening, and Jungkook was glad. As much as he loved the chaos, even he was feeling the need for something calmer.

When they arrived at the bar that evening, it was more crowded than they’d expected. The hum of conversation, laughter, and clinking glasses filled the air, and the warmth of bodies packed in tight hit them as they wove their way through the crowd.

“So much for a quiet night.” Hoseok muttered, dodging a couple who were clearly several drinks in.

Jungkook grinned, nudging him. “Come on, it’s Friday. What did you expect?”

“Less people and more chairs.” Hoseok replied, though the grin on his face said he wasn’t too upset about it.

Jungkook laughed, scanning the bar for a spot to settle in. Despite his earlier exhaustion, he could feel the pull of another night out with his friends, the familiar buzz of energy creeping in. There was something about the chaos of it all that he couldn’t resist.

“Over here!” Jimin’s voice cut through the noise, his arm waving above the sea of people as he flagged them down. He and Taehyung had already secured a table in the corner.

Jungkook and Hoseok exchanged a glance before making their way over, dodging elbows and weaving past groups of friends clustered around the bar. As they reached the table and took their seats, Hoseok let out a deep sigh.

“Jesus, there are so many people here tonight.” He muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I should have stayed home.”

Jimin smirked, leaning back in his chair with his drink in hand. “Aww, come on. It’s been forever since we’ve been out together.”

Jungkook chuckled, patting Hoseok on the shoulder. “It was definitely a struggle convincing him to come tonight.”

Hoseok held up his hands in surrender, a playful grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Hey, I was promised a chill night with some drinks. That’s my kind of Friday night.”

Before anyone could say more, Taehyung appeared at the table, balancing a tray of drinks with ease. “Here you go, gentlemen.” He said, passing them around with a flourish.

A round of thank-yous followed as each of the guys took their drinks. Jungkook took a long sip, letting the cool, bitter taste of his beer settle on his tongue as he leaned back in his chair, finally starting to relax.

“So,” Taehyung said after a moment, turning to Jungkook with a curious smile, “where did you disappear last night, man?”

Jungkook barely had time to respond before Jimin interjected, his tone teasing. “Where do you think he ran off to?” Jimin wiggled his eyebrows in fake suspicion.

The grin on his face made it clear he was referring to Jungkook’s extracurricular activities.

Taehyung snickered, shaking his head. “Oh, I see. Anything to tell? Did you find the love of your life?” His voice was full of amusement as he took another sip of his drink.

Hoseok snorted, rolling his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, right.”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes playfully, tipping his head in Hoseok’s direction. “Hey, you never know.”

“Sure.” Hoseok said with a laugh, bumping Jungkook’s shoulder. “I’m sure she felt some kind of deep connection.”

Jimin waved a hand in Hoseok’s direction, dismissing him with a grin. “Leave him alone.”

But Hoseok wasn’t ready to let it go just yet. He shrugged, glancing around the table. “I mean, as long as I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him be serious with someone.”

Jungkook felt the familiar twist in his gut at the comment but didn’t let it show. It wasn’t that he didn’t want something serious—it just hadn’t happened in years. He took another sip of his beer, trying to brush off the remark. He had become somewhat comfortable in his solace and easy hook ups. Last thing he had to something serious was what he had with Channel, and that wasn’t even hardly serious.

Broke it off because she changed her mind about what she was wanting from him, Jungkook just really didn’t see a future with her and had always made his feelings about their relationship clear. He really came off looking like a dick but he didn’t want to drag her along. He didn’t want to drag anyone along. 

“I can be serious when I want to be.” Jungkook took another sip of his beer. 

“Yeah for like a day.” Taehyung teases. 

“Not even, more like an afternoon.” Jimin jumps on him with a laugh. 

“Try thirty minutes!” Hoseok adds on to the end before Jungkook waves them all of. 

“Thirty minutes?” He raised an eyebrow, “Give me more credit than that.”

“Fine, thirty-one.” Taehyung added on with another laugh. 

“Whatever,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, “Make your jokes but I don’t see any of you pulling in any serious relationships these days.” Jungkook points the top of his bottle around the group. 

“Hey, I have a date next week I’ll have you know!” Hoseok protests.

“This isn’t about us though, this is about you.” Jimin sits back in his chair. 

“What about me?”

“You’re not a relationship guy.” Taehyung sipped his beer. 

“I’m comfortable by myself.” Jungkook crossed his arms. 

“Nothing wrong with it, I just doubt you could ever be serious with someone.” Jimin shrugs. 

“I’d be a better boyfriend than you .” Jungkook kicks Jimin's leg under the table. 

“Yeah maybe when you’re fifty and decide it’s time to settle down.” Taehyung gives Jungkook a smirk. 

“No way, I bet I could be a better boyfriend than all three of you.” Jungkook was getting too serious and Jimin and Taehyug smelt a challenge in the air. 

“Wanna bet on it?” Jimin cocks his head to the side. It wasn’t unlike the three of them to make bets and they were always stupid.

“Aren’t we a little too old for bets?” Hoseok looks between the guys but he could already tell once Jimin raised the question, Jungkook was already locked into the idea. 

“What are you thinking?” Jungkook leans his elbows on the table. 

“I will bet a hundred dollars, that you couldn’t keep a girlfriend for more than two weeks.” Jimin states and Jungkook almost feels insulted. 

“Come on, I can do better than that.” Jungkook goats Jimin, Jimin looks at Taehyung. 

“I’ll buy in. 200 bucks.” Tahyung jumps on it. 

“You guys are morons.” Hoseok shakes his head, Jungkook was up for the challenge but two weeks was insulting. 

“No, I can keep a partner around for way longer than two weeks. Come on.”

“Okay, how about a month. We’ll make it 300 bucks if you can stay with the same girl for one month.” Jimin jumps on it, between him and Taehyung they would only be out one fifty each. 

“But we get to pick who it is.” Taehyung quickly tacts on that little stipulation. 

“What? No fair.” Jungkook pouts. 

“ Totally fair. Hobi weigh in on this.” Jimin nods his head to Hoseok who was hoping to stay invisible but it seems he has been brought on as the referee. 

“I guess it makes sense, if you pick the girl it makes it too easy for you to win.” Hoseok logics it out but this definitely wasn’t starting to feel fair.

“Ugh fine.” Jungkook groaned, Jimin had extended his hand for a shake, Jungkook took it and they shook on the deal. 

“Again, idiots.” Hoseok knew this was probably going to crash and burn and Jungkook would be out three hundred bucks. Jungkook was feeling very confident though and perhaps a little too competitive. He felt sure he could sucker these two out of three hundred bucks. As well as get to hang out with a pretty girl for a while. Putting on all of his best charm. 

“So when do we start?” Jungkook looks between them. 

“How about right now?” Jimin taps his glass.

While that played out, across the same bar, you were sitting at a booth with your friends.

Catching Jin up on your new promotion at work and your upcoming column to be. The bar was buzzing with life, the noise blending into a background hum as you spoke, but you could feel the excitement rising between you all.

“No way.” Jin’s face lit up as he scanned the photos of the old magazine article on your phone. You had snapped a few pictures to give him the full story, and now he was reading it with wide eyes, barely containing his amusement.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” Ronnie took a long sip of her cocktail, her expression still skeptical. She shook her head as if she still couldn’t wrap her mind around what you were planning. “I mean, I seriously can’t believe you’re going to go through with this.”

“Look,” You began defensively, though a smile tugged at your lips, “I know it’s a little out there, but Yoongi really thinks I can do this. He has his full faith in me.”

It was true. Despite the fact that this assignment would push you far outside of your comfort zone, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement and determination. It wasn’t going to be easy, but you were confident you could handle it.

Jin, still holding your phone, read aloud with a dramatic flair: “ A friend of mine made a good point that I shouldn’t allow him to have a boys’ night, so I decided to get a key from his landlord to interrupt their game night! ” He glanced up with an incredulous look. “She really got a key from his landlord? That’s insane!”

You snatched your phone back, eyes wide. “Okay, I’m not doing that!” You exclaimed, shaking your head. “I’m just going to be clingy, needy. I’m not breaking into anyone’s house!”

“Good for her, honestly.” Namjoon chimed in, cracking open a peanut from the bowl in front of him. “The guy she picked probably deserved it.”

Ronnie nudged him with her elbow. “Didn’t you read the end? She ended up falling in love with him! Realized she was wrong and that he didn’t deserve all that treatment.” Ronnie leaned back in her chair, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Classic.”

“Of course, she did.” Jin chuckled, taking another sip of his beer. His eyes flicked back to you, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “That’s totally going to be you.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I will not.”

“Please,” Jin said, laughing. “you’re such a gooey romantic. You fall in love so easily.”

Namjoon and Ronnie exchanged knowing glances, both trying—and failing—not to laugh. They knew better than anyone how quickly you could get swept up in a whirlwind of emotions. It wasn’t that you were naive, just hopelessly, undeniably romantic. And they were somewhat concerned about how this whole assignment might play out.

“Look, this is a professional column.” You said, crossing your arms defensively. “It’s not like I’m actually looking for anything serious. I just have to scare him off. That’s it.”

“Either that or he will be on bended knee by the end of it.” Namjoon teased. 

“Very funny. That’s why I have you guys here though, help me pick someone.” You really did want some help on this part. If you got help picking the guy then maybe you could pick someone who it would be easy to let go of.

“How so?” Ronnie tilted her head at your request.

“Well knowing my luck I would accidentally pick a guy who is totally perfect for me and I really won’t be able to go through with it. If you guys pick then you could objectively find someone who is someone I would never go for.” You clap your hands together, hoping your explanation is enough. 

“Oh I’m so in.” Jin rests his chin on his hands. “Plus this bar is packed, we could easily find someone tonight.”

“Well we won’t find him sitting here. Let’s go fish.” Ronnie stands from her seat offering a hand to you, Jin following close behind. The three of you taking a turn about the bar, making observations at some of the different groups that were here. 

“Let’s see.” Ronnie taps her lips with her pointer finger and glances about the room as the three of you search from person to person. “Okay, guy at the bar. Sweater, cheesy and obviously cheap silver necklace.”

You and Jin both take a glance over to him, he seemed to be here alone. Looked nice enough, maybe a good choice. He seemed like a jock type, looked like he was trying with his looks a little too hard. You were considering it before Jin shook his head. 

“Not him, hes rubbed his ring finger like four times.” Jin points, just at that moment the guy does it again, “He’s either married or just got divorced and looking for another wife. Next!” 

“Touche.” You agree and the three of you glance around again. “Okay, how about that guy?”

You point to a small group of guys who seemed way deep into a game of pool. One of the guys sinks a cool shot into one of the pockets and he and another guy cheer too loudly, you were far away and you could still hear them. He looked like he was about to break his pool stick from excitement. 

“Nevermind. Way too intense.” It would have been a good choice but you would probably end up dumping him before you could get any work done. 

The three of you run through a few more guys as you walk around, all three of you seemed to find some reason to veto them again and again. Some were too close to your type and some were just too annoying for you to be able to stand them long enough to keep this ruse up. 

“God slim pickings tonight.” You were getting exhausted. You were considering heading back to Namjoon at the table and conceding for the night. Maybe sleep it off and try again at another bar tomorrow. 

“We can do this.” Ronnie cheers trying to keep your spirits high. “This guy is here, I just know it.” She had had more to drink at this point, she's a pretty energetic drunk. 

“I agree. No throwing in the towel yet.” Jin scans the room again, you guys had moved to many different spots and more people had moved in and out of the bar at this point. 

Jin looked around from guy to guy. Jin came this bar a lot so he had a general sense of the people who were new and the people who frequented here often. He wasn’t sure himself who would work for this, they had to be the perfect combination of nice enough to stick it out but still a playboy or asshole enough that you wouldn’t fall for them. Someone who maybe deserved a little bit of torture. Someone who needed a little due karma. 

He waited for a moment, maybe all three of you just needed to let the guy reveal himself. Before Jin thought it was hopeless was just when he got exactly what he asked for. 

Jungkook was making his way over to the bar.

“Bingo.” Jin whispered. Jungkook had left the table with his friends, the booth was tucked away in the corner so it was no wonder he didn't notice them before. “That’s the guy.” 

“Who?” You ask and then Jin points his finger, tracking Jungkook to the end of the bar. You watched him order from the bartender and then casually wait for a moment. 

“He’s perfect.” Jin was confident. 

“He’s cute?” Ronnie nods, Jin rolling his eyes at her. “What am I wrong?” 

He was very cute you thought, he sported this leather jacket and dark jean look. Large boots, it wasn’t your usually clean cut look that you enjoyed but you understood the appeal of it. 

“Okay why him?” You ask looking at Jin. 

“I’ve seen him here a lot. Always comes with a group of friends, but he never leaves alone. Never the same girl twice. I thought he stopped coming around, but nope. Looks like he’s still at it. His name’s something like Jungkook.” Jin places both hands on your shoulders, looking you dead in the eye. “Total Casanova. Leaves behind a trail of broken hearts.”

Ronnie raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that make it harder to keep him around for thirty days?” 

“Not necessarily,” You say, the wheels turning in your head. “I just need him to dump me within thirty days. He doesn’t have to stick around for all thirty.”

“Longest I saw him entertain a girl for was maybe two weeks? That’s exactly what you need.” Jin shakes your shoulders and you laugh at the movement, almost dizzy after your two drinks. 

A playboy type who can’t commit for more than two weeks. It was exactly what you needed, and lucky for you you wouldn’t need to feel bad about maybe annoying him too much. You needed him to dump you no matter what. Could be fun after all, messing with a guy who is a fuckboy that Jin has seen around could be almost a perfect karma for this guy. 

“Perfect.” You say with a sly smile as you watch him walk back to his group balancing a few drinks in his arms along the way. 

Jungkook managed to set the drinks down gently, “Here you go boys.”

He passed the drinks outs but Jimin and Taehyung were deliberating about something. Jungkook looked between them and looked to Hobi for confirmation. Hoseok wasn’t totally sure what their hushed conversation was about. 

“I don’t know, seems like he could make that work too well.” Jungkook could barely make out the sentence coming from Tae. 

“No it has to be someone like that.” Jimin adds on and then they both seem to come to some silent agreement. Both sitting up straight in their spots. 

“What are you two whispering about?” Jungkook breaks the silence and they both have big grins on their faces, Taehyung is looking over the back of the booth to the bar. 

“Okay, we have made a decision.” Jimin puts on an announcer voice, holding his glass like a microphone.

“You picked someone? Already?” Jungkook was surprised they had come to an agreement on this so quickly. 

Taehyung looks back to Jungkook and nods, “Over there, short maroon dress. Waiting at the bar. Has a tall guy and another girl, dark hair and black dress with her.” Taehyung points and Jungkook looks. 

It takes him a moment, but then he spots you, mid-laugh about something with your friends. A small smile tugs at his lips—you were undeniably cute. There’s something polished about the way you’ve styled yourself, striking a balance between playful and sophisticated. To Jungkook, though, you scream commitment. Your look isn’t meant to turn heads; it’s just confident. It’s a stark contrast to the more overtly flirty, bold style he usually goes for. That makes him curious—why would Jimin and Taehyung pick someone who seems so... relationship-minded?

“Her really?” He looked back at both of them. “Do you want to just hand me the three hundred dollars now?”

“I know you think it will be easy, but that is the type of girl who wants marriage . I think her need for a commitment is going to send you running.” Jimin rubs his hands together evilly. 

Jungkook looks back to you again, thinking. Jungkook felt like he could very well be committed, he could do it probably better than most people. He just hasn’t wanted to or hasn’t had the time too.

“I will be Mr. Marriage Material from here on out.” Jungkook downs the rest of his beer, “Be ready to put your money where your mouth is.” 

Jungkook stands up and leaves the table, they watch him go to work. Taehyung was now nervous and Hoseok was not even sure what he was watching anymore. Also confused by Jimin's choice. 

“Okay, I gotta say he has a point.” Hoseok leans back to Jimin. 

“Yeah now I’m kind of nervous.” Taehyung rubbed his neck, watching Jungkook who was waiting for an opportunity to maybe get a chance encounter with you. The two friends hovering around you weren’t making it easy. 

“Trust me. I’ve seen that girl here before.” Jimin smiles. 

“Do you know her?” Hoseok raised an eyebrow to him, now even more curious. 

“Not at all, but I tried hitting on her once. Very sweet, turned me down though. Seriously, the moment I walked up she read me like an open book.” This was earlier this year and Jimin didn’t care, he had some personal things going on and did it on a whim. You immediately saw through his tactics and called him out on it. 

“What did she do?” Taehyung became nervous. 

“I tried hitting her with a line, and she just looked at me and laughed. Honestly, I might’ve been offended if she hadn’t been so sweet about it. She even apologized! Said she could tell I wasn’t serious. Sent me on my way before I could even react. I swear, I was a little dizzy afterward.”

“Oh wow.” Hoseok is putting the pieces together now. “Okay, I see, so she is going to see through Jungkook right away.”

“Exactly.” Jimin raises his glass, “If he gives off even a whiff of insincerity. She won’t give him the time of day. She very clearly wants someone who is into the long term relationship game and Jungkook… never will be.”

“So you’re not concerned, not even a little bit?” Taehyung asks one more time. 

“Not even slightly.” Jimin clinked his glass against Taehyungs.

“So how is this going to work?” Ronnie looks between you and Jin.

“I’m not sure. What else do you know about him?” You look to Jin for advice on this. You came here sometimes but you weren’t as much of a frequent flier as Jin. 

“Hmm, unfortunately I usually see him hit on girls who are… obviously here for something casual.” He gestures towards another girl at the bar, she was dressed very differently than you were. More revealing, nothing wrong with that but it was starkly different to your look. 

“So maybe it's a lost cause?” You frown.

“Absolutely not.” Ronnie protested waving her hand back and forth.

“Just means you might have to be the bold one. Instead of him coming to you, you go after him.” Jin nodded and rubbed his chin. 

You stifled a laugh, “Yeah right.” Not like you couldn’t approach someone but it was still nerve racking. “I can’t do that.” 

“It’ll be so easy. Look he’s already coming over to the bar.” Ronnie nodded her head in his direction very subtly. You take a look from the corner of your eye and it was true. You turned your head pretending to see something else but catching a glance at him standing at the end of the bar, waiting. 

Jungkook sees you look his direction and pretends to be occupied with something else.

“Okay well if this is going to work, shew.” You wave your hands for the both of them to head back to the table, you take an empty spot in front of the bar. 

“Do you really think she can go up to him?” Ronnie nudged Jin, both of them push their way back to the table where Namjoon had been waiting. 

“Definitely. Well… normally I’d say no but she’s so determined I think she can pull it off.” Jin looks back at you ordering another drink. 

Once they both make it back to the table Namjoon takes notice, “Did she find someone?” 

“Yes, he’s so cute.” Ronnie gushes. 

“Too bad she has to get rid of him.” Jin shrugs as they all take their places and watch you from afar. 

“I know.” Ronnie sighs.

“So what’s the plan?” Namjoon raises an eyebrow. 

“She’s working up the courage to go up to him. I’ve seen the guy around before and he’s not really into her type. So she has to be bold.” Jin explains again, he looks over to Jungkook. 

Jin takes notice that Jungkook has already noticed you. He finds it odd for a moment before he sees Jungkook start to move. 

“Unless…” Jin starts. 

“Oh looks like he’s making a move.” Hoseok gestures over to Jungkook. He pushes himself off the end of the bar to start moving to you but gets cut off by a group moving close to the bar. 

“Let the games begin.” Jimin raises his glass. “We might make our money tonight.” 

“Cross our fingers.” Taehyung chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. 

“If he doesn’t blow smoke out of his ass you guys might be in for a long month.” Hoseok tilts his head watching Jungkook try to maneuver his way over to you. You were just barely getting a drink from the bartender. 

From their end of the bar, your friends could see it happening in real time—Jungkook making his way toward you, not without some difficulty from the proximity of other people. They couldn’t help but laugh at his struggle. 

“God, he’s like a moth to a flame.” Jin chuckled, crossing his arms. “Poor guy doesn’t even know what's going to happen.”

“Doubt it.” Ronnie added, leaning forward. “Y/N’s got this in the bag. He won’t know what hit him.”

Meanwhile, you weren’t so convinced that Jungkook was actually coming for you . After all, the girl beside you fit the typical type he seemed to gravitate toward—flirty, dressed to kill, and definitely giving him the look. Still, you had a plan brewing in your mind. If he wasn’t going to make the first move, you’d force his hand.

With a slight pivot on your heel right as he came up, you forced your shoulder into his chest. Just enough to stumble.

“Oh my god.” You gasp, steadying your drink that had split on your hand, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t spill on you did I?” 

Jungkook’s initial reaction was a mix of surprise and awkward laughter. “Hey, no problem,” He said, chuckling. “Just missed the splash zone.”

“I swear I have two left feet these days.” You tuck some of your hair behind your ear. Faking your embarrassment, setting your drink down and getting a napkin.

“Well it’s a good thing I have two right feet.” Jungkook easing the tension and you laugh under your breath. 

“You always this quick to recover?” You tilted your head, offering him your hand—the one free of any cocktail spillage. “I’m Y/N.”

“Jungkook.” He took your hand with a grin, his gaze flickering over you like he was sizing up a challenge. He didn’t let go right away.

Now that he was closer, you could really take him in. He was infuriatingly attractive—the type you’d usually avoid for your own good. The type who knew he had an edge and knew how to use it. 

Now that Jungkook could get a closer look at you, he just thought that you were pretty. Pretty hair, eyes, lips. All of you was just pretty and sweet. Could see that pink glowing heart of yours on your sleeve. 

“What brings you here?” He leaned an arm against the bar, his stance casual yet deliberate, like he was marking his territory. His gaze pinned you down, leaving you no room to escape.

“Just out with friends, a celebration of sorts.” You turn and point to them, the three of them suddenly acting like their drinks were so interesting to look at. 

“What’s the occasion?” He didn’t even glance at them; his focus was still fully on you. The intense eye contact actually makes you nervous.

“My promotion.” Smiling like it was the full truth. Or rather, the promotion standing right in front of you.

He nodded, flashing a grin. “Congrats. Big deal?”

“Very big.” You rested your hand on the bar near his, just brushing the surface between you. “What about you? Out celebrating something too?”

“Just out with friends.” Jungkook gestured back to his own group at the other end of the bar. You followed his gaze, recognizing one of the guys, though you couldn’t place from where.

“I should let you get back to them.” You teased lightly, leaning ever so slightly away from him.

He tilted his head with a grin, clearly not interested in letting you go that easily. “Why rush? I wasn’t planning to be gone long, but then I got the wind knocked out of me.”

You smirked, feeling the heat of his gaze on you as you playfully patted your shoulder. “Just practicing for my football career.”

“Not a football fan but I’d watch those games.��� Jungkook was going to make some form of physical contact, which is what he would have done by now but he held back. He could tell that’s not something you would appreciate. “Let me buy you another one. Since you lost half of the that one because of me.”

“That’s very sweet.” You wanted to test the limits you had with him here, would he chase you? “But I should get back. My friends may think I ran off.” 

“So soon?” He tilted his head at your sudden retreat. 

“You seem nice.” You start and lean close, “I think I’m just looking for something… more serious.” 

“Who's to say I’m not serious?” He gives you a puzzled expression. Jungkook had done so good with women lately that it felt strange to see such a sudden retraction.

You tilted your head, a teasing smile playing at your lips. “I’ve seen you around. I know your type.”

A lie. Considering you hadn’t seen him before tonight, you wanted to see if he would bite.

“So you’ve noticed me?” He stuck his tongue into the side of his cheek. 

“I’m just saying I know your type.”

“What if I am serious? You’d be running away before you could find out.” He flirted, a boyish grin on his face that dripped confidence. He was actually nervous, and the three hundred dollar bill hanging over his head was adding some pressure.

You giggled, leaning back slightly as you took a slow sip of your drink, eyes locked on his over the rim. “You don’t strike me to be serious about much of anything.”

His gaze flicked to your lips before returning to your eyes, his voice softer now, “What if I want to prove you wrong?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Prove me wrong? You barely know me.”

He smirked, stepping a little closer, just enough to make the air between you crackle with tension. “Isn’t that half the fun? Getting to know someone new?”

“What makes you think I want to get to know you?”

“Call it intuition.”

Any other time, a guy like this coming up to you would have meant an immediate shut down from you. They were never serious, and they only ever wanted to hook up and never speak again. Tonight though Jungkook needed to be the bug caught in your web.

You pretended to mull it over, tapping the rim of your glass with your finger. “Hmm... cute line.”

“Not a line.” He shot back, more serious now. “But seriously, let me buy you a new drink?”

You were about to decline, but his eyes held yours, that quiet confidence making you hesitate just a second too long.

“Fine.” You said, sighing like you were giving in, but the small smirk tugging at your lips told him otherwise. “But you’re still going to have to work for it.”

“I plan to.” Jungkook leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping. “Let me get your number. I’ll take you out, show you what I mean by serious.” 

You fake contemplation and act like you really needed time to think about it, sucker . You tap the rim of your glass for a moment before you reach your free hand out to him, gesturing for his phone. Jungkook takes the silent victory and pulls his phone out, opening it for you. With a few quick taps and your contact information solidified in his phone.

The deed had been done.

“Don’t disappoint me.” You said, handing it back, your tone playful but carrying an edge of warning.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He replied, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Have a goodnight Jungkook.” Turning on your heel leaving him there and just letting him watch you go. You b-line straight back to your table.

Jungkook was feeling good and felt like this was going to be a breeze of a month. He had to make sure that first date went well first. He would put on his best boyfriend face forward, it’s not that he couldn’t do it like everyone thought. It’s just been a long time since he last had the chance too. 

He made his way back over to his own table, he put on a fake sad face as he took his seat back next to Taehyung. 

“Strike out did you?” Hoseok patted him on the shoulder in comfort. 

“Yeah… struck off the first day of the month.” Jungkook raised his phone, revealing your phone number. Jungkook, a smug grin on his face. 

“I’m surprised.” Jimin sat in quiet contemplation, “But it won’t last.” 

“She’s cute. You guys should have picked more carefully.” Jungkook sighed, looking back into the bar in the direction of your friends and your table. Your back was to him so he couldn’t catch a glimpse of you. 

He then remembered he still owed you a drink.

Across the bar you settled back in with your friends. 

“I caught the whale boys.” You take a small bow and small cheers round around the table. 

“Congratulations.” Namjoon cheers you, hitting his glass with yours. 

Your friends leaned in, eager for the play-by-play of your encounter. You gave them the rundown. Ronnie, the first to break the silence, grinned and raised his glass in admiration.

“That was smooth, Y/N. You had him wrapped around your finger.”

You chuckled, taking a slow sip of your drink. “It’s even better that he thinks he’s in control. There's no way he was actually serious but a fun flirt.”

Jin shook his head, a mixture of amusement and awe on his face. “You’re scary when you’re confident. I’m glad I’m on your side.”

“So what’s the next step in this little experiment of yours?” Ronnie asked, clearly invested in the unfolding drama.

“Well,” You began, swirling your drink in thought, “I wait for him to reach out. Then I’ll play it cool on the first date, get him comfortable.”

“Why play it cool?” Namjoon asked, eyebrows raised.

“Because,” You smirked, “if I’m too much, too fast, he’ll bolt. But if I ease him in, I’ll have time to start slowly being weird.”

Just then, a waitress appeared, sliding a pretty pink drink in front of you. “This one’s from the guy across the bar.” She said, nodding toward Jungkook, who was leaning against the counter, already watching you. “He said you’d know him.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the boldness. Lifting the glass slightly, you gave him a small, acknowledging wave, your friends immediately picking up on the gesture.

“What’s it called?” You asked, eyes still locked on Jungkook.

The waitress grinned. “It’s a Cosmic Encounter .”

“How pretty.” You muttered, a playful smirk forming. You brought the glass to your lips, not breaking eye contact with Jungkook as you took a sip. The sweetness of the drink contrasted sharply with the building tension between the two of you.

If the circumstances were different you may let yourself swoon at the gesture. Picking a cute drink for you. You may try to see if you really could get him to be serious. This was not that though, this was all business and you would have to continue to remind yourself.

Ronnie was the first to speak up again, a wide grin spreading across his face. “I’ll admit, he’s got moves.”

“Just don’t forget this is what he does.” Jin knowing how you are, felt the reminder needed to be put out there. That this is all temporary.

Just as you were about to continue, your phone buzzed softly in your hand. A text. Your eyes drifted down to the screen, and sure enough, it was Jungkook.

Jungkook: Hope you like it… when are you free next?

You couldn’t help the smirk that spread across your lips. “Speak of the devil.”

Namjoon leaned over. “Already? He really wasted no time.”

“Faster than I thought.” You admitted, typing a quick reply. 

:We’ll see, Jungkook. Maybe I’m busy.

The thrill of the chase was intoxicating, and as you sent the message, you could feel the game picking up speed. Both of you were circling each other, waiting for the right moment to strike.

You had no doubt, you were going to eat Jungkook alive.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

❥|| Next chapter

Taglist! : @vashimperial @httpjeonlicious @rinkud @vintagemoonsstuff @marimarvelfan @loomipee @leah-rose03 @irhdifartzamfyaa @smwhrinthehaze @tteokbokibyjk

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

[nana-mania]

"GLITCHED DESIRE" he will always chase after you.

╰┈➤: ̗̀➛ oneshot

࿐*ೃ feat : mr. scarletella

࿐*ೃ fandom : homicipher

࿐*ೃ extra : fem! reader, fluff

╰┈➤: ̗̀➛ Flickering lights buzzed above you as you made your way through the dilapidated corridors of the building. You'd long since stopped hoping to find an easy way out—this was a mysterious building, and escape was rarely straightforward. Still, you refused to give up. Each door, each hallway, could hold a glimmer of hope. Or a trap.

Your steps echoed faintly, swallowed by the oppressive silence that surrounded you. You were focused on the cracked map in your hand, one you had drawn yourself, trying to decipher its faded markings when that familiar, unnerving sensation crept up your spine.

Someone was watching you. Someone was following you.

You turned quickly, scanning the barely lit hallway behind you. Nothing. No sign of movement, no shift in the shadows. But you felt it. You always felt it before he appeared.

With a sharp exhale, you turned back to your map, trying to focus on the task at hand. But when you did, he was there—Mr. Scarletella, mere inches from your face. His presence distorted reality, the air around him rippling like a corrupted video file. His eyes, void-like and unblinking, bore into yours, and the world felt like it had stopped.

You flinched instinctively, a shiver running down your spine. “Really? Again?” you muttered, more exasperated than afraid. You had gotten used to his tricks, his sudden appearances meant to jolt you into fear. By now, it was more annoying than terrifying.

Mr. Scarletella tilted his head, a slight smirk curling his lips. “What, you do?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity.

You didn’t even bother looking up as you replied casually, “Way out.” Your tone was deliberately flat, your attention divided between the map and the faint sound of a creaking door somewhere far off.

He didn’t seem deterred by your lack of interest. If anything, it only seemed to amuse him. “So focused,” he murmured, his voice almost a purr. “So serious. Why, escape?”

You ignored him, taking a step forward to investigate the faint sound. But as soon as you moved, he glitched again. One moment, he was behind you; the next, he was directly in front of you, blocking your path. His smirk widened, and his eyes sparkled with mischief—or something far darker.

“Excuse me,” you said, attempting to sidestep him.

He mirrored your movement effortlessly, leaning in just enough to invade your space. “Don't be cold.” His voice dropped to a near whisper.

You rolled your eyes, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I, am?” His tone shifted, playful yet persistent. “You, waste time. Not me, darling.”

The sudden endearment made you falter for a split second, your focus breaking. Where did he learn that?

He noticed. Of course, he noticed. His grin grew sharper, and he leaned closer.

“Surprise?” he teased, his voice a velvet caress. “Don't run. Stay here, with me.”

You forced yourself to look away, your heart pounding—not from fear, but from something you couldn’t quite place. Annoyance? Frustration? No. It was something more dangerous. You didn’t want to acknowledge it, so you kept walking, determined to shake him off.

But, as always, he followed. Like a shadow, like a curse, he trailed behind you, his steps unnervingly quiet. His demeanor shifted as he walked, from predatory to almost... eager. Like a puppy following its owner.

“You,” he started again, “Me, can help. But, I don't. Why?”

“Because you’re bored.”

He chuckled, a low, melodic sound that made your skin prickle. “Wrong. Me, you, interested, (Y/n)."

You sighed, stopping at a locked door and fiddling with its rusted handle. “If I’m so interesting, why don’t you do something useful for once? Open this door.”

“Hmm...” He tilted his head, pretending to consider it. “What, in return?”

“Peace and quiet,” you shot back.

He laughed again, a genuine sound that caught you off guard. It was rare to hear anything from him that wasn’t dripping with menace or mockery. “Funny,” he said. "Me, like you.”

Ignoring him, you moved to another door, only to find it locked as well. He leaned against the wall beside you, watching your every move with unnerving intensity. You could feel his gaze burning into you, even when you refused to meet it.

“You enjoy, right?” he said after a moment, his voice soft, almost contemplative, “Our, little game. Me, chase you.”

You turned to glare at him, finally snapping. “Enjoy? You delusional. You’re the reason I’m stuck here in the first place!”

He shrugged, unbothered by your outburst. “Maybe. Me like you, a lot. Want you, stay here.”

Before you could respond, he closed the distance between you in an instant, his face mere inches from yours. His smile was gone, replaced by something darker. “Tell me,” he said, his voice a low murmur, “You can escape..will you, leave? Will you, miss me?”

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding against your ribcage. You wanted to snap at him, to push him away, to deny whatever game he was playing. But his eyes, those endless voids, held you captive.

“I—” The words caught in your throat, and you turned sharply, forcing yourself to walk away. Your footsteps echoed louder this time, as if trying to drown out the sound of your racing heart.

He didn’t follow immediately, but you could feel his presence lingering, his gaze heavy on your back. And then, just as you reached the end of the hallway, his voice called out to you, soft but insistent.

“Run, darling,” he said. “You come back. Always do.”

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. But his words stayed with you, echoing in your mind long after his presence had faded.

࿐*ೃ thanks for reading this scenario! likes, interaction and reblogs are deeply appreciated ♡

[minyoongisnewthing]

Han river lullaby chapter three | myg

Chapter one, Chapter two chapter four chapter five chapter six

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, exs to lovers, eventual smut, idol!au, co parents, second chance romance.

Chapter warnings: slight angst

Word count: 5.1k approximately

Authors notes: We are finally here! Yoongi and Han meeting fluff, I hope this chapter was worth the wait, if I’ve missed any content warnings please let me know. As always feedback and thoughts are always welcome in the comments.

The next day, you bundle Han up in his favorite jacket, the thick navy fabric puffing around his small frame. The chill in the morning air nips at your cheeks as you kneel to adjust his scarf, tucking it securely under his chin. His tiny fingers curl around the zipper, his warmth seeping through the fabric as he grips it tightly.

Your heart pounds with each step toward Yoongi’s apartment, the weight of anticipation pressing into your ribs. The air inside the car is filled with Han’s excited chatter, his voice bubbling over with curiosity.

“Eomma, does Appa like dinosaurs?”

You glance at him in the rearview mirror, his round cheeks flushed from the cold. “I don’t know, baby. You should ask him today.”

Han nods, brows scrunching as he considers this, before gasping softly. “Do you think he will play hide and seek with me?”

You smile, reaching back at a red light to squeeze his little hand. “Of course, if you ask, baby.”

But as you reach Yoongi’s front door, Han hesitates. His fingers tighten around yours, the warmth of his palm trembling slightly against your own. He’s still, his chest rising and falling in short, uneven breaths. His earlier excitement has dimmed, replaced by something quieter—uncertainty, maybe even a hint of fear.

You can hear your own pulse in your ears as you knock. The sound feels too loud in the silence of the hallway.

The door swings open.

And then there he is.

Min Yoongi.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts past him, mixing with the faint, familiar notes of his cologne—something warm, with a hint of cedarwood and musk. His dark hair is still slightly damp, strands curling faintly over his forehead like he’s just run a hand through them. His sharp, cat-like eyes—deep brown, almost black in the dim hallway light—drop immediately to Han.

You see the exact moment his breath catches. The subtle hitch in his chest, the way his grip tightens on the edge of the doorframe as he takes Han in piece by piece—the soft roundness of his cheeks, the familiar shape of his eyes, the way he clings to your leg with fingers so tiny, yet so firm.

Han shifts, his little sneakers scuffing softly against the hardwood.

“Eomma… is that Appa?”

Yoongi goes unnervingly still. The air between you thickens, charged with something fragile—a thread stretched too thin, trembling under the weight of three years apart. His lips part slightly, but no words come. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

You nod, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, baby. That’s your appa.”

For a second, nothing happens.

Then Han moves.

The hesitation vanishes as he lets go of your hand and rushes forward, arms flung wide. It’s like watching a piece of your own heart racing to its missing half.

Yoongi barely has time to react before he’s dropping to his knees, arms opening just in time to catch his son. A soft, startled breath leaves him as Han collides into his chest, the small weight of him pressing into Yoongi’s frame. His scent—baby shampoo and the faintest hint of sugar from his breakfast—wraps around Yoongi, grounding him in the reality of this moment.

For a moment, Yoongi just holds him. His fingers press into Han’s jacket, as if trying to memorize the feel of him, the warmth, the impossible realness of this tiny body in his arms. When he leans in, pressing his cheek to Han’s hair, his breath shudders—like he’s inhaling something sacred, something he never knew he needed.

“Hi, Han,” he murmurs, voice rough, unsteady. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

Your vision blurs as you bite your lip, the sting of unshed tears burning behind your eyes. Yoongi holds Han like he’s both delicate and unbreakable—like he’s something he wants to protect forever, and is terrified of losing.

The sound of approaching footsteps breaks the moment.

“Yoongi-hyung, who’s at the—”

Namjoon’s voice cuts off as he steps into the living room, his usual composed expression faltering. The air is still thick with something heavy, something raw and untamed.

He sees Yoongi—kneeling on the floor, holding Han like he’s the most precious jewel in the world.

“Oh.”

It’s barely a breath, but it holds so much. Understanding. Shock. Maybe even something close to relief.

Namjoon doesn’t ask questions. Instead, his gaze flickers to you, searching, and when you nod, he nods back—a silent exchange of acknowledgment, of something long overdue.

Han doesn’t notice the shift in the room. He wiggles in Yoongi’s hold, bright-eyed and eager.

“Appa, I have a stuffed puppy and bunny! And cars! A lot of cars! Do you wanna see them?”

Yoongi lets out a soft chuckle, his lips curving up as his fingers brush absently through Han’s dark hair—hair that mirrors his own.

“Yeah, baby,” he says, voice still uneven but warmer now, “I’d love to.”

As he shifts to stand, Han still in his arms, Yoongi glances at Namjoon and smiles, eyes a little misty but proud.

“Hey, Han,” he says gently, turning slightly so the boy can see. “This is your uncle Namjoon. He’s a really good friend of Appa’s.”

Han’s eyes widen with the kind of wonder only a child can muster. He gives a small, shy smile and a tiny wave, the earlier bravado melting away as quickly as it came.

Namjoon’s lips curve into a gentle grin, visibly touched. He crouches down a little, eyes twinkling as he points.

“Hey, is that Lightning McQueen on your shirt?”

Han brightens instantly, his smile growing as he glances down at his shirt and then back up at Namjoon. “Yeah!” he says, voice a little more confident now. “I have five McQueens at home!”

Namjoon chuckles, warm and easy. “Five? That’s impressive. I think you might have more than me.”

Han beams, clearly pleased with himself, his earlier shyness now softened by pride. He leans a little closer to Yoongi’s side, still holding onto him, but no longer hiding.

As you walk further into the lounge room Yoongi puts Han down to walk alongside him, he tilts his head, his big, curious eyes blinking up at Yoongi, his little legs working overtime to keep pace with him.

“Appa, do you have a favorite toy?”

Yoongi chuckles, the sound low and warm, like the quiet strumming of a familiar melody.

“Hmm… I guess I do,” he muses. “My guitar.”

Han gasps, his tiny hands gripping Yoongi’s sleeve in excitement. “What does it do?”

Yoongi shifts slightly, helping Han who tried to immediately climb into his lap as he sat down, adjusting him so he’s more comfortable on his lap. The fabric of his sweater is soft under Han’s fingers, and the steady warmth of his father’s presence seems to settle something in him.

“Well,” Yoongi begins, “I use it to play music for people all over the world. That’s my job.”

Han’s jaw drops in exaggerated shock, turning to you with wide, shining eyes. “Eomma! Did you hear that? plays music for the whole world!”

You smile, feeling the warmth of his joy settle deep in your chest. It’s like something inside him recognized Yoongi instantly. Already, he’s nestled against his father like he’s belonged there all along, his small fingers idly tracing the hem of Yoongi’s shirt.

Then, Han asks the question that makes your breath catch.

“Appa, is that why I didn’t see you before now?”

The air stills.

Yoongi stiffens, his jaw tightening just slightly, and you can feel the weight of his silence. His grip on Han doesn’t falter, but there’s a hesitation in his movements, as if he’s searching for the right words.

Your eyes meet his, and in that split second, an entire conversation passes between you—how do you explain something so complicated to a child who only understands love in the simplest terms?

Yoongi swallows and clears his throat, his fingers shifting to rest gently against Han’s back. His voice, when he speaks, is soft but steady.

“I didn’t know about you before, Han,” he says carefully, watching his son’s face closely. “But now that I do, I don’t ever want to miss any more time with you.”

Han blinks up at him, his little forehead scrunching in thought. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head, trying to piece together something much bigger than himself.

Then, he tilts his head, as if coming to a decision. “Promise?”

Yoongi exhales shakily, but there’s no hesitation when he lifts his pinky.

“Promise.”

Han’s face lights up as he immediately hooks his tiny pinky around Yoongi’s, shaking it for good measure. His giggle is light, innocent—a sound that fills the quiet room like the first notes of a song.

“Okay!” he chirps, as if that seals everything.

You swallow against the lump in your throat, the pressure of unspoken emotions making your chest tight. Yoongi meets your gaze, and for a moment, there’s something raw and unguarded in his expression—something unreadable, but heavy with meaning.

And just like that, the weight of the moment shifts, replaced by Han’s eager voice.

“Can I see your guitar?”

Like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Later, Yoongi sits on the couch, his guitar resting on his knee as Han perches beside him, watching with rapt attention. The dim morning light spills through the windows, casting a soft glow over them, making the moment feel almost unreal.

Yoongi strums a few quiet chords, the deep, rich sound filling the apartment like a heartbeat. Han gasps, his mouth falling open as if he’s just witnessed pure magic.

“Whoa,” he whispers. “Appa, that’s so cool!”

Yoongi chuckles, the deep timbre of his laughter vibrating through the strings as he idly plucks at them. “You think so?”

Han nods eagerly, bouncing slightly where he sits. His excitement is boundless, his energy almost contagious as his gaze flits around the room—until something catches his attention.

He notices Namjoon watching them, a quiet smile on his face, a book open in his hands. The sight of him seems to spark an idea in Han’s ever-moving mind.

“Appa, can Uncle Joon read that to me?”

The question is innocent, spoken in the bright, expectant way only a child can manage. But its effect is immediate.

Namjoon stiffens just slightly, eyes widening for half a second before his entire body softens. You catch the way his fingers shift on the book’s spine, how he blinks a few times as if trying to process what just happened.

You also catch the way Yoongi smirks.

Because Yoongi noticed it too.

The name.

Uncle Joon.

You watch as Namjoon’s throat bobs in a subtle swallow, his gaze flickering to Yoongi. A silent exchange passes between them—one of knowing, of acknowledgment, of understanding.

And judging by the way Yoongi’s smirk tugs wider, he’s thoroughly enjoying the moment.

Yoongi shifts, casually leaning over to glance at the title of Namjoon’s book.

The Hobbit.

His grin deepens.

Yeah, maybe his three-year-old doesn’t need to hear about the trials of Bilbo Baggins just yet.

“Maybe when you’re a little older,” Yoongi tells Han, reaching out to ruffle his dark hair—hair that mirrors his own.

Han pouts dramatically, his small arms crossing over his chest in exaggerated offense.

“Aww,” he whines, his bottom lip jutting out in full force.

Namjoon, finally recovering, chuckles as he closes the book, shaking his head in amusement. “Sorry, bud,” he says, voice warm. “It’s a pretty big adventure. I think you’d like it more when you’re a little bigger.”

Han considers this, poking at his own arm as if trying to gauge how much bigger he needs to be. Then, just as quickly as he’d pouted, he seemed to accept his fate, letting his arms fall to his sides with a sigh.

“Okay,” he relents.

Then, as if his little mind has already moved on to the next thing, he suddenly perks up.

“Uncle Joon, do you know how to play guitar too?”

Namjoon snorts. “Not like your Appa does.”

Yoongi scoffs, tossing an arm over the back of the couch. “That’s putting it lightly.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes, flicking a glance toward you as if to say, See what I deal with, still?

You just laugh, watching as Han soaks it all in—the teasing, the warmth, the comfort of being surrounded by people who love him.

Because even though he doesn’t understand it yet—

That’s exactly what this is.

Without warning, Han turns to you, his tiny face suddenly serious, his dark eyes searching yours.

“Eomma, will Appa live with us now?”

The sip of tea you had just taken violently betrays you.

A burning sensation sears down the wrong pipe, and you immediately dissolve into a fit of coughs, choking as your body tries to process both the liquid and the sheer, earth-shattering weight of the question.

Across from you, Yoongi’s smirk is instant.

The traitor doesn’t even try to hide it, lips twitching as he bites down to keep from outright laughing. His shoulders shake slightly, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement.

You glare daggers at him, still coughing, still struggling to breathe.

This is not funny.

(Except that, to Yoongi, it very clearly is.)

Finally, after a few deep inhales, you manage to clear your throat, setting your tea down with an exaggerated amount of caution. You glance down at Han, who is completely unbothered, still looking up at you expectantly.

“Han, baby,” you begin carefully, steadying yourself. “I don’t know. While both me and Appa love you very much, we have a lot to talk about first, okay?”

Han blinks, considering this. His small brows knit together, his expression so comically serious for a three-year-old that you almost want to laugh—if your nerves weren’t already frazzled beyond belief.

You watch him evaluate your answer, like a tiny judge weighing the validity of your response.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d asked, he shrugs. “Okay!”

And just like that, he hops off the couch, toddling away to explore Yoongi’s apartment—completely unbothered.

You collapse back against the couch, exhaling a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

A low chuckle breaks the silence.

You turn your head, already knowing who it’s coming from.

Namjoon.

He’s leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, grinning like he just watched the best episode of his favorite drama.

“Nice save,” he remarks, amusement thick in his voice.

You roll your eyes, still recovering from what felt like a near-death experience. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

Namjoon shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “I mean, can you blame me? The kid’s got great timing.”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temples. “It’s like he came into this world specifically to stress me out.”

Namjoon outright laughs at that, the sound warm and genuine, before his expression softens. He nudges your arm lightly, his tone shifting into something gentler.

“You handled it well,” he says, voice sincere now. “And honestly? So did Yoongi.”

At that, you glance toward Yoongi, who is still watching Han from across the room, his gaze soft, but distant. His lips are slightly parted, his breathing slow and measured.

Something had changed today.

Something had shifted between all of you, in a way that couldn’t be undone.

Even though you didn’t know what it meant yet—

You could feel it.

Your gaze flickers toward the hallway where Han disappeared, and for a brief second, you catch a glimpse of Yoongi trailing after him.

Han, as always, is mid-question, his tiny voice rising with curiosity.

And Yoongi—

He’s listening.

Answering.

Following after his son with a look you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

Something fond. Something softer than anything you’ve ever known of him.

Something that, maybe, he didn’t even realize was in him until now.

This had probably the hardest conversation of your life.

But maybe—

It was also the start of something great for them both.

As the day wore on, you noticed Han’s blinks growing slower, his little body leaning heavier against Yoongi’s chest. The weight of the day was beginning to catch up with him, his small form sagging with exhaustion. It was well past his usual nap time, and the emotional toll of everything he’d processed that day was taking its toll. Without a word, Han crawled into Yoongi’s lap, clutching onto his shirt with tiny, delicate fingers.

You watched them, your heart squeezing in your chest. Yoongi’s movements were instinctive—gentle and steady as he adjusted his position to better support the small weight of his son. His hand came up, resting softly on Han’s back, rubbing slow, soothing circles. The intimacy of the moment hit you like a wave, and for a brief second, you forgot to breathe.

Something tightened in your chest—an ache, a longing, and something dangerously close to hope. A glimmer of something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in a long time.

You thought about taking Han home. It really had been a long day, full of big emotions for such a little body, and you knew Han would sleep better in his own bed. But as you watched his small fingers curl into the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt, his breath slowing and evening out against his father’s chest, you hesitated.

Yoongi wasn’t moving. He wasn’t even trying to hand Han back to you. Instead, he sat there, his son tucked securely in his lap, one arm wrapped protectively around him, the other still resting on the back of the lounge. His gaze was fixed on Han’s face, and there was something in his eyes—something that looked like reverence. Quiet, fragile reverence for the child he barely knew but already loved in ways that were almost beyond words.

Maybe just for a little while longer.

You silently excused yourself to the bathroom, needing a moment to breathe, to ground yourself. The weight of the day had started to press down on you, and the quiet had become almost too heavy to carry. But as you walked back down the hall, a sound made you pause—hushed voices, low enough that you could barely hear, but enough for your curiosity to get the better of you.

“So, Appa,” Namjoon’s voice was thick with amusement, a teasing edge lacing his words. “Are you gonna live with Eomma now?”

You could practically hear Yoongi’s eye roll before he even spoke, his voice laced with reluctant laughter.

“Fuck off. Uncle Joon”

But then a long, slow sigh escaped him. And when he spoke again, his voice was different—softer, heavier than before.

“Honestly? I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Joon.”

Your heart stuttered at the rawness of his words, the vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his usual guarded demeanor.

“I keep thinking about what you told her,” Yoongi murmured, the words barely audible but heavy with regret. “About that day they caught me trying to call again. If they reacted like that over a fucking phone call, what would they have done if they’d found out about a baby about my son?”

A long silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, before Yoongi continued, his voice rough and raw.

“But still… three years, Joon. Three fucking years of his life I missed. His first steps, his first words… everything.”

“I know, hyung,” Namjoon replied quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “But after what happened that night—”

“Don’t.” Yoongi’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. “That’s not… that’s not an excuse.”

“No,” Namjoon agreed softly. “But it is context. The control, the threats, the constant surveillance… Y/N saw what it was doing to you, even from a distance.”

Yoongi exhaled sharply, a stifled pain in the sound. “And what about what losing her did to me? What missing out on my son did to me?”

Namjoon’s voice softened, his tone carrying the weight of understanding. “You both made choices thinking you were protecting each other. You let her go because you thought it would keep her safe. She kept Han from you for the same reason.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Yoongi argued, but even his words lacked conviction.

“Isn’t it?” Namjoon pressed gently, urging Yoongi to see the truth that he’d been avoiding. “You saw what they did to idols who broke the rules. The ‘examples’ they made. If they had found out about Han…” He let the implication hang in the air, unspoken but undeniable.

Yoongi’s silence stretched, thick and suffocating, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I would’ve fought for them.”

“And that’s exactly why she didn’t tell you,” Namjoon said quietly. “Because she knew you would have thrown everything away. Your career, your dreams, everything you worked for. If she saw how they were already treating you over phone calls… imagine what they would have done with this.”

“So what?” Yoongi’s voice cracked, a thread of anguish lacing the words. “I was supposed to just… miss everything? His first smile? His first day of preschool? Watch him call me ‘Appa’ for the first time through a fucking phone screen?”

The pain in his voice felt like a fist around your heart—tight and unrelenting.

“No,” Namjoon sighed, his voice soft but understanding. “But maybe there was no right choice . Just two people trying their best in an impossible situation.”

Yoongi let out a shaky breath, his voice fragile. “He has my smile, Joon. My fucking smile. And I’ve missed three years of seeing it.”

“I know, hyung.”

“And Y/N…” Yoongi’s voice cracked, and you could hear the weight of the unsaid words. “She went through it all alone. The pregnancy, the birth, raising him… while I was what? Writing songs about missing her without even knowing I was missing him too?”

Namjoon exhaled, the sound a mixture of sympathy and understanding. “You can’t change the past. But you’re not that same kid anymore, hyung. You have power now. Choices you didn’t have then.”

Yoongi’s voice carried an edge, a warning. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying maybe it’s time to stop letting fear decide things.” Namjoon’s voice was steady, sure. “Fear of scandal. Fear of getting hurt again. Fear of trusting Y/N. You have a son now. A brilliant little boy who looks at you like you hung the moon. Focus on that.”

There was a beat of silence before Yoongi’s voice broke it—soft and full of resolve.

“I can’t miss any more of this, Joon. I won’t.” A shaky breath followed, and Yoongi’s voice softened. “I’ll figure something out. But I’m not letting anyone take more time with my son away from me.”

Namjoon hesitated, as if weighing his next words carefully. Then he asked, “And Y/N?, what about more time with her?”

Yoongi’s answer was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything unsaid between them. “I don’t know. Maybe. Yes.” A pause, then he exhaled a long, slow breath. “After the anger fades… from both of us, after we work through this mess…” He let the silence stretch, then added softly, “She’s still her, you know?”

“Still the woman you loved,” Namjoon finished quietly.

“Love,” Yoongi corrected.

Your breath hitched, and for the briefest moment, you felt everything you hadn’t dared to feel in years—the hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a future.

“But right now, Han comes first.”. Yoongi finished

You closed your eyes, pressing your back against the wall as you tried to steady your breathing. You had already made peace with the fact that he might never love you again, But hearing that subtle almost reflex correction he gave Namjoon.

You took a deep breath, forcing a smile onto your face as you stepped back into the room. Your mind was still reeling from the conversation you’d overheard, but now wasn’t the time to unpack it.

“How’s the shoulder?” you asked, keeping your tone light.

Yoongi glanced up at you, shifting his injured arm slightly. “I only took one dose of painkillers today, so it’s good,” he replied, rolling his shoulder in a careful, subtle motion.

You nodded, offering him a small smile. “Good. In that case, you can start doing more in practices but back off if it hurts again.”

Yoongi hummed in acknowledgment, but his gaze drifted back down to Han, still peacefully asleep in his lap.

The room fell silent for a moment, and when Yoongi spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost tentative.

“If you’re not busy tomorrow… could you bring him back again?”

Your heart squeezed at the quiet plea in his voice, unspoken but undeniable. And you knew, deep down, that whatever Yoongi asked of you—you would do it.

“Of course, Yoon,” you murmured, offering him a small smile. “I’m not busy, I just need to grab some groceries.”

You hesitated, then found the courage to ask.

“Would… would you feel comfortable with me leaving him here while I do?”

Yoongi’s eyes widened in surprise, but there was no hesitation in his answer. He gazed back at Han, his eyes softening as he studied the peaceful rise and fall of his son’s chest.

“…Yeah,” he said finally, his voice steady. “I’d like that.”

Relief flooded through you, warm and soothing like sunlight breaking through clouds. You stepped forward, carefully moving to take Han from his arms.

Yoongi shifted him gently, careful not to wake him, and as he passed Han into your arms, his fingers lingered for just a second too long, tracing the curve of his son’s soft cheek.

“He’s something, isn’t he?” you said softly, watching Yoongi’s expression soften. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile—one that was tender and full of love, a smile that was only for Han.

“Yeah,” Yoongi murmured, his voice full of awe. “He’s pretty incredible.”

The drive home was quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and the gentle rhythm of Han’s breathing as he slept in his car seat. 

You sighed, gripping the wheel a little tighter as you tried to process the emotions of the day. 

Seeing Yoongi again had stirred something deep inside you—something you’d been trying to suppress for years. You hadn’t realized just how much you missed him until that moment in the ER when your eyes met, and it all came rushing back. 

How much you missed him—hell, even how much you still love him. But he was right. Han had to come first.

Yoongi was back in your life now, and no matter what happened between the two of you, you had to be okay with navigating co-parenting. You had to do it for Han. That little boy was your whole world.

“Eomma?” came Han’s sleepy voice, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, bubba?” you responded, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

His little brows scrunched together as he rubbed his eyes. “Do you love Appa?”

You sucked in a quiet breath. Damn, this kid was perceptive.

You exhaled slowly before answering. “I do, very much.”

Han hummed, as if processing your words. Then, after a beat of silence, he hit you with another gut punch. “Does Appa love you?”

Fuck. What a loaded question.

You swallowed, eyes fixed on the road as you gave the only answer you could. “He did, baby boy. He did.”

Han seemed to accept that, his eyes slipping shut again as you pulled into the driveway. You carried him upstairs, tucking him into bed with a gentle kiss on his forehead before heading back downstairs.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket just as you reached the couch. You frowned at the screen—Yoongi.

“Hey, Yoongi. Everything alright?” you answered, concern creeping into your tone.

“Yeah… everything’s okay.” His voice was softer than usual, a little rough around the edges with exhaustion. His Daegu accent bled through, unfiltered. “I just… wanted to thank you. For today. For Han. He’s—he’s brilliant.”

A smile tugged at your lips. “He is.”

There was a pause before Yoongi continued. “About tomorrow… does he have anything he’s not allowed to have? Jin, Namjoon, and Jimin are coming over, and I just wanna make sure.”

You ran through Han’s dietary restrictions, reminding Yoongi about his lactose intolerance and a few other minor allergies.

Yoongi hummed, probably going through his pantry. “Yeah, no, I don’t have any of that special stuff on hand, I could run out quickly before you get here if you’d like me too?”

You softened, sensing his nerves. “no, no, if you want me to I can pack some extra clothes and snacks?”

The sigh of relief that followed almost made you laugh. “Yes, please, also so I always have some here, just lactose free milk or does he prefer almond or oat?.”

Before he could hang up, you hesitated for just a second before saying, “he likes normal lacrosse free milk and Yoon… you have nothing to worry about. Han already loves and adores you.”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. You could almost feel him trying to process your words. Then, his voice—barely above a whisper—came through, and it made something tighten in your chest.

“…Thank you.”

You exhaled slowly. “We do need to talk, though. About moving forward.”

He was quiet for a long moment, and you could hear the weight of his thoughts on the other end. Finally, he spoke again, his tone thoughtful. “I know. I’ve been thinking about it all day, trying to figure out how we’re gonna do this… co-parenting thing.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “It’s not going to be easy, but we’ll figure it out. We have to. For Han’s sake.”

“I know,” Yoongi murmured, the rawness of his words lingering. “I just don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to be the kind of parent who lets him down.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, but you knew he was capable of being a good father. “You won’t, trust me you are a natural father.”

There was a beat of silence before Yoongi spoke again, his voice quieter, but firm. “I just want to be there for him. I don’t care what it takes.”

You smiled softly, a warmth spreading through your chest. “And you will be. We’ll do this together, Yoon.”

“Yeah…” Yoongi’s voice trailed off, before he added softly, “I’ll figure it out, Y/N. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nodded again, even though he couldn’t see you. “Good. We’ll make this work.”

With a quiet goodnight, you ended the call, your heart feeling just a little lighter than it had when it started.

For the first time in a long time, you went to bed believing that maybe, just maybe, things were going to be okay.

Tag list: @busanbby-jjk @jajabro @kam9404 @yoongiiuu93 @julseka07 @tea4sykes @marihoneywk @maryhopemei @sanarin @misschelliejeon @boraluv @wobblewobble822 @amarawayne @hyuninslutbbgirl @Granataepfelchen @mar-lo-pap @enfppuff

[shortnspidey]

CHAPTER THREE: FRACTURED BONDS

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 7.5K

SUMMARY: Bucky Barnes, caught in a political storm and haunted by his past as the Winter Soldier, battles internal guilt and fragmented memories while finding solace in someone who sees beyond his trauma, intensifying his struggle between seeking connection and fearing the harm he might cause.

WARNINGS: Mentions of character death(s), graphic violence, protective Bucky, Zemo, talk of past trauma

A/N: Figured I'd made you guys wait long enough... so here's another chapter! Make sure you hold on for this one, this chapter is really angsty!! I apologize in advance. 🥺

➩ previous chapter || next chapter

➩ main masterlist

➩ series masterlist

The Quinjet was silent, the kind of silence that pressed in on you, thick and heavy, broken only by the low hum of the engine reverberating through the walls and the steady, rhythmic breaths of the two super-soldiers beside you. The cold metal floor felt unnervingly hard beneath your boots as you stared out the window, the blurry landscape passing by below, but your mind wasn’t on the scenery.

Bucky’s voice broke through the stillness, raw and edged with something you couldn’t quite place, but you could feel the weight of it in your chest. "What’s gonna happen to your friends?" His words were simple, yet the question lingered in the air. You found yourself wondering the same thing, a gnawing sense of uncertainty crawling under your skin. The mission had been successful, but at what cost? The stakes were higher now, the consequences more far-reaching than any of you had expected.

Your gaze shifted to Steve, who was staring ahead, his jaw clenched in that familiar way when he was deep in thought. He’d been quieter than usual, almost distant, and it seemed like this particular question was one he wasn’t sure how to answer. His eyes flickered to Bucky for a split second before he exhaled slowly, as if trying to release something heavy from his chest. “Whatever it is,” Steve started, his voice low but firm, "I’ll deal with it."

It wasn’t the answer you’d hoped for. It wasn’t comforting, but it was Steve, and that was the best you were going to get. His tone made it clear that whatever came next, he’d face it head-on, as he always did. But you could see it in his eyes a flicker of doubt, of weariness. The silence stretched on again, suffocating, until Bucky’s voice, almost a whisper, cut through it like a blade. "I don't know if I'm worth all this, Steve." His words were jagged, raw, and the weight of them hit you like a punch to the gut.

There was pain there, deep and unspoken. You could feel it in every syllable, every breath he took. His haunted eyes, the way his shoulders were slightly hunched, as though he was carrying a weight too heavy for anyone to bear, it all spoke volumes about the internal battle he was fighting. It made your heart ache, the sheer vulnerability of it. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what it felt like for Bucky, years of being trapped, manipulated, erased and rebuilt, time and time again, into something that wasn’t entirely him.

You could see the guilt in his eyes, a constant, suffocating presence that refused to let him go. And you hated it. Hated that he didn’t see himself the way you saw him: strong, loyal, brave. But more than anything, you hated that no matter how many times Steve reassured him, how many times the team rallied around him, Bucky still couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t worth saving. Your chest tightened as the words echoed in your mind. You wanted to say something, anything to ease his pain, but the words seemed to die on your tongue.

Your own anxieties and insecurities resurfaced like a tidal wave, crashing over you as you replayed the events of the last forty-eight hours in your mind. Before you could spiral too far, Steve’s voice broke through the fog of your thoughts. He said exactly what you were thinking. "What you did all those years, it wasn't you. You didn't have a choice." Bucky breathed out, but his voice still carried the heavy burden of guilt and unresolved pain. "I know," There was a long pause, the tension thick in the air.

"But I did it." He added quietly, the words hanging in the silence like a confession that he wasn’t sure he was ready to forgive himself for. As Steve's gaze flickered over to you, he saw the absence in your eyes. You were curled up in the corner, facing the window, your expression completely void of any emotion. It was as though you had shut yourself off from the world entirely. Your body present, but your mind was somewhere far away, lost in a quiet place where nothing felt real anymore. Steve’s concern softened his features as he spoke, his voice gentle but laced with sorrow.

“I’m so sorry you had to get involved in this, Y/N.” You stared at the horizon outside the window, avoiding his gaze. As you spoke with a bitterness that tasted like years of pent-up frustration. "It’s okay, Steve. It’s not like I wasn’t already disowned." The words hit the air like a cold wind, and Bucky immediately turned toward Steve, his expression forming into one of genuine concern. His brow furrowed, and his lips parted to say something, but he hesitated. “Don’t say that, Y/N, it’s not true” Steve coaxed softly.

“But it is true," You insisted quietly, your voice soft, but the heaviness in it was unmistakable. "Just before Clint arrived at my apartment, my father and I were fighting," You continued, your words stumbling out in between shaky breaths. "What's new, we’ve always fought.” Your mind flashed back to the endless arguments, the moments where you felt more like a stranger to him than a daughter. “Dropping out of MIT and siding with you on this whole accords fiasco…" You trailed off, your voice barely above a whisper, "That was just the tip of the goddamn iceberg."

You scoffed bitterly, the anger bubbling up again like an old wound reopening. “You dropped out of MIT?” Your father’s voice was filled with disbelief like he believed you made the biggest mistake ever. Yet somehow, when Steve repeated those same words, you didn’t hear the disappointment in his tone. Instead you were met with a quiet concern, an emotion you hadn’t been able to recognize from your father in years. You shrugged, the motion as cold and indifferent as the walls you had built around yourself. "I never wanted to go to MIT... he practically made the decision for me when I graduated high school,"

You muttered, the words slipping out almost as an afterthought. Your fingers twitched, memories of lectures, crowded hallways, and a life you had never chosen clashing with the one you were desperately trying to carve for yourself. "But after last semester," You continued, your voice firmer now, as you dared to speak your truth. "After finding out people only wanted to befriend me because of my last name, and what they thought I could get them access to, I decided I was done," The bitterness in your mouth was sharp. "Done living in his shadow." As those words left your mouth, Bucky quickly realized just how much you both had in common.

His chest tightened, and a sudden wave of guilt hit him with the force of a storm. He had barely known you, and yet, when he first saw you at the airport in Germany and learned who you were, something inside him recoiled. Y/N Stark, the daughter of Tony Stark, of all people, was actually trying to help him. It didn’t make sense. His walls had grown higher the moment he saw you, his instincts shouting that he couldn’t trust anyone. Yet, in a strange, subtle way, there was a shift in him. He hated to admit it, but when you looked at him like a human being, with real warmth in your eyes, your voice so soft as you muttered his name it was different.

You didn’t call him The Winter Soldier. You didn’t see him as the weapon they’d turned him into. You saw him as a person, and for the briefest of moments, those walls he’d so carefully constructed started to crumble. But still, his guard remained, firmly in place, a fortress he couldn’t afford to let go of completely. Now, hearing your confession the pain and raw emotion in your words, something was different. And he detested it. The lively spark he’d seen in you before was gone, replaced by something quieter, something he wasn’t used to.

Watching you interact with your father so brief, yet so tense it had made his stomach churn. The way your shoulders tensed, how your hands fidgeted at your sides, and the barely controlled panic that flickered in your eyes as he saw you fight to hold it together it was like you were a completely different person. Now, as he looked at you, there was a hollow look in your eyes, a void of emotion. You looked smaller, more fragile, as though whatever had been left of your strength was slowly slipping away. This was the real you, the one you hid so well beneath layers of strength and purpose and sarcasm.

Bucky couldn’t help but feel a gnawing sense of protectiveness, the kind he didn’t know he was capable of anymore. Yet he couldn’t act on it and that frustrated him more. He’d spent so long locked in a world of darkness, of not knowing who he was or what he was capable of, but here, with you, something was stirring. Something… human. But what could he do? Nothing, because he didn’t even understand it himself. Before he could dwell further on his thoughts, Steve’s voice broke through the tension, calm but filled with purpose.

“We’re getting close,” He muttered, his grip firm on the controls as the jet’s engines hummed. “I’ll have to make a quick descent.” He was preparing to land the jet at the HYDRA facility Zemo was surely heading to, and as the reality of the mission settled in, the air inside the jet grew thick with a shared intensity. The energy shift in the air was immediate. Without even realizing it, Bucky found his muscles tensing in anticipation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you. Your movements were fluid, calm, but there was something in the way you moved, in the way your gaze flicked toward him, that made him aware of how much he was paying attention.

You opened a side compartment in the jet with practiced ease, grabbing a spare gun you had secured in your back holster. For a split second, he wondered if you had sensed his gaze. The brief moment of shared eye contact spoke volumes, a silent understanding passing between you two. You stepped aside just slightly, enough to offer him a weapon, no words necessary. Bucky didn’t hesitate. His hand shot out and grabbed the M249 SAW with a familiarity that surprised even him. The weight of the weapon felt natural, and it almost grounded him in the chaos of the situation.

The doors of the jet were still locked in place, but Steve was preparing to open them at any moment. He could feel the tension building in the air, the kind of pressure that made his chest tighten. Something about this mission felt different, more nerve-wracking than anything else, even more than when he faced down your father in Germany. Trying to ease the mounting tension, Steve broke the silence turning to Bucky. “You remember that one time we had to ride back from Rockaway Beach in the back of that freezer truck?” His voice was casual, but there was a lightness to it.

Bucky’s lips twitched upward. “Was that the time you used our train money to buy hotdogs?” He teased, the familiar tone creeping into his voice despite the situation. Steve didn’t miss a beat. “You blew three bucks trying to win that stuffed bear for a redhead.” Bucky’s laugh was a low, almost wistful sound. You had to do a double-take to make sure you weren’t imagining it. Damn, was it a nice smile. “What was her name again?” He asked, his voice softer than usual, but there was still amusement in it. That was enough to snap you out of your thoughts about the brooding super-soldier.

Now was certainly not the time nor place.

“Dolores,” Steve answered, grinning. “You called her Dot.” Bucky chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned against the side of the jet. “She’s gotta be a hundred years old right now.” Steve shrugged, unfazed. “So are we, pal.” As the jet door opened, a rush of frigid air blasted into the cabin, sending a shiver down your spine. The stark, white landscape outside stretched endlessly, broken only by the dark silhouette of the HYDRA facility in the distance. Your heart rate picked up, your instincts sharpening as you surveyed the terrain.

You knew that what lay ahead could very well be your last fight, but there was no turning back now. You barely had time to gather your thoughts before Bucky’s voice cut through the tension. “Stay close.” He coaxed, his tone surprisingly gentle despite the gravity of the situation. He had seen the subtle shift in your demeanor, the way your body went rigid as the cold began to gnaw at you, and his protective instinct kicked in. You could feel the weight of his words. His presence beside you, reassuring, steady. You didn’t need to look at him to know he was scanning the horizon, preparing for the worst. You didn’t have time to reply, not with the threat of danger so close.

Bucky and Steve moved as one, stepping into the snowy abyss, their boots crunching in the snow as they carefully checked their surroundings. Every movement was calculated, deliberate. The sound of the wind howling across the barren landscape was the only thing that cut through the otherwise oppressive silence. The bitter cold stung at your skin, but you could feel the heat of your adrenaline pushing back against it, fueling your focus. You watched them, both men taking point, their bodies tense and alert as they scanned the area for any signs of movement.

After a brief but intense moment of silent communication, Bucky nodded toward you, an unspoken command to follow. You didn’t hesitate. You moved quickly to join them, matching their pace, your eyes flicking over the terrain as you stepped into the snow. Steve paused a few feet before the entrance of the facility, his breath visible in the cold air as he took in the sight of the door that was slightly ajar. His brows furrowed, and he inhaled sharply, analyzing the situation. “He can’t have been here more than a few hours,” Steve muttered, his voice low but filled with certainty. Your gaze shifted to Bucky, and you saw his jaw tighten, the muscle in his cheek pulsing as he processed the information.

“Long enough to wake them up,” He muttered, barely above a whisper. His grip on his gun tightened instinctively, his flesh knuckles whitening as he prepared for whatever came next. That was all the confirmation Steve needed. Without another word, he stepped forward, moving with the quiet precision of someone who had done this countless times before. “Watch your step.” Bucky warned, his voice low, but there was a trace of urgency. As you stepped inside, the smell of damp air and something else, something metallic immediately hit you. It was suffocating, making your throat itch.

The shadows inside seemed to stretch, hiding secrets in every corner. Every step you took echoed unnervingly in the vast, empty space, but the facility, despite its eerie stillness, felt anything but abandoned. The feeling of being watched crawled over your skin. Bucky didn’t speak, but you could feel him shifting subtly, positioning himself just slightly in front of you. Steve, on the other hand, moved with fluid confidence, his senses on high alert as the three of you ventured deeper into the facility. Both super soldiers took turns sweeping the area, their movements instinctively synchronized, checking each shadow, each flicker of light.

The elevator creaked as it descended, groaning under the weight of the past. You could hear the scrape of metal against metal, the shudder of old machinery struggling to keep up. It felt as though the whole place might collapse on itself at any moment. Your boots clicked against the rusted floor as you followed them deeper into the belly of the facility, your hand gripping your gun tighter, your senses sharp, aware of every creak, every shift in the air. And then it came, a sudden, loud noise. The sharp scrape of something against concrete, too close, too fast. Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky and Steve moved as one.

Bucky’s steel-like arm was already around your waist, guiding you back behind him as Steve instinctively dropped into a defensive stance, his shield raised in a fluid motion. "Seriously?" You hissed, voice barely above a whisper as you struggled to stay calm. The frustration in your chest surged. "Haven’t we established that I’m more than capable of defending myself?" But neither of them acknowledged you. They were laser-focused, eyes trained on the door ahead, watching for any movement. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as the air seemed to vibrate with the weight of their readiness. They were calm, but there was an edge in the way their muscles tensed.

You hated that feeling, the helplessness, the quiet knowledge that they were ready to jump into danger before you even had a chance to react. You wanted to protest, wanted to remind them that you weren’t a fragile civilian, but at that moment the words felt stuck in your throat. "You ready?" Steve's voice was steady, but there was a hint of tension beneath the calm exterior, the kind of tension you could feel even before the words left his lips. His eyes never wavered from the door, and you could sense him preparing for whatever was about to come through. The screeching noises from the other side of the door intensified, a jagged sound that scraped at your nerves and made your pulse quicken.

"Yeah." Bucky’s response came immediately, his voice low but filled with the unwavering confidence you’d come to expect from him. He had his gun raised, his grip firm. The cold, calculating look in his eyes told you he was ready for anything, but there was no mistaking the tension in his body as he braced for whatever, or whoever was on the other side. You held your breath, watching the door as it slowly creaked open, the harsh, metallic sound echoing through the empty space. Each inch it moved felt like an eternity. Your mind raced, preparing for a fight, for danger, for anything that could come charging through that door.

But nothing could have prepared you for what you saw. Your heart stopped in your chest. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, and the ground beneath you felt as though it had shifted. Standing there, just a few feet away, was your dad. Encased in the gleaming, intimidating armor of the Iron Man suit. Even with his face shielded, you were certain that his eyes were locked with yours. The shock was instantaneous. Yet before you could even form the words, your body reacted before your brain could catch up. Adrenaline surged through you, sharp and immediate.

Without thinking, you pushed past Bucky and Steve, slipping between them as they tried to stop you, their hands reaching for your arms, but you were already moving. You didn’t even notice the way Bucky’s grip tightened or how Steve’s voice called out in protest, a low warning that you couldn’t hear over the pounding of your heart. Everything seemed to slow as you took those steps forward, stopping just a few feet in front of your dad. Your hand instinctively gripped the weapon at your side, but it was less about preparing for a fight and more about standing your ground. This was your father. Nevertheless, if he wanted to get to Bucky and Steve, he would have to go through you first.

Your breath was shallow, chest rising and falling with the quick rhythm of your racing heart. "You don’t have to do this." You found yourself saying, the words coming out before you could stop them, your voice a mix of desperation and defiance. You watched in silence as the nanotechnology plates of the suit parted with a smooth, almost mechanical grace, revealing his face. "You seem a little defensive." His tone was casual, almost playful, but there was an edge to it that didn’t quite match the tension in the air. Out of all the things you expected him to say, that was the last.

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back, but before you could, Steve’s voice cut through the charged silence. "Yeah, well, it's been a long day." You shifted slightly, catching the movement out of the corner of your eye. Steve, ever the protector, was approaching cautiously, his shield still raised between him and Tony, eyes flicking back and forth between you and your father. He was ready for anything, but there was something about his movements that felt restrained, as if he was waiting for permission, waiting for you to show him how to handle this situation. "At ease, soldier," Tony’s voice rang out, a touch of irony in the words, though his eyes lingered on Bucky.

You watched as the two men exchanged a brief, silent moment of tension. Bucky hadn’t shifted an inch. His stance was as firm as steel, eyes narrowed and unyielding. It was clear: he wasn’t lowering his guard for anyone. Your pulse quickened. What the hell was happening? You managed to find your voice again, though it was strained with the weight of the moment. "Then why are you here?" You narrowed your eyes, staring hard at your father, the man who had just walked into this situation like it was any other. He looked at you for a beat, and for a brief moment, it seemed like he might speak, maybe apologize, maybe explain.

But instead, he shrugged, that cocky, familiar smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "Could be your story's not so crazy." The words hung in the air like a confession. He was acknowledging the truth of what Steve had said, but the casualness with which he delivered it only added more weight to the conversation. His gaze shifted to Steve, and you could see the flicker of something unreadable between them, an unspoken understanding. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as Tony leaned against the doorframe, eyes never leaving Steve’s. "Ross has no idea I’m here," He continued, the humor fading from his voice. He sounded more serious now. "I'd like to keep it that way,”

“Otherwise, I'd have to arrest myself." He let out a huff, but even the sound was lacking its usual bite. Steve’s lips quirked into a half-smile at the comment, but his eyes were still sharp, his focus unwavering. “Well, that sounds like a lot of paperwork.” He replied, a lightness to his tone, though it couldn’t quite lift the heaviness that lingered in the room. At Steve’s words, you heard your father let out a small chuckle. It was a sound you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. But there it was, allowing himself the rare gift of a real laugh. It caught you off guard, a reminder that maybe, just maybe, there was still a trace of the man he used to be beneath the armor of cynicism and sarcasm.

You watched, transfixed, as Steve’s guarded expression softened, the familiar shield he always carried with him seeming to fall away. In its place was something that looked like relief, or perhaps acceptance. He stood a little straighter, his posture no longer rigid but open. “It’s good to see you, Tony,” Steve muttered, the words sincere. Your father’s gaze softened, just slightly, as he replied, his voice tinged with something almost nostalgic. “You too, Cap.” For a fleeting second, it felt like everything was right in the world. "Hey, Manchurian Candidate, you're killing me. There's a truce here." Your father’s voice broke the tension with his signature sarcasm, and you couldn’t help but scoff.

Hearing that familiar tone that always seemed to be half-joking, half-threatening. That was the real Tony Stark, you thought to yourself, the one who never missed a beat, even in the thick of it all. But it didn’t quite land. Not with Bucky standing there, tense and poised, eyes flicking to Steve for permission to lower his weapon. You felt your father’s gaze on you again, heavier this time. It was like a weight pressing down, challenging you to acknowledge it, to react, but you couldn’t afford to. His eyes burned through you, a mixture of concern, frustration, and maybe something else you weren’t ready to face. Not quite yet.

The silence hung in the air like a storm cloud, and despite yourself, your walls cracked slightly, just for a split second. But you didn't let it show. You straightened your back, keeping your expression neutral. After a long, pregnant pause, the tension in the room gnawed at you, suffocating. You had enough. Without waiting for anyone else to speak, you walked forward, your boots clicking sharply against the cold, cement floor of the abandoned facility. You held your gun firmly in hand, scanning the dark corners, the narrow hallways, every shadow that seemed to hold something dangerous just out of sight.

"Stay behind us," Your father’s voice called out, sharp and commanding, like it always was when he felt the need to protect. His words were laced with a sense of authority, but you could hear the undercurrent of something else too, his belief that you weren’t quite ready, that you weren’t quite capable. It was always the same. "You do know there's a psychopath on the loose, right?" The way he phrased it made your jaw tighten, the old sting of his overprotectiveness rising in your chest. It was like he thought you couldn’t handle it. Like you didn’t belong there.

You didn’t even stop to glance at him, but you could practically feel his eyes on your back as you continued walking. Your grip on your weapon tightened, not out of fear, but frustration. You hated the way he undermined you, even now. With each step you took, you could feel the weight of his disapproval pressing on your shoulders, but you wouldn’t let it break you. You couldn’t. “You do know," You started, your voice cold but steady, not looking back, but letting your words hit him anyway, "I was trained by one of the deadliest Red Room assassins and I can perfectly handle myself, right?"

You let the words hang in the air between you, knowing they would get to him. You let the silence follow, letting your point sit heavy in the air, hoping it would sink in once and for all. You watched him, waiting for the reaction you knew was coming, yet to your surprise, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he walked past you, his eyes scanning the room, his focus sharp. “I’ve got heat signatures,” He muttered, breaking the stillness, his voice low, tense. “How many?” Steve asked. There was a long pause, a beat too long, before he answered, “Uh, one.” A chill ran down your spine at his reply.

You exchanged a glance with Steve, then followed him cautiously into what seemed to be the facility’s main chamber. As the four of you stepped inside, the room seemed to pulse with an unsettling energy. The hum of machinery filled the air, sharp and static. The flickering lights above barely gave you a moment to prepare before they blinked on fully, casting an unnatural brightness across the room. The sight in front of you sent a jolt of horror through your chest. The room was lined with cryo-chambers, the transparent, frost-covered capsules housing the bodies of the super soldiers.

Soldiers who had been preserved, frozen in time, until now. Their faces were twisted in expressions of agony, frozen in the instant of their deaths. It wasn’t just death. It was execution. Before you could process the horror before you, the voice pierced the quiet, unsettlingly calm. “If it’s any comfort, they died in their sleep.” The words were coated with an eerie detachment, a venomous hatred. "Did you really think I wanted more of you?" Zemo’s voice continued, dripping with disdain. You felt a chill settle deeper into your bones, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

Bucky, standing next to you, muttered under his breath, his voice low but laced with disbelief. "What the hell." You could see the disbelief in his eyes, but there was no time to process the chaos. It hit harder than you expected, the sting of his words making you wonder if this was all part of his twisted plan. "I'm grateful for them though," Zemo added, his tone shifting. “They brought you here.” Slowly, almost theatrically, Zemo revealed himself, his presence calm but undeniably sinister. Your instincts kicked in, and without a second thought, you raised your weapon, aiming it directly at him. The metal of the gun felt cold against your palm, your finger hovering over the trigger.

But Steve was faster. He flung his shield with lethal precision, a blur of motion as it sliced through the air toward Zemo. Only, Zemo was smarter. He didn't flinch. He didn’t even break his cold gaze. “Please, Captain,” He mocked, watching as Steve’s shield veer off course and deflect with a metallic clang. “The Soviets built this chamber to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets.” Of course this bastard had time to think of everything. “I’m betting I can beat that.” Your father’s voice cut through the tension, fist raised in a challenge. “Oh, I’m sure you could, Mister Stark," Zemo replied, his voice smooth like velvet, but carrying a bite of mockery. "Given time, but then you’d never know why you came.”

You could feel the anger rising in your chest, anxiety skyrocketing. "You killed innocent people in Vienna," You spat, your voice razor-sharp, laced with accusation and fury. "Accused an innocent man of murder, just to bring us here." Zemo’s gaze shifted toward you, a glint of twisted amusement flickering in his cold eyes. A sadistic smile spread across his face, a smile that made your skin crawl. This was what he wanted. This was the game he’d been playing. “Ah, Miss Stark,” He purred, his voice smooth, almost mocking, “It's lovely to finally meet you. Your reputation truly precedes you.”

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sheer contempt in his words, but before you could respond, Steve immediately stepped forward. His body language was defensive. He stood just a few feet away, his broad frame blocking your view of Zemo, shielding you from his scrutinizing gaze. That subtle shift in the air, the way Zemo’s attention immediately turned to Steve, did not go unnoticed. “I’ve thought about nothing else for over a year. I studied you. I followed you. But now that you're standing here, I just realized, there’s a bit of green in the blue of your eyes.” He chuckled darkly, the humor in his voice hollow.

Yet Steve didn’t falter. He stood his ground, his eyes unblinking. “How nice to find a flaw.” For a moment, Zemo was silent, his eyes narrowed, taking in Steve’s every movement as if weighing him. Steve’s face hardened as he pressed on. “You’re Sokovian,” He denounced, piecing together the remnants of what he had come to understand about this man’s vendetta. “Is that what this is about?” Zemo’s lips curled into a thin, bitter smile, but there was no humor in it. “Sokovia was a failed state long before you blew it to hell. I’m here because I made a promise,” His words were sharp, like daggers thrown without care. “You lost someone.” You spoke once more, putting the pieces together.

Zemo’s face tightened, his eyes darkened with an almost palpable bitterness. “I lost everyone, and so will you.” Without warning, Zemo reached for a control panel nearby, his movements fluid, almost rehearsed. A moment later, a screen flickered to life. The soft hum of machinery filled the room, followed by the sudden glow of the monitor. You stepped closer to the screen, your heart racing. Something felt wrong, but you couldn’t quite place it. As your eyes moved over the image displayed before you, you heard your father’s voice quiet, almost to himself cut through the tension.

“I know that road.” His words, full of recognition, broke you out of your thoughts. Your eyes darted to his face, catching a shift in his expression. His breath hitched as he focused on the date labeled on the cassette tape: December 16, 1991. A chill ran through you. Why did that date sound so familiar? “What is this?” Your father seethed, his voice full of barely contained rage as his eyes never left the monitor. You glanced toward Zemo, whose face was locked onto your father, an almost predatory interest glinting in his gaze, as if he were watching the last piece of his game fall into place. You could feel your hands grow clammy on your gun, your pulse pounding in your ears as the image on the screen shifted, and a car came into view.

Then, it happened.

The car crashed. You barely had time to process it before a figure on a motorcycle approached the wreckage, and in that instant, everything clicked. This was the night your grandparents were murdered. “Sergeant Barnes,” You heard your grandfather’s voice on the recording, his voice filled with disbelief. You felt your heart stop in your chest as you saw him, saw Bucky no, The Winter Soldier, emerge from the shadows, his face cold and unreadable. Your breath hitched, and you couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped your lips. You could hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears, drowning out everything around you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw your father’s gaze lock with Bucky’s. But you couldn’t look away from the screen. The video zoomed in, and you watched, paralyzed, as Bucky struck your grandfather twice in the face, sending him collapsing into the wreckage of the car. The silence in the room was deafening as you struggled to breathe, the weight of the reality crashing down on you. You didn’t even realize the tears were falling until the salt stung your lips. The screen before you only grew darker, more horrific as The Winter Soldier continued his mission.

You watched in absolute horror as he staged your grandfather’s body at the steering wheel, as if to make it look like a tragic accident. Then, Bucky moved to your grandmother’s side of the car. Your eyes burned with tears as you watched his hand wrap around her neck, squeezing the life out of her with a coldness you couldn’t fathom. You could see it in his face, no emotion, just the mechanical efficiency of a soldier who had been stripped of his humanity. You could hardly breathe as you saw him let go, stepping away from her lifeless body. But it didn’t end there. Bucky then made his way around the car and, without hesitation, fired a shot at the camera, erasing all evidence of his actions.

The world felt like it was spinning, and you couldn’t quite understand what you’d just witnessed. It was like your entire life had just been shattered in front of you. You didn’t know where to put your grief, your fury, your disbelief. Before you had time to fully process what you’d just seen, your father lunged at Bucky, his rage exploding outward. “No!” You wanted to scream, but the sound barely left your throat. Steve was quicker, grabbing your father with surprising force, holding him back.

“Tony, Tony!” Steve’s voice was frantic, coaxing, trying to calm him. The chaos around you intensified, and it was as if everything froze for a split second. Your bloodshot eyes met Bucky’s, and in that moment, it was as though the room had gone silent again. The weight of the truth was unbearable, suffocating. “Did you know?” Your father’s voice cracked, breaking with something raw, something you’d never heard from him in your twenty-four years of life. He was breaking. His eyes were wide, desperate, as he looked at Steve. “I didn’t know it was him,” Steve replied, his grip on your father’s suit tight, as if trying to hold him together in that moment.

But it was too late. “Don’t bullshit me, Rogers,” Your father spat, his face twisted with grief and rage. His voice was full of a rawness that made your heart ache for him. “Did you know?” You held your breath as you watched Steve’s face, torn between truth and loyalty. Then, with a steady gaze, Steve said the one word that shattered everything: “Yes.” For a long moment, you didn’t know what to do. You could feel your whole world crumbling around you. And then, you saw it, your father’s face harden. His gaze darkened with fury, the weight of everything crashing down on him.

Without warning, with a force you didn’t even know he had, your father’s fist shot out, metallic palm connecting with Steve’s face in a brutal backhand. “Dad!” You screamed, but it was too late. Steve went down hard, hitting the pavement with a sickening thud. The sound of nanotechnology whirring to life reached your ears before you had time to react. You stepped forward, panic flooding your veins, knowing what was about to happen if you didn’t intervene. “Dad, listen to me!” You shouted, desperate, heart racing. “He was brainwashed by HYDRA, it wasn’t him! He had no control over his actions, you can’t blame him for what happened!” You stood between your father and Bucky.

But your father’s eyes were wild, filled with the kind of rage you’d never seen before. His voice was broken but fierce. “He still killed my mom.” In an instant, you were shoved aside, your body crashing to the ground with the force of your father’s fury. You barely had time to register the pain as your wrist hit the pavement. You gasped, a sharp ache spreading through your arm as you struggled to regain your footing. Your father was blinded by rage. And you were standing in his way. You watched in horror, your breath catching in your throat, as your father, a man you’d always known as controlled and calculating, moved with terrifying speed and ferocity.

He immediately headed towards Bucky, his movements fluid and deadly. With a brutal efficiency that sent a shiver down your spine, he disarmed Bucky, the clatter of metal echoing through the fractured space. He then stepped on Bucky’s metal arm, before aiming one of his Repulsors directly at his face, the glowing aperture a stark, menacing eye. Only then did Steve, battered and bruised, manage to rise, intercepting the blast with a powerful, desperate throw of his shield, the impact resonating with a metallic clang. Seeing your father momentarily distracted, Bucky, his eyes flashing with a desperate determination, lunged forward, attempting to knock your father off balance.

The attempt was futile, a desperate gamble against a force driven by pure, unadulterated vengeance. Once again, your father, his movements precise and relentless, aimed one of his Repulsors at Bucky, the blue energy pulsing ominously. But the super soldier, his instincts honed by decades of combat, used his metal arm as a makeshift shield, the powerful limb absorbing the blast and then, with a brutal twist, shattering the repulsor emitter. You should have known your father would be prepared for such a contingency. He immediately transitioned, his movements seamless and deadly, attempting to launch a short-range missile at Bucky.

But Bucky, his senses sharpened by the adrenaline and the threat of imminent death, anticipated the move. With a swift, twist of his metal arm, he redirected the missile, sending it hurtling towards what appeared to be the facility's generators. You held your breath, your heart pounding against your ribs, watching in slow-motion as a catastrophic chain reaction erupted. A plume of smoke and fire billowed from the damaged chamber, the air thick with the acrid smell of burning metal and ozone. Debris rained down, and one of the support pillars, weakened by the explosion, began to tilt, heading straight towards you.

You froze, your muscles locked in a paralysis of fear, your eyes widening in terror. You closed them, bracing for the inevitable impact. Only before the pillar could crush you, Bucky managed to break free from your father's relentless attacks. He lunged forward, his movements a blur of desperate speed, pulling you away from the collapsing structure. “Go, I’m okay,” You reassured him, your voice trembling, but firm. Only instead of heeding your words, his eyes remained glued to your face, his gaze searching, almost desperate. "Bucky," You called his name softly, your voice barely a whisper, snapping him out of his reverie.

"He's not going to stop, go!" You needed him to focus on survival, not on you. You watched as he gave you one last, lingering look, a silent promise etched in his eyes, before sprinting towards the opposite end of the chamber, where Steve and your father were locked in a brutal, desperate struggle. The sound of their grunts and the clash of fists, echoed in the vast, dimly lit room. Time seemed to slow, each movement of their bodies, each swing of their arms, a blur of chaos. You wanted to move, to help, but your body betrayed you. The agonizing throb in your injured arm was a constant, cruel reminder of your limitations. You could do nothing about the fight.

You knew that. Your best bet was to get out of there was to reach the jet. That was your only hope in case the situation spiraled further out of control. With every step you took, the pain in your arm felt like a fire, consuming you from the inside out, but you couldn’t afford to stop. You gritted your teeth, forcing your legs to carry you, each stumble a testament to your desperation. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of limping, you reached the darkened corridor. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of dust and burning debris. And then, just as you thought you might catch your breath, a loud, deafening crash echoed through the chamber, and more debris fell from above.

The ground shook beneath you, sending vibrations up your spine, and you had to brace yourself against the wall to avoid being knocked over. That was your first mistake. You’d let your guard down. For just a fraction of a second, you’d been so fixated on the fight in front of you, that you didn’t sense the presence creeping up behind you. You didn’t hear the footsteps, the faint shuffle of movement in the shadows, until it was too late. Before you could even react, a strong hand shot out, gripping your arm with a vice-like hold. You barely had time to gasp before you were yanked back, your body crashing into the cold, unforgiving stone of the wall as you were pulled deeper into the darkness of the corridor.

The air grew colder here, the shadows longer, and for a moment, you couldn't see a thing. "Innocent?" The voice, sharp and unmistakable, hissed in your ear. Zemo. "After what you saw, do you still think that monster is innocent?" You swallowed hard, fear crawling up your throat. Your pulse quickened, but your mind raced, searching for something, anything to use against him. But all you could feel was the pounding in your head and the throbbing ache in your arm. You reached for your gun, but the world was spinning. Everything felt blurry, disorienting. The metallic taste of blood was in your mouth, and your body screamed at you to give in. Your fingers brushed the handle of your gun, but before you could even draw it, Zemo's hand was there, quicker than you could react.

With a brutal twist, he wrenched your gun from its holster, his grip unforgiving as he shoved you further into the shadows. "You don't have to do this." Zemo’s laugh was cold, cruel. "Oh, but I do," He shoved the barrel of your gun into your side digging into your injury. "I made a promise. And I intend to keep it." His words were final, spoken with a venomous certainty that made your heart lurch. And then, before you could do anything more, before you could beg or reason or fight back, there was a sudden, searing pain in the back of your head. The world tilted, spun wildly, and everything around you went dark.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[gigiszn]

A NORMAL TUESDAY — gwinam x fem!reader.

 ۫ ꣑ৎ ｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄! don't get pissy if this is too much for u, this is a smut and youve been warned. please let me know if you want more stuff like this tho! i actually enjoyed stepping out of my comfort zone with this one, since i've never really written smut before. don't shame me for my first time writing lol

tw: language, abuse, smut (+18) mdni, sub!reader, dom!gwinam, choking, degradation, breeding, spanking, carving into skin, p in v, dacryphilia, fingering.

wc: 2.2k

 ۫ ꣑ৎ ｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Jieun’s tendency to stay to herself had always been both a refuge and a burden. Tonight felt like any other—routine, familiar. She returned home, took a shower, and possibly sobbed for minutes, hours—Who wouldn't after the constant terrorization? Then again, who would have guessed that tonight would be different?

Her father, as usual, waved her off with a dismissive hand, demanding her to run to the local store for groceries and beer. With a quiet sigh, Jieun left the house, her steps heavy with frustration. The night air was colder than she expected, but eventually, her pace slowed into something more habitual, like she was walking to escape her thoughts.

The streets were unnervingly quiet, the usual hum of the city absent. It was just another Tuesday evening, most people tucked away at home, spending time with their families. Jieun walked past the dim, neon-lit storefronts, their harsh glow flickering in the shadows of the empty street.

She turned into a familiar alley—a shortcut she had taken countless times before. It wasn’t the most well-lit route, but she knew it like the back of her hand. Even at this hour, it was no different than any other night.

Then came the voice.

"You're never going to get it right, are you?" The words pierced the silence, unexpected and sharp. Jieun froze, her pulse quickening as she turned toward it. The tension in the air thickened, but she hesitated, unsure whether to leave or investigate.

"I swear, you keep your grades up, and I'll kill you for good," the voice continued. There was frustration in it, but no immediate anger, just disappointment—a feeling Jieun was all too familiar with.

Her curiosity gnawed at her. She should have walked away, gotten the groceries, and gone home. But something kept her rooted in place, as if some invisible force was pulling her deeper into the alley.

When she finally dared to peek around the corner, the scene before her was strangely surreal. A man, his posture slouched from his clear state of drunkenness, was standing before a boy she recognized all too well—Gwinam.

She hadn’t expected to find him here. His head was bowed, eyes fixed on the ground, his body language closed off. There was something so painfully familiar about his stance, the same way she had often stood in front of that very same boy, shoulders weighed down by the weight of his words. The similarity was striking, almost eerie. It was as if Gwinam, too, was carrying a weight he hadn’t asked for.

Jieun felt her heart tighten. She had seen this look before—the kind of resigned sadness that came when you felt like you weren’t ever going to meet anyone's expectations. The kind of sadness that settled in your chest and never quite let you breathe right.

She almost felt guilty. Almost. But, her mind's screaming finally got her attention. Jieun furrowed her brow to herself. What the hell was she thinking?

Pity? For the same boy who'd thrown her against dozens of walls, gripping her neck so tightly he'd left deep bruises? It all replayed in her mind as her senses began to work properly.

His father had left with a final shove, Gwinam's back hitting the hard brick surface behind him. Jieun took this as her cue to leave, spinning on her heel and taking careful strides away.

Clank!

Of course.

Instantly, she froze. Her body was as stiff as a board, foot frozen mid-air as her ears strained. They waited to hear a reaction, a sound, anything. The silence was deafening, and though she should've been happy, the eeriness crept up her spine like a black widow.

A sudden force knocked her down, hard. With a groan, she stood up slowly and rubbed the back of her skull, squinting her eyes.

There he stood, tall and undermining. His height towered over her frame, her eyes fearing and aghast. His slender hand reached up, though it held no remorse.

"Always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, huh?" He muttered as he pushed her against the alley wall, a growing pain echoing on the back of her head.

His free hand reached up, pressing harshly on the back of her skull, a whine emitting from Jieun's throat. He smirked, pulling back his two fingers, now covered in her crimson blood.

"Look what you made me do," he spat, his grip tightening around her neck like a noose, each word dripping with venom. Jieun's frantic attempts to kick and slap felt laughable; her body was a marionette caught in a twisted game.

With a brutal shove, he tossed her against the unforgiving wall, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. The world around them blurred into chaos as her mind raced; freedom was a distant dream now. "Please, Gwinam. I-I swear I didn’t see anything! Just let me go!" Jieun's voice wavered, desperation lacing her plea.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, glistening like diamonds in the harsh light of the streetlamp. He let out a low growl, his head tilting back as he closed the distance between them, an aura of menace radiating from him. Her desperate gaze met his, eyes wide and pleading, but beneath the surface, they held a flicker of arousal; through all her defiance and struggle, she couldn't deny the wetness pooling in her underwear. Jieun had to force her thighs not to clench, the evil smirk on his face hazing her senses even more. His hands reached upward, ruthlessly groping her breasts. He ripped her shirt open, a primal urge flaring in his core at the sight of her breasts bouncing out of her dangerously tight top.

She wanted to fight him, truly. But something inside of her felt so desperate for the attention she'd finally been receiving that it held back her sensibility.

"Girls that misbehave deserve punishment, right, Mouse?" He asked, the cruel teasing tone lingering in the air. Her head shook, hands trembling at the undeniable fear and horniness shooting through her mind and straight down to her throbbing cunt.

"Open." He demanded, raising his index and middle finger upward, covered in her blood. Jieun's hesitation brought a sense of fury in him, gripping her jaw and forcing it open. She gagged as his fingers reached the back of her throat, her own taste of metallic blood pouring down.

His fingers were coated in her saliva, creating a bridge between them. Aggresively, Gwinam pulled her skirt up, manhandling her. She attempted to close her legs, though this only angered the rage-fueled boy further.

He finally managed to get her legs open, using his knee to keep them apart. A whine left Jieun's throat at the sudden pressure between her legs. "You're such a fucking whore," He spat, "Don't act like you don't want this when I can feel your drenched panties."

Roughly shoving her underwear to the side, his eyes rolled to the back of his head as he felt her slick coating his already dampened fingers. His left hand now gripping her hair, yanking her head backwards as he began thrusting his fingers upward.

She felt as though she was at her peak already. His fingers scissored repeatedly in her tight pussy, throbbing around his long fingers. Gwinam's fingertips reached her mushy clump of cells, Jieun's eyes widening. Her mouth parted, but no sound dared to come out at the hold he had on her neck. She was so close, just there. And as her eyes shut and thighs clenched, he pulled out just as quick as her climax brinked.

Her eyes shot open as he roughly pressed his lips to hers without giving her a second to think. There was nothing romantic about their kiss. It was purely a way to shut her up and take his frustrations out on something other than the poorly-rehearsed porn he'd been watching.

Their mouths parted with a bridge of saliva between them. Gwinam reached into his pocket, Jieun's senses immediately rushing back to her as the shiny blade was slowly pulled from his pocket. She began to struggle again, but stopped just as quick as he placed the blade ever so closely to her neck.

Her neck was strained, eyes half-open as she tried desperately to pull herself away from the sharp knife. "You scream and I'll cut you apart like the worthless plaything you are." His lips were on her ear, voice barely above a whisper as his hot breath fanned against her.

He brought the knife down, giving Jieun a small sense of relief. Suddenly, her eyes widened as an aching sting formed on her thigh. A choked sob escaped her lips, her hand immediately shooting upwards.

She knew better than to scream after his threat. Gwinam was a lot of things, but he was never one to back down on his word.

Her eyes were filled with tears, a drop landing on the 'G' he was now carving into her leg, blood dripping with the salty-water.

"Take that as a warning," Gwinam smirked, gripping her jaw with one hand. "Each time you scream I'll add another letter to that pretty little thigh of yours."

He began roughly unbuckling his belt, finally pulling his pants and boxers down low enough for his cock to hang free from it's restraints. He lifted her wounded thigh upwards, the burn causing her to hiss.

She felt him rub his tip around her wetness, every touch heightened. She could feel every twitch, every vein, and could hear every soft huff he let out. Finally, he pushed his hips upwards, Jieun's hands finding their way to his shoulders.

Every sane part of her screamed at her to scream, but the rest of her couldn't give her a valid reaction as it was too busy being fucked away.

Their pants and groans were the only things heard in the quiet night, any passerbyers surely able to deduct the unholy actions taking place 10 feet away.

His tip was deep enough inside her she could practically feel it in her stomach. Gwinam groaned as her tight clit throbbed around him, his head resting against the wall behind her.

The taller boy quickly spun her around, shoving her face harshly against the jagged brick. His hand pinned hers behind her back, pulling her ass up in the air. He slid in easily once more, never giving her a chance to adjust as he resumed his ungodly pace and abuse against her aching hole.

Smack!

Jieun let out a sharp gasp and a scream as his hand landed an aggressive hit to her ass. A pink handprint now engraved into the plush surface, Gwinam's movements abruptly stopped.

Her breath hitched in her throat, realizing what she had just done.

"No, no. P-Please," She begged as he spun her around, "I-I'm sorry. I'll be good, I swear." His mouth opened in a groan at her cries, his lips curling into a wider smile than she'd ever seen.

He was getting off on her suffering, and her pleas of mercy only made him closer to cumming all over her clothes.

The blade shimmered as the cool metal dragged around her thigh teasingly. He violently yanked her pale leg upward, pressing the knife into her skin and carving a 'W'.

"We could keep going until I carve my entire name, or you could be a good slut and take my dick," He demanded, lips brushing against hers, "Got it, mouse?" Her eyes squeezed shut, lip trembling as she quickly nodded her head.

Gwinam turned her around once more, gripping her abused cheeks and burying himself in her. His hips were flush against hers, the wet noises and slaps echoing across the acoustic alleyway. The fresh wound dripped blood with every fast thrust, right leg now coated with the ruby liquid.

He continued slapping her ass, adding to the arousal she deeply wanted to rid of. Their parts seemed to mold into each other, the sounds a cacophony of every frustration and desire he wanted to take out on her pretty little body since the day he met her.

"I'm not gonna last—f-fuck." He groaned, hips stuttering as his pounding became sloppier, rhythm breaking. Her forehead was pressed against the wall, mouth open as droplets of drool dripped onto the cement underneath.

"I'm gonna cum inside you, and you're gonna walk around with me inside you all week." He ordered, her fists balling as she bent over and took his relentless thrusts.

He bent over on top of her, his chest pressed to her back. He reached his hand underneath her, rubbing harsh circles around her clit. Her eyes became saucer-like as a broken moan sounded in the air, her orgasm shooting through her and around his dick.

His release followed soon after as he rode them through their climaxes. Gwinam's hips slowly stopped their motions, his now soft dick pulling out of her.

Wordlessly, he pulled his pants back up as Jieun slid to the floor, legs wide open as his cum shamelessly spilled out of her. He smirked at the sight, spitting at the floor next to her and walking off, sure to ruthlessly shame her for it the next day.

So much for a normal Tuesday.

[wandering-pirate]

Headcannon: controlling jimmy like your evil little dog. Is he lowkey a psychopath? Yes. Will he do literally anything for you? Also yes

a/n: To the lovely anon who sent this, mwah, chef's kiss🤌🏻 you’ve unleashed something unholy. be warned tho, this entire thing? no thoughts, no logic, just pure, unfiltered degeneracy for our co-pilot (sometimes you just gotta let the intrusive thoughts write the headcanon, y’know?)

So enjoy the ride—you sicko. (cause girl, same.)

Jimmy x Reader

Jimmy Zane is one peculiar man, and somehow, he became your boyfriend. How'd that happen? You better blame your slasher-film obsession as a kid.

Your Human Guard Dog

The man acts like you're gonna get snatched from him 24/7. Imagine being in public with him. Scaring some, unnerving many.

Some guy accidentally brushes past you, and Jimmy’s already stepping up with a cold smirk

“Apologize. Or don't. Been looking for an excuse today.”

You have to grab and drag him away (not helping that the man's built like log) before he ruins a face for the second time this month. “Baby, please, we’re here for snacks.”

But the moment you give him a subtle signal, tho? Oh, it's game over.

Some creep starts chatting you up with a repulsive smile, and Jimmy doesn’t even raise his voice when he appears behind you. Just leans in, looking them dead in the eye:

“You wanna keep those teeth or should I start counting them out.”

You casually mentioned being annoyed at your co-worker for being too yappy and Jimmy?

Yeah, already halfway out the door

“Say no more, princess.”

Physically stopping him was impossible and you wagered with the pervert, all night letting off his steam through you

Your Unhinged Yes-Man

After the restaurant's reception was rude on your friends' night out. You texted him

“Ugh, I’d love to see this place burn to the ground.”

No replies from him, but 5 minutes later, you nearly drenched your friends with the wine you're drinking when you saw him outside, holding a can of gasoline

One time, you complained about someone’s annoying laugh. Jimmy didn’t say anything, just calmly glanced your way with that familiar glint in his eyes.

“Don’t even think about it,”

“What? I didn’t say anything, love.”

Later that night, he casually asked

“How much do you hate that laugh? Want me to rip their throat out? No more ha-ha’s ever again.”

“STOP TRYING TO SOLVE EVERYTHING WITH VIOLENCE!”

The man's pride was more hurt than his face when the pillow landed, you paid for it tho ;)

Your Deranged Liaison

Want something without spending a dime? You can get it by the magic effect of compliments!

"Oh, I love your jacket!" Boom, appeared in your closet the next day, suspiciously smelling like someone else’s perfume

"That scarf’s so cute!" Already folded on your pillow the week after, and you’re 90% sure you saw a TikTok about it missing

“Jimmy, why is there a name tag stitched into this shirt?”

“Souvenirs are better with backstories.”

"Is-- is this blood?"

You finally confront Jimmy: “Isn’t this… someone else’s?”

He just shrugs, smiling sweetly (unnervingly wide) “Not anymore.”

[shizuturnspages]

concept: yandere genshin chars with reader that travels worlds (kinda similar to traveler in a way??) they end up in teyvat since their goal is to see everything that different worlds have to offer, and they end up making friends n stuff, but once the journey's over and they're content, they're ready to move onto the next world. like, due to being super long-lived and traveling from one place to another, they don't really get attached to ppl so it's easy for them to quickly move on? i'm a huge kaveh fan so maybe this concept with yandere kaveh, and if i can ask for a few more, wanderer and diluc??

btw, i've sent in a few requests before and i really wanted to say that i love the way you write all of this!! esp. how wanderer is written, i love the small ball of abandonment issues sm

The World Ends With You

Synopsis: You are a traveler—not just across lands, but across worlds. Teyvat is merely another stop in your journey, another world to explore and appreciate before leaving it behind. Friendships are made, bonds are formed, but none of them are meant to last. It’s time to move on. But some people don’t understand. Some people refuse to let you go. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Kaveh, Wanderer, Diluc x Traveller Reader

Kaveh – A Home That Waits for You

Kaveh was never meant to be permanent in your life, nor you in his. You were merely passing through Sumeru, delighting in the architecture, the artistry, the people. He, with his passionate speeches and expressive hands that sketched his dreams into reality, was a fascinating person to befriend. You admired his work, listened to his woes, laughed at his dramatic exasperation, and somehow—somewhere along the way—you became a fixture in his world.

He should’ve known it was too good to last.

When you told him of your departure, the words did not register at first. He blinked at you, his lips parting slightly as if you’d just uttered something incomprehensible. “You’re leaving?” he echoed, a nervous chuckle escaping. “What, taking a trip somewhere? You know, I can help you plan—”

And then you explained. That Teyvat had been beautiful, wonderful even, but it was time to move on. That your journey wasn’t meant to stop here, that there were countless other worlds to see. That this wasn’t goodbye forever, but a farewell nonetheless.

The light in his eyes dimmed. His fingers twitched at his sides, and his expression froze into something unnervingly blank. “I see,” he murmured. He didn’t argue. He didn’t plead. He simply smiled, but it was strained, forced, something fragile trying desperately not to shatter.

He let you believe that everything was fine. That he accepted it. That he understood.

Until the day of your departure came… and your body refused to move.

The ceiling above you was familiar yet unfamiliar—your room, but not quite right. Your limbs were sluggish, your mind foggy, and as you tried to sit up, a pair of arms gently pushed you back down. Kaveh’s red eyes hovered over you, warm and concerned, yet something lurked beneath their soft glow. Something dark.

“You collapsed,” he said, voice soothing. “You must’ve been overexerting yourself. Honestly, you should be more careful.”

Your tongue felt heavy, the words muddled as you tried to protest. But Kaveh only smiled, brushing your hair back with featherlight fingers.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “Just rest. You don’t have to go anywhere. Not when you have a home here. Not when I’m here.”

And as drowsiness swallowed you whole, his grip tightened.

Wanderer – The One Who Stays

You should have realized how foolish it was to befriend someone like him—someone who had been left behind too many times, someone who clung to anger because it was the only thing that made the emptiness bearable. But you had wanted to believe in him. You had wanted to show him that there was more to the world than the pain of abandonment.

Perhaps, in a cruel twist of irony, you had become his greatest suffering.

When you told him you were leaving, he laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

“Oh, that’s funny. That’s real funny.” He crossed his arms, tilting his head as if you’d just told him the most absurd joke. “So, what, after everything, you’re just going to leave?” His voice was sharp, mocking, but underneath it was something raw. “Figures. That’s what people do, isn’t it?”

You tried to explain, to tell him it wasn’t personal, that this was just how your life worked. That you were meant to keep moving forward. That staying was never an option.

But that only made it worse.

So he was never special? He was just another fleeting stop on your endless journey? The realization made something bitter rise in his throat, made his fingers twitch with the urge to lash out, to break something—anything—that would make you understand what you’ve done to him.

Wanderer’s expression darkened, and before you could react, the wind itself turned against you. The world blurred, weightlessness overtaking you as your body was lifted from the ground. A gasp barely left your lips before you were slammed back down, pinned in place by an unseen force. His violet eyes gleamed, cold and unyielding, as he loomed over you.

“No,” he said simply.

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a request. It was a command, absolute and final.

“People leave me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, yet no less dangerous. “They always leave. But you won’t.” His fingers curled around your wrist, his grip tight, unrelenting. “I won’t let you.”

And he meant it. You won’t. Whether it’s by force, manipulation, or something far worse, he will make sure of it.

He was done being abandoned.

Diluc – A Cage of Protection

Diluc had never been good at letting go.

Losing his father had taught him that. Losing everything he had built for himself had reinforced it. And now, standing before you, hearing you speak of leaving as if it were the easiest thing in the world—he felt that same, familiar terror clawing its way into his chest.

“No,” he said, the word escaping before he could stop it.

You gave him a sad smile. “Diluc—”

“I said no.” His voice was firm, brooking no argument. His gloved hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You’re not leaving.”

You sighed, patient but unwavering. “I have to. This is just who I am. I can’t stay in one place forever.”

But those words only solidified the dread in his heart. Because if you left now, you would never return. And Diluc—Diluc could not bear to lose someone again.

The decision was made before you could even realize it.

The manor was large, secluded, and now, inescapable. The room he prepared for you was comfortable, filled with everything you could possibly need. The windows were reinforced, the doors locked from the outside.

He visited you often, always carrying warmth in his touch, always gentle even as you screamed at him, even as you begged.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured, brushing your tears away with a gloved hand. “I can’t let you go. I won’t.”

Because if you left, it would destroy him.

And he would not allow that to happen.

Not again.

Never again.

[yan-lorkai]

Hello can i request yandere alucard from Hellsing with a darling that is turkic/comes from turkey? Since alucard has bad pasts with the ottomen and i am kind of curious on how he will react when he finds out or hears his darling speaking turkic with a family/friend? would some words kind of trigger him? (I am kind of curios and im totally not requesting it because im from turkey/j 😗)

Please take you're time and remember to take of yourself ^_^

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ a/n: darling, be prepared to read the best fic of your life /j. No but really, I loved that request, it got my creativity juice flowing like a waterfall. This and my bestie is turkish, so I could pester him to tell me all sorts of things about Turkey :D

He adores his darling, of course — his obsession runs deeper than any grudge or lingering pain from his past. But when he first hears the familiar rhythm of Turkic words slipping from their lips, something in him stills.

He doesn’t say anything at first, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly as the sound of the language washes over him. Memories he thought buried claw their way to the surface: bloodied battlefields, a life of humiliation under the Ottomans, and the echo of commands in a language not unlike the one you now speak so casually. It’s a language he’s long associated with chains, suffering, and vengeance, and hearing it from you — you, his precious darling — sends a jolt through him.

Alucard doesn’t lash out. He’s far too composed for that, far too invested in you to let his rage take over. Instead, he watches. His grin remains in place, sharp and predatory, but his silence stretches uncomfortably long. You notice his change in demeanor, the way his usual dark humor seems to vanish, replaced by an intensity that makes the air feel heavier.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft but carries an edge. "Where did you learn that tongue, darling?" he asks, his crimson gaze locking onto yours. There’s no anger in his tone, only curiosity laced with something darker, something unspoken.

If you explain your heritage or your connection to the language, Alucard’s reaction is subtle but telling. His grin widens, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Ah, how fascinating," he drawls, leaning closer as if to study you. "The irony of fate, wouldn’t you agree? That someone like you would capture someone like me."

Though he continues to smile, there’s an unshakable tension in his presence whenever you speak Turkic. Certain words, the ones that remind him of commands he once obeyed or insults hurled at him, seem to trigger flickers of old rage. But he never directs that anger at you. Instead, it manifests in possessiveness, as if to prove to himself that you belong to him, not to the past that still haunts him.

If he ever hears you speaking Turkic with family or friends, his reaction is unpredictable. He might stand silently in the background, his grin unnervingly sharp, listening to every word. Later, he’ll question you, not out of distrust, but out of a need to reclaim control. "What were you discussing, my love? Should I be concerned? You wouldn’t keep secrets from me, would you?"

Over time, his obsession takes on a new layer. He starts speaking that language — not because he wants to, but because he refuses to let any part of you be a mystery to him. His accent sharp and deliberate, his words carrying a weight that makes your chest tighten. "I wonder," he says one day, his voice low and dangerous, "if they spoke to you in this tongue the way they once spoke to me. Tell me, darling, how does it feel to hear it from my lips instead?"

Though the language stirs his deepest wounds, his love for you twists that pain into something much more possessive and obsessive. You become his anchor, his way of reclaiming a part of himself he thought lost to the past. But make no mistake — he’ll never let you forget just how tightly his grip on you has become.

"You’re mine," he whispers one night, his crimson eyes burning as his lips brush against your ear. "Even if the ghosts of my past linger in your words, you’ll never escape me. Not now. Not ever."

[apteryxparvus]

where the dragon sleeps

Pairing — Neuvillette / Female Reader

Word count — 2,973

Content warning — none

Summary — In a crumbling Fontaine, a former Treasure Hoarder stumbles upon a hidden lake and awakens a sleeping dragon.

Part I • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V • Part VI • Part VII

Part I

The thin branches claw at your skin as you sprint through the uneven forest terrain, ripping at your clothes and leaving shallow scratches that join the deeper, bloodier wounds already marring your body. The forest is unnervingly silent; the only sounds accompanying you are the crunch of the brittle twigs and the frantic rhythm of your breath.

You’re more than certain you’ve lost them—your pursuers, the ones you once called friends, companions-in-arms even. But fear keeps a vice grip on you, driving your legs forward. Every shadow feels like it’s reaching for you; every rustle feels like their imminent return.

The trees loom overhead, their crowns intertwining, forming a dense canopy that blocks most of the pale moonlight, save for a few slender beams of light that streak through the gaps.

Each breath burns your lungs. Every step feels heavier than the last, your muscles screaming in protest.

You lose track of time—perhaps, you’ve been running for mere minutes, or maybe hours have bled into days. You don’t know, at this point; your legs move on instinct. When you finally break through the dense foliage, you stumble upon a vast expanse of water.

A lake stretches out before you—an enormous void of blackness. Its surface is eerily silent, broken only by the faint ripples of short waves lapping at the shore. It’s like an abyss, reflecting the scattered constellations of the night sky. The stars, themselves, seem impossibly close, as though you can reach out to them and grasp them in your hands.

Your legs give out, and you collapse on your knees by the water’s edge. You tilt your head, letting your gaze wander to the sky above. Above you, ribbons of color ripple—soft greens and vivid pinks, weaving and shimmering like they’re alive. The aurora’s reflection dances on the lake, twisting and swirling with every faint ripple of the water.

Your breath shifts as you notice a constellation—one brighter and more vivid than any you’ve ever seen before. As your group’s navigator and ancient language translator, you’ve studied the stars for years, honing your craft to perfection. 

But this constellation is unfamiliar —its pattern forms an elegant shape of something coiled and resting, as if lost in a peaceful slumber.

This unknown constellation shouldn’t exist. It couldn’t exist. But there it is, twinkling faintly, almost like it’s in sync with the rhythm of the waves.

Bewildered, your hands fumble for the hidden pocket in your tattered rucksack. You pull out a crumpled map. With trembling fingers, you unfold it, the paper crackling softly as you smooth out the edges.

The star chart, once pristine and vibrant, is now faded—the ink has dulled, the corners are frayed, curling inwards. The map depicts the sky crowded with familiar constellations, each represented by faded illustrations. You trace your fingers over the well-known patterns, clusters of stars that have guided you through countless perilous terrains.

There’s Nereides, drawn in soft blue shades—a nymph-like creature with delicate wings that seem to flutter even on the page. Next to it is Cerberus, a lone wolf’s head with piercing dark eyes and a spiked collar etched tightly around its neck.

But now, at the very heart of the celestial map, something new has appeared—something that wasn’t there before. 

You’re sure of it—you had spent days pouring over every little detail of the chart after your group leader had won it in a barter. You had tried to decipher the text scrawled along the edges, but the symbols seemed to belong to a long-forgotten, dead language. Despite your inability, your leader has persistently urged you to decipher the text, fervently convinced the map would lead to you an otherworldly treasure.

And now, in the center lies an image of a slumbering dragon, its body curled inwards in a protective coil. Its tail loops around its lower limbs, and its head is tucked low, framed by elegantly curved horns.

You glance up at the sky, then back down at the chart, heart racing. The stars are unmistakably the same ones you see above you, glowing softly against the abyssal canvas of the night sky.

Fighting to stay awake, you carefully fold the map. You tuck it back into the hidden pocket of your backpack, careful not to crumple it further.

A flicker of unease sparks within your chest. Perhaps this is why so many bandit groups had been desperate to claim the celestial map.

You’re too drained to dwell anymore on the thought of the map’s origins. Shaking your head, you push yourself off the cold ground and move towards a nearby tree. The bark is rough against your back as you curl into yourself.

The rhythmic sound of the waves fills the silence—it’s soothing, like a lullaby from a distant memory. Your eyelids grow heavier with each passing second, and before you know it, exhaustion has taken over you. You fall into a deep slumber.

When you open your eyes, the lake and your makeshift camp are gone. You’re standing in the center of an opulent ballroom, its grandeur almost suffocating. The air is heavy with an eerie stillness, and the golden chandelier above glistens with an unnatural brilliance, its countless crystals refracting the faint light into a kaleidoscope of fractured rainbows across the polished floor. Towering golden organs line the wall, pipes gleaming with an otherworldly glow.

Your gaze shifts to the massive paper-like screen behind them.

The mural sprawled across the screen is mesmerizing and foreboding. In the center of the mural, a single droplet falls into a dark, endless rising tide. Above it, a gleaming circular symbol watches, as though it could see into the depths of your soul. Below it all, a single flower struggles to bloom beneath the weight of the waves, its fragile stem bending. Surrounding it are scattered petals and withered blossoms, their lifeless forms drifting aimlessly in the current.

You take a step closer to the mural, unable to tear your gaze away from the haunting image before you. Standing next to it, you feel suffocated, its presence pressing down on you like an invisible tide. Your fingers trail over the painted flower, brushing against the parchment. As if responding to the touch, the flower begins to pulse faintly, as if breathing.

Your look upwards, gaze drawn to the looming, watchful eye above. Its gaze is piercing, heavy with hate and remorse, and an unfamiliar sorrow wells up in your chest—the emotion feels foreign, yet intimate, a betrayal so deep it knots your stomach. Yet, you cannot place its source.

You stumble back, heart pounding. You take in the room around you—seaweed and coral have taken root, sprouting from the stone floor and the cracks of the gilded walls.

At first, you’re baffled—how can ocean life thrive in a space like this? But the answer creeps up on you slowly, as you start to notice how blurred your vision is, how light your body feels.

You are submerged.

And yet, despite it all, you can breathe—you have been doing so for the past minutes without any difficulty. Fear bubbles beneath your skin. You are trapped in this submerged, decaying ballroom; the weight of the water should be crushing you, but it isn’t.

You try to remember who you are and how you got here, but the answers slip away. You search for something—anything—that can ground you, but your thoughts come up blank, an empty void where your memories should be. It’s as if the act of realizing you’re submerged deep within has erased your own ego, leaving a faint outline of a name, one that feels like it might also dissolve any moment.

“Who am I,” you whisper, walking back to the mural, staring into the intimidating, all-seeing eye. Your voice trembles. The question stays unanswered, and your shoulders sag.

Hesitantly, you press your hand to the mural again. As if in response, a torrent of visions floods your mind.

You see water nymphs—Oceanids, creatures of long-forgotten myths—glide effortlessly across vast expanses of crystalline waters. Their forms shimmer under the moonlight, while their laughter rings lightly.

Then the vision shifts. A pristine lake stretches before you, glowing under a sky of bioluminescent fireflies. People dance around its edges, faces filled with joy. In the center of the lake stands a majestic willow tree, its gilded branches reaching upwards as though touching the sky. The scene radiates an almost too perfect harmony.

But that peace shatters. Another vision overtakes you—dark purple tendrils erupt from the ground, creeping and crawling around. They latch onto every lifeform they can reach, draining their lifeforce until what remains is withered and lifeless, crumbling into ash. Deafening beastly roars split the sky, shaking the ground. Rain begins to fall, and soon, the once-pristine waters turn murky. The golden willow collapses, swallowed by the depths, the violent tendrils wrapping around its withering form.

You choke back a scream as the vision abruptly vanishes, leaving you feeling disoriented and clutching your head in pain.

The sunlight filters through the trees, bright enough to hit your closed eyelids and rouse you from your slumber. Groaning, you shift on the uneven ground, limbs stiff, making you wince. You stretch your aching body, and your hand moves to check your injuries, fingers pressing against the makeshift bandages you had hastily tied while being pursued. To your relief, they’re still in place, though stained with dried blood and frayed at the edges.

You don’t remember what you dreamed of—if anything at all. Perhaps it was a fitful, dreamless sleep. Yet there’s evidence of a nightmare you cannot recall—the streaks of dried tears on your cheeks and the deep pang of sorrow lodged in your chest.

Blinking against the light, you sit up, feeling groggy and sore. Your gaze shifts towards the lake—and you freeze. For a moment you wonder if you’re not actually awake, but dreaming in this moment.

The lake glistens under the morning rays, its surface smooth and crystalline-clear. You stumble to your feet and take a small, hesitant step towards the water.

As you approach the edge, you start to see details that make the scene even more surreal. The water is so clear that you can make out the colored pebbles and seashells scattered along the edges. The soft waves continue to lap gently at the shore.

Your hand hovers over the surface, trembling.

Clean bodies of water shouldn’t exist. Not here; not in Fontaine, where pollution has claimed every lake, river and spring.

Cautiously, you dip your hand in the water. The cool sensation spreads across your fingers, and for several moments, you feel nothing. But then, you notice something strange.

Your scrapes—the faint lines marring your knuckles—begin to mend themselves. The skin knits back together, smooth as ever, as if the injuries never existed to begin with. You pull your hand back, staring in disbelief at the unblemished skin.

You reach into the water again, dipping your other hand, this time watching closely. The bruises along your wrist start to fade. Taking out your hand, you flex your fingers, running a thumb over the now-perfect skin.

Glancing at the lake again, you feel your heart racing. Something compels you to do more than touch the surface. You hesitate briefly before pulling off your boots and stepping into the shallow water. It embraces you, and a shiver runs down your spine—not from the cold, but from an odd sense of being… welcomed.

You take another step, and then another, until the water rises to your knees. It’s almost as if the lake itself is calling out to you, urging you to continue deeper.

As you wade deeper into the lake, you feel the soreness in your muscles fade and dissolve with each step. The waves lap gently against your body, pulling you further in with every step.

Soon, the water reaches past your shoulders. You don’t hesitate, almost as if in a trance, and duck your head beneath the surface. When you open your eyes underwater, there’s no sting, no blurriness.

Intrigued, you decide to explore what lies ahead. You swim towards the center of the lake, and watch as the underwater world begins to bloom with color—schools of fish flit past you in a synchronized dance, their scales shimmering like jewels; some hide behind the wavy tendrils of the underwater flora. You spot large shells nestled deep in the sand, their curved pink surfaces bubbling softly; they open and close lazily, revealing pearly insides that glisten like treasure.

The further you swim, the more alive the lake begins to feel, almost like it’s something ancient and aware, not a mere body of water.

In the distance, something catches your eye—a large, imposing tree rooted at the heart of the lake. Its golden leaves sway gently in the underwater current. There’s something unnatural about it, different from the rest of the lake. No fish swim around it, and no flora grows near its roots. The life teeming in the lake seems to avoid it entirely.

Curiosity pushes you forward, and the shape grows clearer as you near it. The tree is enormous, its trunk and branches rivaling the towering trees you’ve read about in tales of Sumeru’s Mawtiyima Forest. You can’t help but feel small in its presence.

As you approach, you slow your movements, careful not to disturb the tree's golden branches. Swimming around its base, you tilt your head upward, following the trail of its branches to the very crown of the tree.

And then you see it.

Nestled behind the branches, hidden in the shadows of the tree’s golden canopy, is the silhouette of a slumbering creature. Its body is curled in on itself, and long, spiraling horns crown its head. Its chest rises and falls in a slow, rhythmic pattern. A thick tail swishes lazily in the water.

You freeze, heart pounding. The creature’s presence is overwhelming, and an ancient power radiates from it even in its dormant state. Something about it feels familiar—achingly so. Yet, you can’t recall why.

So you move, gliding closer to the shimmering figure. Despite the sadness etched deep in your chest—or perhaps because of it—you extend a trembling hand. Your fingers brush against the creature’s scales, cool and smooth beneath your touch.

It turns out to be a mistake.

The moment your hand connects, flashes of the forgotten dream surge through your mind, disjointed and overwhelming. Water nymphs and Oceanids. People dancing by the lake. The golden willow. And then—the darkness, the tendrils, the roaring storm.

The beast stirs.

The massive creature opens its eyes, revealing an otherworldly gaze that pierces straight through you.

You gasp, the sharp inhale sending bubbles rushing from your mouth. The creature shifts. Its massive wings unfurl, glowing with an ethereal light that blinds you.

Panic sets in. You kick your legs, arms straining as you desperately try to proper yourself upward, hoping to break to the surface as soon as possible. But the water churns violently. You feel a pull—a whirlpool forming beneath you, where the creature stands. It drags you closer, and no matter how hard you struggle, you cannot fight it, cannot escape its clutches.

Your lungs burn. Your movements grow sluggish. Your vision darkens, spots appearing at the edges.

But through the haze of your final moments, one image sears itself in your mind—the dragon’s unblinking eye, staring at you.

A fire crackles nearby when you open your eyes, its gentle warmth in stark contrast with the wet chill clinging to your skin. Your chest burns with every breath, and your entire body feels drenched, clothes sticking uncomfortably to your skin. You sit up closely, shaking your head and letting a few stray droplets from your hair.

Confusion grips you. The last thing you remember is swimming in the lake, the golden willow, and the slumbering beast. Then—nothing. And yet, here you are, back at your makeshift camp, a fire flickering gently a couple of meters away.

Your eyes dart around, scanning the area. Your belongings are scattered just as you had left them.

You shiver, not just from the cold, but also from the gnawing sense that something is off. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you glance towards the lake. It looks the same as before—clear, its surface glistening under the fading sunlight.

But then you hear it—a soft rustling, the faint sound of movement. Your body tenses, and your hand instinctively reaches for the nearest weapon. Rising to your feet, you clutch the half-dulled dagger that was lying within arm’s reach.

Near the edge of the lake, someone—or something—stands. Their silhouette is illuminated by the soft glow of the setting sun. They’re tall, their figure lithe but imposing, with long, pale hair cascading down their back and a tail that sways faintly with each shift of the figure’s weight.

Your grip on the dagger tightens. In that exact moment, the figure turns and you inevitably meet their gaze—piercing, light-purple eyes with slit pupils that seem to glow faintly. They almost look like they hold entire galaxies within them, the colors giving the impression as if you’re staring into a distant nebula.

It’s him. You’re certain of it, even if you cannot explain why.

This man—if you can even call him that—bears the same presence as the beast you’d seen beneath the lake. A strange mix of awe and terror washes over you as the realization sinks in.

He steps closer, his movements deliberate but nonthreatening, and you can’t help but stumble back a step, your voice trembling as you find yourself blurting, “Who—who are you?”

Author's note: suffering from insomnia just means my wips folder starts looking like a buffet 💔

I plan to update this every Sunday evening.

Also, I'm trying to write more descriptive and immersive text, so I hope it doesn't get too prose-y... but oh well... 🤧