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youraverageaemondsimp · 3 months ago

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Lust for love. // Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader.

Summary: Aemond's life has always been a bitter and sour one, the only sweet thing in his life was you, his wife, perhaps too sweet for his liking, yet he neglected you in the past but a series of events lead you both together into love.

WARNINGS: mdni, smut, unprotected p in v, cunnilingus, interrupted orgasm, horny aemond, martial duties, clit stimulation, tiddy succin, body worship(?), gentle and kind aemond but he gets rough during sex, + not proofread, lmk if I missed any!

WC: 2.9k

A/N: divider credits @cafekitsune

The cold breeze brushed against Aemond's face as he walked hastily towards your chamber, his boots clacking against the stone floor heavily while his heart banged in his ribcage.

He was feeling light headed, unable to form any thoughts and only the words of the maester rang inside his skull from earlier. ‘Your lady wife seems to be sick’ he had informed him and those mere words were enough to make Aemond spurt up from his chair in the meeting room and immediately rush towards you.

Aemond, frankly, did not know why he was feeling anxious at the information that you were sick, he did not even like you much and only merely married you for the connections and benefits your family provided.

You were just a mere duty to him, so when did he start caring about you?

He stood in front of your chamber door waiting anxiously as the guard gave him a bow before he opened the door, the mental hinges creaking as it slowly moved. He steps inside hurriedly and immediately lets out a sigh of relief when he sees you sitting up. You just stare at him confused.

“Husband? What are you doing here?” The tone of your voice indicated surprise, because Aemond had never visited your chambers even once since the beginning of your marriage and only called you to his chamber when he wanted to consummate.

“I had been informed by the maester that you were sick.” He replies nonchalantly, tone betraying the true feelings that were whirling on the inside. He wanted to get close to you, embrace you.

“I'm not with child.” You reluctantly tell him while looking down, suddenly feeling as though you are a disappointment. It felt humiliating to tell him that, especially when he came all the way to your chambers, he probably expected that you would be with a child.

Except that was not the case.

Aemond was confused on why you were bringing up that topic now, but then it clicked in his head and he cleared his throat, grabbing your attention before shaking his head, “Oh no, wife, I wasn't here because of that.. I was worried.” He admits and your eyes widen in shock.

Worried for you?

For as long as you can remember Aemond never seemed the type to show affection or concern for anyone, perhaps it was due to his past grievances, you had only heard about his eye through rumours, he never opened up to you about anything. You were a duty for him, someone he needs a legitimate heir from; because it is not as though he doesn’t have whores to seek pleasure from so what is the use of you? ; or at least that is what you had assumed and questioned.

But to Aemond, you were his sweet gentle wife, he was afraid of hurting you, in his vision, you were like a white swan, pure, elegant and graceful, he did not want to scare you lest you fly away from him. He did not know when he started perceiving you in this way, but as time went on, he had developed quite a soft spot for you.

“My apologies, Lord husband, I did not intend to worry you.” You apologised, he shook his head gently. “No need to apologise, how are you feeling now?” He questions and you simply blink at him, “I'm well, better than before.” You reply with a soft smile. Aemond's lip curved upwards slightly as he nodded, “Very well.” He says in a dismissive tone.

Awkward silence falls between you both as you look down, he clears his throat before speaking, “If you'll pardon me- I have to—”

“Would you like to take a walk with me?” The question leaves your mouth in a hurry before you could stop it, a desperate attempt at clinging onto this fleeting moment of affection. He seems slightly taken aback but he nods his head, “I'd love to.” He replies and you nod, stepping in his direction and standing next to him. “Shall we go?” You inquire, “Yes, wife.” He answers and you wait for him to take the first step, which he does; and soon you follow him out of the room.

You both stroll down the garden, admiring the scenery, the breeze was gentle today, and the weather seemed perfect, Aemond linked your arm in his, holding you close to him.

Your skin was soft to the touch and it drove him insane, he couldn't help but stare at the way your breasts pushed up against the material of your dress, he never really properly fucked you like you deserve.

Yet now, he just wants nothing to do but push you against the castle wall and fuck you relentlessly in the garden. Aemond realised that he never heard you moan, or show any type of reaction when he consummated with you.

He wondered how your soft voice would shriek in pleasure, calling out his name in pleasure, how you'd cling so tightly to him, he wished he could witness such a sight. He wished he hadn't gone to whores to receive pleasure while he left his wife dry. He missed out on a lot of things due to his decisions.

He mentally made a note to stop visiting brothels as it would taint your honour, he could simply seek the same pleasure from you. He became more bothered as his imagination went wild.

“... husband…? husband…!” He snaps out of his imagination, looking at your confused expression, “Y-Yes? Please excuse me, I was lost in thought.” He apologises and you give him a soft smile, “You were saying something?” He asks and you nod, “I was thinking about; well; if you excuse my rudeness, I realised we don't know much about each other.” You truthfully tell him.

Aemond furrows his brows in question, “What do you mean by that wife?”

“I want to get to know you, husband.” You stare at him in the eye and his eye widens slightly, and just then he recalls the memory of Aegon's words.

“That woman in the brothel knows more about you than your own wife, don't you find it amusing?” He was taunting Aemond, and at that time Aemond ignored those words, but now that you've openly admitted that you don't know him much made his heart shatter.

“Of course wife, what do you wanna know?” He decides to let his guard down, ready to tell you whatever you ask for. “Everything.” You reply, biting your lip anxiously, your hand travels up to his face, caressing his cheek before you trail your thumb down his scar. He knew what that implication meant and he smiles at you in a gentle manner, his own hand coming up to grab your wrist.

“Of course.”

Days pass by just like that, your marriage with Aemond had improved tremendously after your little effort to get to know him better, you felt bad for him when he began to reveal such vulnerable things, yet you never judged him.

He had shown you all of his vulnerability so openly, from the matter of his eye to everything else. You listened in silence, and he appreciated that.

As Aemond grew more comfortable, he began to show his emotional side, which included both his vulnerability and anger. He would utter treasonous things about his own brother.

This night was one of those cold nights, the cold breeze flew into the martial chambers you were waiting in, the maids prepared you for the consummation as they do, you and Aemond consummate according to your moon cycle since your only duty is to provide him with a heir.

And besides, he probably did not want to lay with you in an intimate manner, or for pleasure. You felt insecure because of that.

You were scared that after all this progress, everything would return to the same way it was before because of this night, you doubted that it would happen but your thoughts plagued you.

You winced when you felt the maid tug at a hair strand accidentally, “Sorry my lady.” She apologises to you, “It is alright.” You respond softly, you stare at your own reflection in the mirror, eyes trailing down your features.

The door to the chamber opens, and Aemond strides in hurriedly, the maids quickly finish fixing you up and leave the room immediately, you get up from your seat and turn around to see Aemond undoing his clothes.

“Let me help you.” You offered, usually he would decline and continue to undress himself, and you expected that again, but his actions shocked you.

He immediately dropped his hands to the side and turned to look at you, waiting for you to walk over to him and help him. You blinked rapidly before rushing over to where he stood before you stood in front of him.

Your hands immediately began to work on removing his vest, your fingers delicately undid the loops, you were too focused on the job that you failed to notice Aemond's piercing gaze. He watched with intent as you worked on removing his clothes, his eye taking in your form. His breeches felt tight.

You pushed his coat off his shoulders and peeled away the vest, revealing his tunic beneath the layers, his garments fell to the ground with a shuffle, you stepped back, leaving him in his undergarments.

He grabbed the hem of his tunic before he pulled it off and then began to undo his breeches, untying the strings. You took that as a gesture to lay down on the bed, facing up.

This is what you did when you both consummated before, you would lay down, he would spread your legs, insert himself, finish and leave.

You expected that to be the case, but you were surprised when climbed on top of you, his face right in front of yours, platinum locks curtaining around you. He stared at your lips for a moment before he leaned in, capturing your lips with his.

You were surprised, and didn't know what to do, so you stayed still, but he bit your lip, indicating his disappointment at your freezing up, and so you immediately tried to mimic his movements.

Your lips danced against his, yet it couldn't match the fervent passion he moved with, it was desperate, intimate and most importantly, filled with love and lust.

All your prior insecurities melted away under his warm lips which were filled with desire and want, he wanted you, he seeked you out.

You both pulled away to catch your breaths, his lips were glossy from your saliva and slightly swollen. Your heart was pounding loudly in your chest.

Aemond moved your night off your shoulder before ripping it apart, revealing your breasts which you immediately covered out of instinct. But he gently grabbed your wrists and pinned your hands to the side of your head.

He leaned down, tracing kissing down your jawline, to your neck and to the soft flesh of your chest. His hot breath against your bud made you shiver in delight.

He hooked his tongue on your hardened nipple before engulfing it with his mouth, you let out a squeal of surprise at his actions but you didn't stop him.

He suckled on it gently, using his teeth to trap the bud in between before licking it with his tongue, he grunted in delight, his grip loosening one of your hands, freeing it from his hold.

He grabbed your unoccupied breast with his now free hand, giving it soft squeezes and playing with the bud, rolling and pinching it. You were new to this, not having any understanding of what was happening, after all, you've only read about it, never experienced such intimate acts yourself.

You rubbed your thighs together, trying to ease the ache that was forming in between them, you realised how sticky the area felt, and how it made it difficult for the friction of rubbing to work.

He notices this, lets go of your breast with a pop, he smirks before he rises off from you and settles in between your legs, this was the position you were more used to.

He spreads your legs wide apart, pulling up your nightgown, revealing all of you. He pressed his thumb against your clit which made your breath, you stared at him confused until you felt him rub small circles upon it.

Your body felt pangs of delightful stimulation, you couldn't help but enjoy the feeling, all of this was foreign to you. Aemond takes a deep breath before he closes in on your cunt, before licking a stripe upwards to your clit. You jolt from the sudden pleasure.

Aemond wrapped his lips around it, sucking on the bud slowly, you whined, grabbing his head for support as his mouth worked wonders down there. You tasted absolutely divine to Aemond, your essence trailing down his cheek as your body produced so much of it. You whimpered, thrashing around lightly as his warm tongue flickered with your bud.

Aemond's tongue swirled around your clit before he captured it with his mouth once again; “Oh! Yes!” You moaned, throwing your head back in pleasure when you felt him nibble on your bud. An unfamiliar feeling of warmth rose in your lower abdomen, you felt as if there was a fire inside you, waiting to combust any moment.

Just when you feet the flames beginning to erupt, Aemond stops his manoeuvres, putting out the fire, you furrowed your brows in confusion, wondering why he stopped.

But when you looked at Aemond, he seemed like an entirely different being at that moment, he had risen up back to his haunches again taking deep breaths almost as if he was trying to contain himself.

He was.

He had never felt such an overwhelming of desire in his body, every time he touched you; his mind scrambled into pieces, he wanted to fuck you so badly.

“Aemond?” You call out softly, confused, wondering if he was disappointed by your behaviour but it seems to snap him out of his daze and he stares at you. “I apologise; I'm finding it hard to control myself.” He admits his thoughts.

“Then don't.”

Aemond swore he heard you wrong.

“What?” He questions you.

“Don't try to Aemond, Don't hold yourself back, I want this, I want you.” You admit shyly.

The atmosphere fell silent for a second and you could feel the awkwardness from your own words beginning to sink in, that was until Aemond moved suddenly.

You shrieked as he pulled your hips onto his lap, wasting no time in inserting himself, you gasped at the sudden stretch, feeling yourself become full of him. You grabbed onto his shoulders for support.

He held your waist tightly, grabbing onto your hips for leverage as he began to move, thrusting himself in and out.

This was a movement you were familiar with, yet somehow it still feels new because of the strange sensation, it felt more intimate and passionate, his thrusts held meaning and it was as if every time he pushed inside you; he was reaffirming his love and desire for you.

He pushed you into the mattress, grabbing your legs and shoving them to your chest as he thrusted hard, his skin slapped against yours loudly, the room echoing the noises.

You threw your head back at the sensation, and you felt the fire in your stomach rekindle and you couldn't help but desperately chase it. “Ah, right there.” You moaned, feeling him hit a sweet spot inside you that fueled the fire in you, you gasped for air as every thrust of his knocked it out of your lungs. “You feel so good, you're driving me insane, wife.” Aemond grunts, his thrusts never once faltering.

Everything about this night together was very different from the previous ones, Aemond had never felt this good and neither have you, he regrets not trying to get to know you earlier. He felt like he was in heaven with the way you clenched around him.

He felt his high approaching, and he desperately ran after it thrusting deeper inside as he groaned and moaned.

Your body jolted up and down the bed and you felt the fire beginning to spread out slowly, you closed your eyes, when you felt the fire suddenly go out, you were confused but as Aemond thrusted one more time it erupted in your body like volcano, coursing through your veins and to your mind.

You moaned loudly, grabbing the sheets and arching your back as your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the intensity, you have never felt this way before.

Your vision went completely white before you could see once again, you felt Aemond finish inside you, his cocking twitching as he spurted his seed deep inside you.

“Seven hells.” He groans, riding his orgasm off, you watch as he clenches his eye shut taking deep breaths.

He looked so ethereal.

He immediately falls down next to you, catching his breath, he pulls you close and kisses you on the forehead, “You did so well for me.” He praises you, and you blush shyly.

Neither of you moved from the bed, having no intention to.

Typically Aemond would leave the room right after.

Yet he didn't.

He was stroking your shoulder gently as you dozed off, head resting on his shoulder.

He looks at your closed eyelids and thinks you're asleep.

“I love you.” He confesses, realising his true feelings.

Your lips quirk up into a smile before you open your eyes slightly.

“I love you too.”

You then doze off into slumber immediately, Aemond's heart picks up its pace, embarrassed and shy that you had heard him, but your response made him smile.

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communistkenobi · 23 days ago

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(taken from a post about AI)

speaking as someone who has had to grade virtually every kind of undergraduate assignment you can think of for the past six years (essays, labs, multiple choice tests, oral presentations, class participation, quizzes, field work assignments, etc), it is wild how out-of-touch-with-reality people’s perceptions of university grading schemes are. they are a mass standardised measurement used to prove the legitimacy of your degree, not how much you’ve learned. Those things aren’t completely unrelated to one another of course, but they are very different targets to meet. It is standard practice for professors to have a very clear idea of what the grade distribution for their classes are before each semester begins, and tenure-track assessments (at least some of the ones I’ve seen) are partially judged on a professors classes’ grade distributions - handing out too many A’s is considered a bad thing because it inflates student GPAs relative to other departments, faculties, and universities, and makes classes “too easy,” ie, reduces the legitimate of the degree they earn. I have been instructed many times by professors to grade easier or harder throughout the term to meet those target averages, because those targets are the expected distribution of grades in a standardised educational setting. It is standard practice for teaching assistants to report their grade averages to one another to make sure grade distributions are consistent. there’s a reason profs sometimes curve grades if the class tanks an assignment or test, and it’s generally not because they’re being nice!

this is why AI and chatgpt so quickly expanded into academia - it’s not because this new generation is the laziest, stupidest, most illiterate batch of teenagers the world has ever seen (what an original observation you’ve made there!), it’s because education has a mass standard data format that is very easily replicable by programs trained on, yanno, large volumes of data. And sure the essays generated by chatgpt are vacuous, uncompelling, and full of factual errors, but again, speaking as someone who has graded thousands of essays written by undergrads, that’s not exactly a new phenomenon lol

I think if you want to be productively angry at ChatGPT/AI usage in academia (I saw a recent post complaining that people were using it to write emails of all things, as if emails are some sacred form of communication), your anger needs to be directed at how easily automated many undergraduate assignments are. Or maybe your professors calculating in advance that the class average will be 72% is the single best way to run a university! Who knows. But part of the emotional stakes in this that I think are hard for people to admit to, much less let go of, is that AI reveals how rote, meaningless, and silly a lot of university education is - you are not a special little genius who is better than everyone else for having a Bachelor’s degree, you have succeeded in moving through standardised post-secondary education. This is part of the reason why disabled people are systematically barred from education, because disability accommodations require a break from this standardised format, and that means disabled people are framed as lazy cheaters who “get more time and help than everyone else.” If an AI can spit out a C+ undergraduate essay, that of course threatens your sense of superiority, and we can’t have that, can we?

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potofsoup · 4 months ago

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i love your fourth of july comics every year but this years feels extremely optimistic about biden’s abilities in the face of him letting roe get overturned and funding a gen*cide at worst or letting it happen at best by taking the bare minimum of regulatory action… i mean can he really be trusted at all anymore to do the right thing or act in line with the people’s demands? and how do we know the people behind project 2025 won’t just rig the election again to get in under false pretenses?

Hihi! Thank you for reading and enjoying my July 4th comics every year! I am in a non-US airport en route to a month-long trip in a place with sketchy internet, so sorry in advance for sloppiness in my response (and potentially going radio silent).

But:

I don't think he "let" Roe get overturned, since that was the Supreme Court's overwhelming conservative majority, which really started with Mitch McConnell refusing to approve Obama's appointee and forcing it into a 2016 election issue. The fact that Trump got to appoint 3 Supreme Court Justices is what got us here.

Re: Biden and the Israel/Hamas war ... on the one hand, there's definitely more that he could have done, but on the other hand, they are a whole other country over there. It's Hamas that initiated the Oct 7 attacks and took the hostages. It's Netanyahu and his right-wing government who decided to retaliate to such extreme extent. Biden can talk about how he would really like Netanyahu to stop fighting and step down, but at the end of the day that's not his call, any more than he can stop the Sudan fighting that is near-genocidal either.

So, to come to your question #1: "Can he really be trusted at all anymore to do the right thing or act in line with the people’s demands"?

For me, it's a resounding YES. Guyz, he has passed so much good domestic policies. My spouse works in green energy and the passing of the Inflation Reduction Act halved his anxiety and gave him legitimate hope. The tumblr post I linked to in my comic has links to many of the other great things that Biden has done. Tbh I voted for him in 2020 because "a moldy onion is still better than Trump", and I've been pleasantly surprised. Like how he tried to cancel student loans, the Supreme Court overturned it, and then he came back 6 months later with a different way to do it that didn't lead to a court challenge.

Is he perfect? Hell no. There's tons of stuff that I wish he did more about, or he went further on, but also he's just one guy heading one branch of government who is heading into an election year. (Just like FDR promising not joining WWII, while behind the scenes doing all the Lend-Lease Act stuff). And "the people" have lots of demands, many of them conflicting.

I'd also like to push at the unspoken part of your question... "Can he really be trusted to do the right thing..." compared to whom? Because right now the answer is "compared to Trump." And compared to Trump... I don't even trust Trump to respect the results of a legitimate election. Heck, he might just take his favorite state secrets, sell them to the highest bidder (or just show them off to someone for funzies), and then claim Presidential immunity. A decent Democrat who got stuff done vs someone who probably wants to pardon himself and all his friends and do Project 2025 stuff is not even on the same level. (Do I wish that there was a viable Democratic alternative to Biden? Sure! But who?) Heck, at this point -- imagine if it's Kamala Harris vs. Trump. Who would you vote for?

As for your question #2: "How do we know the people behind project 2025 won’t just rig the election again to get in under false pretenses?"

We don't. But also what can we do besides showing up to vote?

Actually, I need bullet points for this:

The 2022 midterm elections brought in fewer-than-expected election-deniers into crucial electoral offices at the state level, which means that hopefully most state electoral boards will continue to have integrity

Yes, voting is harder but at least we can still vote. So it's about getting out there and getting your vote counted. For some states, it involves waiting in 8 hour lines. For some states, it involves bringing 2 forms of ID. Document. Track. Make sure it's dropped off in a real ballot box and not a fake one. Don't believe messaging that the voting is happening on a different day or location, etc.

A 50.1% majority is easily challenged. A 55% majority, less so. Which means getting people out to vote.

The more people know about and think about the reality of a second Trump term (versus being disappointed by a Biden term), the more they will be motivated to vote against Trump.

Finally, let's be real here: I'm braced for a 2nd Trump term. That said:

I'm still going to go and vote for Biden, because the only way to prevent a 2nd Trump term is to vote.

A Trump term where either the House or Senate is controlled by the Democrats will be *very* different from a clean Republican sweep.

Even with a clean Republican sweep on the federal level, States have so much more power now, and voting the state level stuff will help shore up Democratic goals for the future. States get to draw voting districts however they want. States get to decide on abortion policies. If you live in a deep Red state, there still might be things to vote for that make it easier to live in now, and turn it purple a few elections down the line.

So at the end of the day, it's "Vote AND". Vote and keep living your best life. Vote and tell others about Project 2025. Vote and have hope. Even if Trump wins, at least you'll have voted against him. Vote and stay to build up a progressive wave for the next election.

#long ranty reply oops #fun fact: my congressional district had a tied vote during the primaries... so literally every vote counted #and then was recounted and one person pulled ahead by <25 votes i think

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grandwretch · 9 months ago

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i so badly want one of those fic examinations of steve's relationship with joyce and hopper but solely through eddie's pov like hear me out

steve and eddie chat a lot in the upside down (and later in the hospital, when they learn hop is alive). steve has taken charge of filling eddie in on the rest of their of-age crew without the kids butting in. he never mentions his own parents, but he talks about the rest of the party's a lot, especially joyce and hopper. eddie knows what it's like to desperately want someone to be your parent and trying to hide it from his own childhood, when he would try to be cool about wayne dropping him off at his dad's house. steve obviously adores joyce and hopper, thinks the world of them and legitimately looks up to them.

eddie isn't sure what he expects from a cop who came back to life and the world's most determined housewife, but he's excited to meet them as someone steve loves.

cue eddie's horror when he realizes that neither of them really feel much for steve rather than annoyance and vague distrust. that joyce trusts will with eddie, an accused murderer, in a heartbeat and still hesitates to leave him with steve. that hopper brushes off every ounce of steve's hero worship and joy.

he tries to broach the topic with steve, gently, and is heartbroken when steve genuinely has no idea what he's talking about. and not because he's oblivious, but because steve thinks that's what he deserves. he thinks that's the parental love that someone who was an asshole in high school needs, because that's what would make him a good person. he needs people to call him out constantly, obviously, because why else would they keep doing it? why would nancy? at least they're here. at least they're not ignoring him. at least they're not forcing him into a box. they just want him to be better.

like, this is the man who thanked a girl for calling him bullshit and telling him she never loved him. he doesn't Know that's not how you're supposed to handle things. no one ever taught him that.

and now eddie's gotta figure out how he can teach steve how to be loved the right way without outing himself and his huge crush on his love-starved dork of a friend.

#shut up az #steddie #i just had the flash of eddie in a hospital bed staring up at hopper and the way he talks to steve in horror #like hopper saying something off the cuff about how he's not surprised there was so much collateral with steve in charge #and eddie thinking about steve always putting himself in harm's way #and the way steve got mauled by bats way before eddie did and then KEPT. GOING. but no one is mentioning that #no one is mentioning that steve was the first one of their group physically hurt by this.#and steve is just nodding like he agrees and eddie doesn't want to be rude bc these ppl are obviously Important to his friends #and then Mike comes in later and says something Mike-y and Eddie snaps at him #then he has to apologize because Mike is a stupid kid who loves Steve in his own way #and Eddie shouldn't blame him for the behavior of adults who should no better just because Mike is an easier target #anyway Eddie doesn't know how to have parents right either so he ropes Jeff and Lucas and Gareth and Robin into OP: Teach Steve Self-Worth

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pomefioredove · 6 months ago

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Ngl I want a sequel to bad ending 'yuu gets sold' series

Cause imagine the boys go to NBC just to find out that yuu is actuality doing great, better than great, even better than the time they were doing in NRC

I like to think that Rollo is legitimate a nice person when you remove the hatred over magic type of stuff

He deffo makes sure that yuu is well fed and clean (let's be honest, not something that yuu always has in NRC) plus treat yuu greatly

rollo fans who are starving since everyone stopped talking about him after november I'm here for you. I see you. take my hand

parts 1 | 2 | 3 | kalim | 'bad' ending

summary: yuu transfers to NBC type of post: fic characters: rollo my beloved additional info: yuu is gender neutral, implied romantic ^_^

It had been a long six months for everyone at Night Raven College.

The departure- and subsequent absence- of their beloved Ramshackle prefect was very much felt.

Days were longer, nights were darker, the first year class itself felt empty.

"At least they're not dead," was the consensus.

Of course, you continued to communicate with your friends- it wasn't like you completely dropped off the map, although Noble Bell College had a stricter policy about phone usage.

You even sent some letters back and forth, yours filled with updates and mementos, theirs with pictures of all you'd left behind.

Did you miss NRC?

Well...

You missed your friends.

But Crowley? The overblots? Being everyone's personal therapist?

...Yeah. You could live without that.

Noble Bell College may have been more exclusive, and more strict in their code of conduct, but it was more peaceful, too. Smaller, less students, and much less reliance on magic, so that you and Grim could be whole students independent of one another.

The curriculum was much different than NRC's. Less of an emphasis on a personal connection to magic, and more on tradition, ritual, and history. There were few times when you'd have to sit out a class, or watch your friends have fun from the sidelines.

If anything, Rollo made a point of including you.

A part of it may have been personal pride- after all, he just couldn't resist showing you how much better he is.

But he also had a vague idea about how stressful your life at NRC really was, and how isolated you felt, despite being surrounded by people. It was his duty, in a sense, to rectify that.

Even if it meant you had to sit through his lectures and recitations of the traditional magic laws.

...Though, even with his intense adherence to tradition and structure, he made quite a show of being kind to you.

Despite his best efforts to claim fairness and righteousness, it was no secret to anyone that he favored you. You quickly became the only person he spent his free time with (not that he was particularly social in the first place...)

And... it was nice. Is nice.

He holds himself to high standards, and expects that of others; he's cold, harsh when he feels it necessary, and repressed in all ways imaginable.

And yet... well, there's no sabotage, no swindling, no scamming, no manipulation to make petty ends meet.

Rollo, as a person, is both confusingly complex and reassuringly simple. You know as much. He sticks to routine, to rules, to tradition. He's diligent in every sense of the word, and highly respected because of it.

And when the eyes of the other students are turned away, he treats you with a sort of gentleness that you'd become wholly unfamiliar with at NRC. Like a porcelain doll, like something precious he desires to wrap in cotton and silk and store somewhere safe.

You wonder if his behavior towards you is at all connected to the very reason he risked his status bringing you here in the first place... but you don't dwell too long. He's as mysterious as anything.

When your former classmates come to visit over break, it's like they're meeting an entirely different person.

"Happy to see us, eh? You're like, glowing," Ace smirks.

Deuce elbows him in the ribs for that comment. "What he meant is that you look great. I mean, really! You've been sleeping more?"

You nod. "Lots, yeah,"

"Weird, I woulda guessed they'd been working you to the bone. This place is all "no funny business", right?" Ace shakes his head.

You laugh, walking alongside your former fellow first years in the streets of Fleur City, the very ones you'd become so accustomed to in recent months.

"I've actually been doing well with my studies. I think I've finally decided what I want to do after graduation,"

"Oh, that's great!" Deuce says. A lengthy pause follows, much to your confusion- it's as if everyone has something they want to say, but won't be the first to say it.

Epel clears his throat. "You been 'doin alright?"

"Um... yeah. I have,"

"Cause... you know, if anyone was giving you trouble, we'd give 'em what for!"

You chuckle. "I'm fine, really. People here are pretty nice..."

Again, that same silence follows. Epel, Deuce, and Ace look between each other, as if daring the other to say the next thing.

This time, you take the initiative.

"Listen. If this is about Rollo, he's fine. I'm fine. He's been nothing but helpful,"

The tense silence breaks and Ace sighs, shaking his head. "You can't blame us for being worried,"

"I mean, this whole situation has been really shady. Everyone at NRC has been worried sick..." Deuce says. "We just wanted to make sure..."

You smile. "I appreciate it, but you really don't have to send in a rescue party. I've been... I've been really good. Happy. And I miss you guys to pieces, but I've felt closer to home here than anywhere else. Does that sound strange?"

A short pause follows. Deuce is the first to speak, his voice sounding strained. "Not at all. We just want you to be happy,"

You can tell he's trying really hard to sound positive. Epel, on the other hand, doesn't sugarcoat anything.

"You really won't come back with us?"

You smile again, though this one is wholly apologetic. "No, I don't think so,"

The three are quiet for another moment, and then seem to drop the subject. The rest of their stay goes by smoothly, even with all the strained moments where you can tell they have something to ask. You assume they've already figured out the answer.

The day trip is over by sundown and you return to campus just before curfew, taking a seat in one of the cozy (though currently empty) lounges by a familiar face.

"They're gone?" Rollo asks, not bothering to look up from the textbook he's perusing.

You watch him carefully, and think it's best not to mention you friend's attempt to bring you back with them.

"Yes, they're gone. We had fun, nothing happened,"

"Good," he says. A brief silence follows before he speaks again. "I do trust you. But-"

"You don't trust them. I understand. If I were you, I suppose I wouldn't, either. But I'm fine,"

"When are they coming back?"

"Two months. They're taking the weekend. Might bring some other people,"

Rollo hums a note of acknowledgment, fingers rolling around the pen in his right hand. The book is still open, though he's looking ahead now. His face is flushed.

You know he's unhappy with it, but he won't say anything. You're grateful he likes you enough to let you rub elbows with people he despises. Especially after all that's happened...

He stands, closing the book. "Very well. Let me know what day so that I may adequately prepare myself. Good night. Be safe,"

And with that, he takes his leave.

Ever distant. Ever polite. One might mistake the way he speaks for coldness or resentment if you weren't so familiar with his mannerisms by now.

You turn to look into the lounge fireplace behind you, watching the flames flicker and die until all that remains are soft, glowing embers, the same shade of red that burns on his cheeks when you look at him.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #rollo flamme x reader #rollo fans come here. come here. I'll save you

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c-is-for-circinate · 1 year ago

Text

It feels like there's this narrative that fandom keeps wanting to explore, with Steve Harrington, about this very specific type of martyrdom where self-sacrifice is an expression of a lack of self-worth. And, like, yes, write the narrative that's meaningful to you, and yes ok Steve does admittedly get beaten up a lot, but -- legitimately I do not think this narrative is actually Steve's story.

Like, without gendering things too much, there is something in the Steve fanon that I keep seeing that's so reflective of the specific kind of sacrifice and societal pressures exerted on girls, specifically -- this story of 'you make yourself worthy and worthwhile by carving pieces out of yourself', of believing that you must always give and never receive to justify the space you take up in the world. Yes, boys can experience this same pressure (and obviously trans and nb people of all genders run into it as well! sometimes a lot!), but especially in the mid-1980s cultural context where Stranger Things takes place, it's just...really not likely to be a dominant narrative for Steve to be operating under? It doesn't even really match the Steve we see on screen -- who is happy to make sacrifices for the sake of others, yeah, when needed, but who's not particularly kind or giving unless somebody asks first.

And Steve does get hurt a lot on other people's behalf! And this is a problem! It's just a completely different problem than the one fandom keeps writing.

Steve, and I'm going to say this forever, is a story about toxic masculinity, which the show may or may not even know it's writing. The archetypes influencing Steve's character as it shows up on the screen (and the stories and messages that Steve would actually be surrounded by in his actual life) are not deconstructions of suffering heroes who never should have had to fight in the first place and were destroyed by it. That's the Buffy the Vampire Slayer story. Steve's not Buffy. Steve's cultural context is Indiana Jones.

Steve is The Guy! And part of being The Guy is that you're expected to take the hits -- not because Steve is less important than the women-and-children he's supposed to protect, but because, the story says, he will get less hurt. Why should Steve get in between Billy and Lucas? Because Steve is an eighteen-year-old athlete and Lucas is in middle school, and of the two of them, Steve actually stands a chance. (And yes, Steve got badly hurt there, and Max had to save him -- but if Lucas, if Max had taken that beating they would not have been running through those tunnels later.) Was somebody else better-qualified to dive down to the uncertain bottom of a cold lake in the middle of the night? Steve doesn't list his credentials there as a way of justifying some ideal of martyrdom; he is literally the most likely person on the boat not to drown.

And make no mistake: when Steve's pulled into the Upside-Down, he survives the bats long enough for backup to get there. Realistic or not, he's apparently tough enough that he's physically capable of hiking barefoot through hell without much slowing down. Steve is the tank for the same reason as any tank: because he literally has been shown to have the most hit points in the group. You cannot honestly engage with Steve in this context without dealing with the fact that he's right.

AND THIS IS A PROBLEM! This is still a problem! But it's not the same problem that fandom seems to expect. It's not an expression of caretaking or the need for self-sacrifice; it's not an issue with Steve valuing himself less. It's an issue of toxic masculinity so ingrained that Steve doesn't even recognize he's suffering from it, because one of the tenets of toxic masculinity is that Big Strong Guys don't suffer. It's just a concussion, it's fine, he'll walk it off. It's not that Steve thinks he deserves to get hurt, or even that he's less deserving of safety than the others. It's that absolutely nothing in his cultural context allows him to admit that he can be hurt in a significant way.

There's still so much tension that can be gotten out of this situation, I swear. There's so much that can be explored in writing! Hell, the show itself is deconstructing some of this trope, believe it or not, by giving us a Steve who absolutely can take all the hits thrown his direction but still doesn't know what the fuck he's doing with his life. It turns out that doing his job as The Guy is only mildly helpful in horror movie situations (mostly by buying time for smarter, squishier people to do the damage from behind him), and somewhere a little worse than useless in everyday life.

But Steve does not go out of his way to self-sacrifice, he really doesn't. He just does his job. He's The Guy. Of course he's not going to let a kid or a girl or some scared skinny nerd who just learned about monsters yesterday take the hits. Of course Steve's got this.

#Stranger Things #do I dare character-tag this #does this count as an Unpopular Opinion if I'm calling out fanon #eh let's be bold #Steve Harrington #and #toxic masculinity #which is apparently just A Thing I Post About Now

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pyrrhiccomedy · 3 months ago

Note

What sort of proof would you need to believe that a fundraiser was real?

I actually put in the legwork to verify one of these fundraisers today (I wanted to see how hard it was to actually vet one of these posts). It took about an hour, but I was satisfied by the end of it that the person in question exists, is who they are claiming to be, has a GoFundMe, and that the GoFundMe being spread around is probably the same one being linked to (I wasn't 100% satisfied by what I could find on that count? but I ended up in a place where I was reasonably confident). I'm happy to share my work, and have added it below.

I've gotten a lot of nasty messages since making that post accusing me of being anti-Palestine. My heart and money is 100% with Palestine, and I've given as much as I can afford, to reputable aid organizations. I believe both in a free Palestine, and doing your own research on the recipients of your money when you decide to financially contribute to a cause.

Anyway, this is the GoFundMe that I think is legit, and below is the legwork I did to reach that conclusion. While I still think it is better to give to a relief organization if your goal is improving the lot of the people in Gaza, I don't think this one is a scam.

This is the fundraiser for Eman Zaqout, who - first of all - is a real person! This is very easy to verify: Googling her name returns a LinkedIn with a complete work history (she is a molecular biologist), her profile with Unesco, and her profile with the Palestine Academy for Science & Technology. You know, the kind of stuff you'd expect to see when you Google someone. Great start.

Next step: Is the person running this GoFundMe the real Dr. Zaqout? (While I have some sources which say she is in a PhD fellowship and does not yet have her doctorate, she is listed as Dr. Zaqout at the Palestine Academy for Science & Technology, and I'd prefer to use the honorific in case it may in fact be more appropriate.)

So. Dr. Zaqout joined LinkedIn in 2014. And she does link to her Instagram from her LinkedIn, and her Instagram links to the GoFundMe. That's a great start!

However, it's worth mentioning that her contact information on LinkedIn was updated less than 3 months ago (which includes the link to her Instagram). Given the number of Palestinians whose accounts have been hacked or spoofed by scammers in order to lend their scams legitimacy, I don't love that change. That coincides with the surge in scam activity following the All Eyes on Rafah movement gaining momentum. Plenty of Palestinians have had their entire social media presences stolen by scammers.

However again - her LinkedIn (which, as established, may be compromised) also links to a TikTok account! And the TikTok account has video! And that sure looks to me like Dr. Zaqout in the video! While the photo of her on LinkedIn is no longer trustworthy since we know her account has been updated in the past 3 months, there is also a photo of her here at Palast.ps, which is a legitimate scientific organization. And yeah, sure, a dedicated scammer could have hacked that too, but there are also photos of her on LinkedIn that look like this:

It's not the best photo in the world, but it's identifiably her. Fabricating this kind of ephemera is more than I would expect of your typical charity scammer.

And in the most recent TikTok video of her, she's even talking about a GoFundMe, on 7/17! And she posted another video on 7/21 in which she is not seen, but you can hear her voice, and it does sound like her.

Today is August 2nd. The last two videos uploaded to Dr. Zaqout's TikTok are just photo collages, so they can't be used to verify that she still has control of her social media accounts. But for now, I'm prepared to say with some confidence that that woman is Dr. Eman Zaqout, that Dr. Zaqout is legitimately a Palestinian scientist, she did actually start a GoFundMe, and that she was posting about it as recently as 12 days ago.

All right all right, we are cooking folks. The last questions we need to answer: is this actually Dr. Zaqout's GoFundMe? The last scenario we need to rule out is that her social media presence was stolen in the last 12 days.

Let's start with that GoFundMe.

First of all, it's not being run by Dr. Zaqout. That's normal: GoFundMe isn't supported in Palestine, and all Palestinians will have to rely on friends or family abroad to set up their campaigns and collect donations on their behalf. This campaign is being run by a Mazin Fakak. I think that's supposed to be this Mazin Fakak, which makes sense; he is based in Quebec, and Dr. Zaqout either studied at or is in close affiliation with McGill University, which is in Quebec. He also lists Arabic as one of his spoken languages. So far this is a plausible connection for Dr. Zaqout to have. His LinkedIn profile also hasn't been updated in over a year, which makes me disinclined to think this is a recently-stolen scam account.

My one issue here is that when I Google Fakak, this is all that comes up. A LinkedIn profile created in 2014 that hasn't been touched in over a year, and two GoFundMe fundraisers for Palestinian families. And Dr. Zaqout never mentions Fakak anywhere. I would feel 100% confident of this fundraiser if she did.

But while my investigation into Fakak didn't turn up anything that confirms the connection to Zaqout, it also does nothing to disprove it, and the circumstantial evidence available to me lends credibility to the claim. So while I land somewhere around 80% on the verifiable credibility of this GoFundMe, please balance that against my 95%+ confidence in Zaqout's legitimacy, and the fact that she appears to still have control of her socials as of 12 days ago. If she posts on TikTok with another live video again (and not a photo slideshow, which can't be considered verification of anything), then I'd say this one is completely safe.

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rafeandonlyrafe · 10 months ago

Text

il/licit

words: 2.1k

warnings: 18+ only!, smut, unprotected p in v sex, drug dealer!reader and drug dealer!rafe, brief mention of death, marriage, pills

“so proud of you baby.” you press your lips against rafes, smiles barely dropping off either of your faces to kiss.

“thank you princess.” rafe says, giving you another peck before walking to accept his trophy and prize.

when the local country club started their private golf competition, you encouraged rafe to join, never expecting that he would win the whole thing, but he had a perfect game, all the conditions falling into the right place to bring him to the top of the leaderboard.

you watch with pride in your eyes as rafe takes various pictures with the president of the country club, someone of the wives of the other players, all elite members in the country club and prominent business figures in the outer banks, congratulating you with a pat on the shoulder.

you take in the situation as the sun beats down on your face, an idea sparking.

it's not until a week later that you bring it up to rafe, not wanting to spoil his win by admitting while he posed with his trophy that you were forming a plan.

“i think we should legitimize. get away from selling to teens and work upwards. you know all those housewives have pill addictions already, we could become their suppliers, and then you'll have an in with their husbands.” you explain to rafe, hands gesturing as you continue your already thought out plan, a look of genuine interest on rafes face.

“can your supplier get those kind of pills?” rafe asks. he figures you'd already inquired.

“yeah. for cheap as shit too. this is better than coke and weed, rafe.” you finally sit down, having begun pacing like you always do when explaining a plan to rafe.

“then let's do it baby.” rafe nods.

you met through dealing, having sidestepped barry to deal directly with rafe when you saw his potential to reach a whole new higher class kook market, never expecting to fall in love with him at the same time, but you made the ultimate power couple, you supply, rafe deals, you both get paid.

“have you found your first mark?” rafe whispers in your ear, seeing the familiar look in your eyes as you scan the crowd.

“notice how mrs mitchell keeps sneaking off? she hates these types of events, shes popping pills just to keep herself from freaking out.” you whisper back, eyes on the woman as she begins to sway again, a telltale time it's ready for her to sneak away and down more pills from the tiny container in her purse.

you smirk as she excuses herself, just as you predicted.

“be right back.” you take a deep breath before walking away from rafe, a comforting squeeze of your waist in encouragement before you go.

you follow her towards the restroom before she ducks into a hallway. you round the corner just as she's digging into her purse.

“you know, if you had something stronger you wouldn't have to take so many.” your voice ringing out makes her jump, snapping her purse closed.

you don't give her time to react, pulling the bottle of pills out of your own purse. you hand it over, a cautious look on mrs. mitchells face as she takes them out of your hand, reading the label. it's the same drug she's already taking, just as a much higher dosage. you got the scoop by plying one of the other members of her book club with drinks at the country club until she spilled.

“how much?” mrs. mitchell asks, and you smile, glad she's not stupid, but it's why you chose her as the first.

“you owe me nothing for this bottle. just spread the word. ive got better than whoever is currently supplying you. get the word around and there will be more where that came from.” you glance to the bottle in her hand before leaving her to swallow her pills by herself. you already know who her dealer is of course, a crooked pharmacist who writes fake prescriptions, but has to keep them in extremely low doses to not rouse any suspicions.

you enter back into the main ballroom, quickly finding rafe chatting to one of the businessmen in town. you stride up, politely introducing yourself are rafe wraps his arm around your waist, well aware that some of the older men may look at you with a predatory gaze and not wanting them to get the wrong impression that you were open to any advances.

“how did it go?” rafe whispers when you get a moment alone.

“good.” you glance at mrs. mitchell through the crowd, her eyes glossed over but relaxed. “she’s gonna get the word out. we’re on our way up, rafe.”

“you look so hot.” rafe groans, pressing kisses to your neck as you finish adjusting your dress in the mirror.

“too hot? should i change? it is just bookclub.” you sigh. when mrs. mitchell invited you to join her bookclub, you knew exactly what she was really asking you there for, especially when she slipped you a piece of paper with names and preferred drugs.

“nah, very respectable.” rafe says, reaching around you to do up one of the buttons on the top of the dress, covering up more of your cleavage.

“we should be thinking about next steps. once i have the in with the housewives, whats the next play?” you question, more thinking out loud than anything else, not expecting rafe to have a solid plan yet.

“cameron developments. ward left it to me.” your hands pause over smoothing out the skirt of your dress as you turn to face rafe. he hasn’t spoken to you about his deceased father much, all you know is that he died in a different country and that it was tragic. you never wanted to pry, but couldn’t resist googling a bit about ward cameron, and the business he used to run.

“are you sure baby? we can start our own thing.” you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pressing your body to his as a physical comfort. rafe puts on a strong face, but you know sometimes he needs it.

“its already established, has all the proper documentation since we are trying to get more legit. we could always rename it cameron and y/l/n developments though.” rafe smirks.

“what, you don’t want me to take your last name?” you raise an eyebrow.

you can see the surprise on rafes face. you’ve never spoken about marriage before, but you’ve been together for a long time now and are clearly planning for the future as a couple.

“i always thought you were more traditional than that, rafe. i guess i could hyphenate.” you hum, but rafe aggressively shakes his head.

“no, baby, i’m making you mine. all the way.” rafe presses your back against the mirror as his lips find yours, glad that you’re just wearing a clear lip gloss as he makes a mess of your mouth.

“mmm.” you hum, pushing at rafes chest. “can’t be late. would look bad.”

rafe groans, but he knows you’re right, knows you need to give a good impression to all the prominent book club members. “i’ll drive you.”

you nod, grabbing your purse, the one with a hidden compartment in the lining where you’re hiding all the drugs you’re going to distribute, but you’re not worried, not when one of the women is the wife of the police commissioner.

“you know, it would also look really good to everyone else if we got married. seems so silly to say boyfriend and girlfriend when we are surrounded by all these old married couples.” you tell rafe as he drives you towards mrs. mitchells house.

“baby girl, you don’t have to convince me to marry you.” rafe says, looping your fingers together. “i’ve already been looking for a ring.”

“why are half the people you're inviting to the wedding old as hell?” your friend asks as she helps you sort through wedding invitation envelopes, somehow able to stay blissfully unaware of the fact that you are not just a drug dealer but the most prolific one on the island and are working your way up.

“it’s important now that rafe is restarting cameron developments that we stay on their good side. it’s respectful to invite them.” you explain with a shrug. you never idealized weddings, didn’t really have any grandiose ideas for it, and you never thought you’d feel the excitement about getting married like you feel now that you’re with rafe.

“i guess.” she shrugs. “i just don’t want them to be boring.” “boring?” rafe calls out, entering into the dining room, the entire table covered with envelopes and pieces of paper. “is any party we throw ever boring?” he questions, making your friend shake her head and giggle as rafe presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“how is planning going?” he questions, rubbing his thumbs over your shoulders, glad that you haven’t seem too stressed, trying to manage a wedding along with everything else under your belt.

“really good.” you admit. “although i still haven’t chosen a dress.” “budget is no issue, you know that right?” rafe says. he knows you grew up struggling, which is why you turned towards dealing in the first place, but the money is flowing now, not just from the pills you’ve been pushing towards the upper crust, but from cameron developments getting started again.

“i know.” you sigh, grabbing your binder filled with printed out pictures of wedding dresses you like as inspiration. “i just feel like i want so many different things. i think i might do one dress for the ceremony and another for the reception.”

“you’ll look beautiful no matter what.” rafe says, bending down to press a kiss into your hair, pretending to nuzzle into your side as he whispers. “mr. johnson talked to me at the country club today. his wife has some friends who want the same shit she’s on.”

rafe straightens out, glancing over to your friend to make sure she didn’t hear anything before pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “have fun, ladies.”

“mrs. cameron.” rafe says, hands rubbing over the sole of your foot after he took your heels off for you, sat on the edge of the bed in your reception dress.

“husband.” you coo back, eyes fluttering closed, partly from the exhaustion of the party, partly from how good it felt to have rafe rubbing your sore feet.

“wife.” rafe leans forward, kissing your shin before moving upward, head hidden under the skirt of the dress as he pushes your thighs apart. his teeth bite down on your garter before tugging it off, flinging it away before standing, tugging at his tie.

you reach behind yourself to work on undoing your dress as you watch rafe undress, baring his muscles to you. “i almost don’t want you to take the dress off. you look so beautiful.” rafe says as you work the dress off of your shoulders before standing up and letting it drop to the floor.

“mmm, thank you baby.” you press your lips against his, pushing his hands away as you undo his pants and push them down his legs along with his underwear. “you’re gonna have to help me get the bobby pins out of my hair before we go to sleep.” you giggle, hair pinned up with a few face framing curls falling free.

“can i help you out of this lingerie first?” rafe asks, rubbing the white lace covering your skin.

“of course you can, husband.” you use the name again, so glowing from the day that you don’t even think about all the pills you have to distribute, or that cameron developments is acquiring some land next week. it’s just you and rafe in your honeymoon suite.

rafe works his hands carefully over the lingerie, for once being patient and not just ripping it off of you. when you are finally completely bare for him, he helps you lay back on the bed, taking a second to pause and look at you lying there, shiny diamond on your finger.

“you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” rafe says honestly. he’s sure if it wasn’t for you he would still be getting drunk or high every night, and low level dealing at house parties.

“i can’t take all the credit.” you hum. “we make a great team.” “forever and ever.” rafe says, draping himself over your body as his hand laces with yours, feeling your ring against his fingers.

you spread your legs before wrapping them around his waist, raising your hips as your cunt rubs over his length teasingly.

“forever and ever, husband.” you nod to confirm, pressing your lips against rafes as he sinks inside of you.

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novaursa · 11 days ago

Text

Legacy (dinner with a lion)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: power play

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Tywin sits alone at the head of the table, his fingers steepled as he waits, his expression as unreadable as the darkness pooling around him. The faint rustling of armor and the heavy door opening signals the arrival of his guest, and a faint smirk tugs at Tywin's lips as Petyr Baelish enters, eyes sharp, glinting with his characteristic cunning.

"Lord Baelish," Tywin greets, his voice a quiet command in itself, and he gestures for Petyr to join him. "I trust the journey from King’s Landing was not overly burdensome."

Petyr steps forward with a slight bow, his expression betraying nothing as he takes a seat. "Lord Tywin," he replies smoothly, "one grows accustomed to the roads in these trying times. Though, it is a relief to find oneself back in civilized company."

Tywin nods slightly, acknowledging the thinly veiled compliment, though his gaze remains sharp. "There is much to discuss, Littlefinger. I trust your recent activities in the capital have yielded… profitable results?"

Baelish’s lips curve in a shadow of a smile, his hands folding on the table before him. "Profitable indeed, my lord. The city is ever a place of opportunities for those with an eye keen enough to see them. But I must admit, I did not expect to find you here in Harrenhal… or to hear of a rather unique guest in your company."

Tywin’s expression remains unreadable, though a glint in his eye betrays his satisfaction. "Ah, yes. The rumors travel quickly, I see. It is true. She’s here."

Littlefinger raises an eyebrow, his tone careful. "The sister of Rhaegar Targaryen herself. I’d thought her lost to the North, tucked away under the Starks’ protection."

"The Starks’ protection can only go so far, especially in times such as these." Tywin’s tone is cold, final. "Lady Y/N’s presence here is… fortuitous, and I intend to ensure she remains under Lannister protection from now on."

Petyr’s face shifts, his surprise only barely concealed. "Lannister protection," he repeats, musing over the words, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. "So… I am to assume her role will extend beyond mere ‘protection’?”

Tywin’s lips thin into a faint smile, a calculated gleam in his eyes. "Quite astute, as always, Lord Baelish. Lady Y/N will accompany me back to the capital, where preparations for our union will commence."

For the first time, Petyr’s mask falters, his expression flickering with a trace of genuine surprise. He recovers quickly, smoothing his expression back into one of neutral interest. “Your union?” he asks, as if testing the weight of the words.

"Indeed," Tywin replies, his gaze unwavering. "A union that will serve to secure her position—and mine. A Targaryen, legitimized under Lannister rule, will silence whispers on both sides. There are… strategic benefits to the arrangement."

Petyr’s eyes narrow, the cogs turning in his mind as he weighs this unexpected twist. “A fascinating decision, my lord. I must admit, I didn’t think you the type to take a wife again.”

Tywin’s gaze hardens just slightly. "One must be prepared to make certain sacrifices, Littlefinger. This is more than a mere alliance—it is an investment in the future stability of the realm."

Baelish gives a small nod, masking his surprise with the smooth, charming smile he so often wears. "And who better than you, my lord, to secure such stability." Yet, there’s a glimmer of something deeper in his gaze—curiosity, calculation, perhaps even a hint of envy. The wheels in his mind turn, each possibility shifting into place.

Just then, the door opens again, and Arya steps in quietly, her gaze downcast as she approaches Tywin with practiced caution. She keeps her movements careful, her head bowed, hoping to avoid the sharp eyes of Petyr Baelish. There’s a stiffness in her posture, a wariness that one would notice if looked closely enough—an instinct to stay hidden, out of his direct line of sight.

She clears her throat, addressing Tywin in a low, subdued tone. “The kitchens have been notified, m’lord. They’re preparing dinner for two as you requested.”

Tywin gives a curt nod, a faint note of approval in his voice. “Good. Remember to relay instructions clearly. I don’t tolerate carelessness.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Arya’s reply is measured, steady, and she bows her head again before taking a step back, hoping to blend into the background.

Baelish glances at her, his eyes narrowing slightly, though he says nothing. Tywin’s attention returns fully to him, cutting off any opportunity for deeper scrutiny.

“Now,” Baelish continues, his tone sliding back to its usual ease, though he seems unable to completely mask his curiosity. “Your decision to bring Lady Y/N back to the capital… and to wed her… It’s a bold choice. But surely, there are risks in aligning with a Targaryen, especially with her brother’s allies still stirring trouble in the North.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpens. "Risks are inevitable in any pursuit worth undertaking. Lady Y/N is no mere Targaryen pawn; she has spent her years with the Starks, understanding the value of loyalty and the strength of alliances. She is an asset, one who will be as useful to us as she is beautiful. I would expect you, of all people, to understand the value in seizing such an advantage.”

Littlefinger inclines his head slightly, accepting the reprimand with his usual grace. “Of course, my lord. It’s clear you have considered all angles… as always.”

Tywin’s lips curl into a faint smile, though there’s a coldness in his gaze, an unwavering sense of purpose. “She will remain under our protection, a union that will secure her future and strengthen our own. And rest assured, Lord Baelish—there is nothing I have not accounted for.”

Arya shifts subtly in the background, watching the exchange with quiet intensity, her gaze carefully averted as she fights to remain unnoticed. But one can sense her unease, the tension coiled within her as Baelish’s eyes flit in her direction once more, though Tywin’s commanding presence keeps his curiosity in check.

Baelish clears his throat, breaking the silence. "It seems, then, that Lady Y/N’s fate is sealed, under Lannister protection, as you say. I shall be sure to offer my… congratulations, Lord Tywin.”

Tywin’s response is a mere nod, curt and dismissive, as if the matter were already resolved. “Indeed. There is nothing more to discuss on this subject. And as for Lady Y/N, she will be prepared for what lies ahead, with or without any further interest from others.”

With that, Tywin’s gaze flicks to Arya, signaling her dismissal. "You may go, Ary. And remember—take care to stay out of trouble. I won’t tolerate mistakes.”

Arya nods quickly, mumbling a quiet “Yes, m’lord,” before slipping out of the room, her heart pounding as she escapes Baelish’s prying eyes. She leaves Tywin and Baelish behind, aware that her role here is as dangerous as it is vital, even as the weight of Tywin’s plans settles heavily over Harrenhal, casting shadows that will follow all who stand in his path.

The chamber is warm, filled with the scent of lavender and rosewater, and for a moment, you almost forget where you are. The tub is a luxury you haven’t felt in weeks, perhaps months—hot water, scented oils, and a rare sense of solitude. Yet even as you sink deeper into the warmth, you’re keenly aware of what this bath signifies: preparation. Tywin's plans have already begun, each detail meticulously arranged, as if even your appearance belongs to him now.

After the bath, you’re helped from the water by two servants, silent and efficient as they wrap you in soft, thick cloth. They don’t look you in the eye, their faces carefully composed, trained not to betray any thoughts of their own. You’re led to a chair by the mirror, and another servant—a younger girl with nimble fingers and a gentle touch—begins to work on your hair, combing it slowly, carefully, her movements practiced.

For a time, no one speaks, the only sound the gentle scrape of the comb through your damp hair, the crackle of fire in the hearth, the whisper of fabric as they prepare the gown laid out for you.

Finally, the young girl ventures a quiet comment, her voice respectful yet tinged with a hint of curiosity. “My lady… you have beautiful hair. Unusual, like silver.”

You meet her gaze in the mirror, offering a polite smile. “Thank you,” you murmur, though the compliment feels hollow, an echo of a different life. In the North, your hair had set you apart, a reminder of your Targaryen blood, a mark of both your family’s glory and ruin. And here, in Harrenhal, that same hair becomes another detail in Tywin’s plan, something to be arranged and polished for presentation.

The girl continues her work, separating strands to braid, her fingers working with delicate precision. She doesn’t ask further questions, sensing perhaps that this is not the place for conversation, or perhaps trained to keep her thoughts hidden.

As she finishes a braid and moves to another, she glances at the woman standing near the door—an older servant, clearly in charge of overseeing your preparation. The woman nods, as if giving silent permission, and the girl reaches for a small box, retrieving something that catches the firelight—a thin golden thread, gleaming against the dull stone of the chamber.

Your breath catches. “What is that?” you ask, though you already know.

The older woman steps forward, her expression unreadable. “Lord Tywin’s orders, my lady. A touch of gold, to complement your gown.” She gestures toward the dress, a rich shade of crimson with subtle golden embroidery, unmistakably Lannister colors. “He thought it fitting.”

You bite back the urge to scoff, keeping your expression neutral. “Fitting,” you repeat softly, watching as the girl weaves the golden thread through your braid with painstaking care. The irony is not lost on you—this thread, this symbol of Lannister wealth and power, woven into your Targaryen hair, a mockery of your heritage. Even here, in this small detail, Tywin’s influence surrounds you, binding you to his house in every visible way.

The girl glances up, sensing your unease. She hesitates, fingers still for a moment, before speaking in a low, cautious voice. “Is… is it not to your liking, my lady?”

You force a small, restrained smile. “It’s… a thoughtful touch,” you reply, keeping your tone steady. “One must always consider appearances, after all.” The words feel brittle, like glass on the verge of shattering, yet the girl seems relieved, resuming her work with renewed focus.

As she finishes, she steps back to admire her handiwork, eyes bright with pride. She’s braided your hair into an intricate design, the golden thread glinting subtly, woven through each plait like veins of sunlight in silver. It’s beautiful, in a way—refined, elegant, and utterly foreign. The girl beams, clearly satisfied.

“It suits you, my lady,” she says, a note of admiration in her voice.

You look at yourself in the mirror, studying the unfamiliar reflection. The gown clings to you in shades of red and gold, Lannister colors draped over Targaryen blood. And the braids, laced with golden thread, feel like a chain, binding you in a way more powerful than any metal could.

“Fitting, indeed,” you murmur under your breath, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of your lips. To anyone else, this might look like elegance, like opulence. To you, it feels like an ironic jest, as if Tywin himself were mocking your heritage, stripping it away strand by strand.

The older woman watches you carefully, sensing the tension but saying nothing. “Lord Tywin values appearances,” she says finally, her voice neutral, almost mechanical. “A mark of respect, my lady, to make you feel at ease.”

“At ease,” you echo, a quiet scoff escaping despite yourself. “Yes, I’m sure his intentions are nothing but respectful.”

The woman says nothing, only inclines her head in a gesture of polite acknowledgment. There’s no room here for rebellion, no space for protest, and she knows it. Her role is simply to prepare you, to mold you into the image Tywin desires. To make you presentable, obedient, fit for his plans.

Finally, they finish, the servants stepping back to assess their work one last time. The young girl looks at you, her eyes shining with pride as if she’s just created a masterpiece. “You look beautiful, my lady,” she says softly, a note of genuine admiration in her voice.

You manage a tight smile. “Thank you.” The words feel hollow, an acknowledgment of her work rather than any reflection of your own thoughts. As you rise, smoothing the folds of the gown, you catch a final glimpse of yourself in the mirror—transformed, adorned in Lannister colors, the last threads of Targaryen fire hidden beneath layers of Tywin’s calculated opulence.

They lead you to the door, and the weight of what lies ahead settles over you like a shroud. Every braid, every glint of gold, a reminder that Tywin’s influence is woven into every part of this encounter. You steel yourself, breathing deeply as you prepare to face him, feeling each golden thread in your hair like the bars of a cage.

The servant by the door opens it, bowing low as she gestures for you to proceed. “My lady,” she murmurs, voice soft with a hint of reverence. You take one last glance at the mirror, the reflection now foreign, then step forward, leaving the chamber behind.

Tonight, you wear the colors of the lion, but the blood of the dragon remains, burning beneath the surface, silent yet unyielding. And as you make your way to the private dinner Tywin has orchestrated, you cling to that thought, holding onto it as your only reminder of who you truly are.

The dining hall Tywin has selected for tonight is secluded, almost intimate, a stark contrast to the grand banquet rooms of the Red Keep. The servants lead you to a table set for two, where Tywin sits waiting, his gaze fixed upon you the moment you enter. He surveys you with his usual piercing scrutiny, noting the golden thread woven through your hair, the crimson gown that drapes over your form—an image carefully crafted under his direction.

As you approach the table, your eyes catch the carefully arranged plates, and you feel a jolt of surprise. It’s a meal reminiscent of days long past—rich dishes that you once enjoyed as a princess, delicacies served at your family’s table in the Red Keep. Each plate a small piece of memory pulled from a life you’ve long since lost.

The first dish is braised quail in honeyed wine, garnished with sprigs of rosemary and roasted chestnuts. Next, a bowl of spiced chickpea stew with saffron and sweet currants, the same recipe your mother once had the cooks prepare for Rhaegar’s nameday feast. A platter of thick slices of duck, glazed with honey and dusted with ground cinnamon, sits at the center, flanked by roasted figs and fresh pomegranate seeds. And beside your plate, a familiar goblet of chilled summer wine, the floral scent wafting up as it mingles with the rest of the meal.

Tywin’s gaze follows your eyes as you take in each dish, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “I trust the menu is to your liking?” he asks, voice cool and unruffled, though there’s a note of satisfaction beneath the surface.

You settle yourself across from him, lifting the goblet and taking a measured sip, the sweet wine coating your tongue in flavors that feel almost foreign after so long. “It seems your memory is as sharp as ever,” you reply, setting the goblet down. “Or perhaps I should say, disturbingly accurate.”

Tywin inclines his head, his gaze unyielding. “One does not achieve much in this world by forgetting details… especially not ones that are so important.”

Your lips curl into a faint, sardonic smile. “Important,” you echo, glancing down at the spread before you. “Yes, I suppose there’s value in knowing how to replicate the past.”

A ghost of amusement crosses his face, and he leans back slightly, watching you with those steady, calculating eyes. “I thought it fitting to make you comfortable, Y/N. You are, after all, accustomed to a certain… standard.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead selecting a piece of quail, savoring the tender, honeyed meat. The taste is perfect, achingly familiar, yet tinged with bitterness. “Comfortable,” you repeat, the word tasting strange in your mouth. “And yet, the golden thread in my hair, the crimson gown… it seems comfort isn’t the only thing you had in mind.”

Tywin’s smirk grows, his gaze unwavering. “You always had a sharp tongue. I appreciate honesty, even if it borders on impertinence.”

You place your fork down, fixing him with a steady gaze. “I’m not here to amuse you, Lord Tywin. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

For a moment, he merely watches you, a faint glimmer of amusement lingering in his eyes. “I didn’t bring you here to pretend, Y/N,” he replies, his voice laced with that unyielding authority he wears like armor. “I brought you here because you are a valuable asset. Because, regardless of your feelings on the matter, our union will strengthen both our positions.”

You scoff softly, not bothering to hide the disdain curling in your voice. “A union?” you echo, your tone sharp. “Forgive me if I find it difficult to see myself as anything but a tool in your grand design. What I think, what I want, seems irrelevant to you.”

Tywin raises an eyebrow, clearly unruffled by your bluntness. “What you think does matter, more than you may realize. I respect intelligence, even if it comes with… resistance.” He lifts his own goblet, regarding you over the rim. “But you would be wise to remember that, in this world, power is the only true form of freedom. I’m offering you that power.”

You feel a bitter laugh rising in your throat, barely holding it back. “Power,” you repeat, your voice laced with irony. “The illusion of control, perhaps. Yet you know as well as I that this marriage would bind me to you, to your family’s name and interests. I would simply be another piece on your board.”

A flicker of something passes across his face—amusement, irritation, it’s hard to tell. “You are correct in that it binds you,” he replies smoothly. “But you are wrong to think that it would leave you powerless. The position of Lady Lannister, bound to both the lion and dragon, is one of influence. You would be free to wield it, to shape it as you see fit.”

You take another sip of wine, letting the silence stretch between you, refusing to yield to his steady, piercing gaze. “So, in your mind, this is generosity?” you ask finally, the skepticism clear in your voice. “A benevolent act, done out of kindness?”

“Kindness?” Tywin repeats, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “No, Y/N. This has nothing to do with kindness. It has everything to do with legacy—yours, mine, ours. Together, we can reshape the foundations of this realm. I thought you, of all people, would understand the value of that.”

Your jaw tightens, and you set down your goblet, meeting his gaze with equal intensity. “And do you think I’m so eager to cast aside the name I was born to? To let it be consumed by yours, to be dressed in red and gold and paraded as your prize?”

Tywin’s gaze sharpens, but his expression remains composed, almost amused. “You think yourself diminished by the name Lannister?” he asks, his voice quiet yet cutting. “You are mistaken. Names change. Blood, however, does not. You would do well to remember that.”

The statement hangs in the air, a reminder of the power struggle woven into every word between you. For a moment, you study him, this man who seems both captivated by your resistance and determined to conquer it. His amusement, his tolerance of your sharp words—it is almost as if he relishes the challenge you present.

“Perhaps you find my bluntness inconvenient,” you say, choosing each word carefully, your voice cool. “But make no mistake, Lord Tywin: I am not some empty vessel to be filled with your ambitions. I am a Targaryen, and that will not change, no matter how tightly you try to bind me.”

He chuckles softly, a sound that somehow both soothes and chills you. “Good,” he says, surprising you. “I would not want a weak-willed bride. It’s your fire that interests me, Y/N. You may resent this arrangement, but I know that you, too, have ambition.”

You hesitate, his words striking a nerve you hadn’t expected. He’s not wrong, and he knows it. You’ve spent your life as a toy in others’ games, yet a part of you longs for something more. Tywin sees it, and he knows how to wield that knowledge.

“If you think flattery will convince me,” you say, voice softer now but still guarded, “you’ll find it a difficult task.”

He merely lifts his goblet again, taking a slow sip before responding. “Flattery?” he echoes, an eyebrow arching. “I don’t waste time with it. I’m simply offering you a choice—join me willingly, and wield the influence you deserve. Or resist and remain a tool of others’ ambitions, a relic of a fallen dynasty.”

His words settle over you like a weight, cold and unrelenting. This is Tywin’s game—a careful blend of power and persuasion, of promises and threats. And though you’d rather cast aside the gown, the golden thread in your hair, the Lannister colors binding you like chains, you know that this is the hand you’ve been dealt.

For tonight, you’ll play along, if only to see what more Tywin Lannister will reveal. You lift your goblet, the bitterness easing just slightly, and meet his gaze across the table, the sharpness in your eyes matching his own.

“To legacy, then,” you say, voice cool, raising your glass in a half-hearted toast. Tywin’s smile deepens, as if sensing the smallest flicker of surrender.

“To legacy,” he replies, his voice as steady and unyielding as the stone walls of Harrenhal, sealing your uneasy alliance with the clink of crystal and the promise of a future neither of you fully controls.

Arya slipped down the dimly lit corridor, her footsteps silent as a shadow. She’d left the kitchens moments ago, her heart pounding with the thrill of sneaking away from her tasks and Tywin’s ever-watchful gaze. She moved carefully, glancing over her shoulder to be sure she wasn’t followed. Finally, she ducked through a small doorway that led her toward the lower halls, where she hoped to find Hot Pie and Gendry.

After winding her way through the damp stone corridors, Arya spotted them near the flickering light of a sconce, their backs pressed against the wall as they whispered together. She crept up, tapping Hot Pie on the shoulder, causing him to jump.

“Ary! Thought you’d gotten caught,” he hissed, relaxing once he realized it was her.

Arya grinned, her grey eyes shining with a mixture of excitement and determination. “Not yet,” she whispered back, casting a glance down the hall. “I’ve got a knack for not getting caught.”

Gendry chuckled softly, crossing his arms. “And where’ve you been? Thought Tywin had you running about all day.”

Arya nodded, her expression sobering. “I’ve been doing what he wants, yeah. But I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Hot Pie shuffled his feet, glancing nervously between Arya and Gendry. “Ary,” he began, voice low, “is it true? That he’s got a… you know, a Targaryen locked up here?”

Arya’s expression softened at the mention, a flicker of emotion flashing across her face. She’d been careful not to speak too much about it, knowing the danger it might bring. But these were her friends, her brothers in everything but blood. She could trust them.

“Yes, it’s true,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “Y/N… she’s like a sister to me.” Her voice grew stronger, her gaze fierce. “And we’re going to help her escape.”

Hot Pie’s eyes widened, clearly caught off guard by her resolve. “But… but she’s a Targaryen,” he stammered. “Aren’t they… dangerous?”

Arya’s gaze turned steely, and she crossed her arms, giving him a pointed look. “She’s not dangerous, Hot Pie. She’s family. More than most, anyway.” She looked away, her thoughts drifting back to the days they spent together in Winterfell—the shared laughter, the stolen moments of peace in a world that always seemed to be on the verge of war. “If anyone deserves freedom, it’s her.”

Gendry glanced between them, his brow furrowing as he took in her words. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said, voice quiet but understanding. “You want us to help her escape, along with ourselves?”

Arya nodded, her jaw set with determination. “She doesn’t belong here, locked up under Tywin’s watch. Once we get out, we’re taking her with us.”

Hot Pie shuffled his feet nervously, casting a wary glance down the hall as if expecting Tywin himself to appear out of the shadows. “But… how? Tywin keeps a close eye on everything. Even if we try, there’s no guarantee she’ll get out in one piece.”

Arya looked him dead in the eye, her tone fierce and unyielding. “We’ll find a way. She deserves better than this. And if there’s even the smallest chance we can get her out, we’re taking it.”

Gendry nodded, giving Arya a supportive look. “I’m in,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “If she’s as important to you as you say, we’ll help her. But we’ll need a plan.”

A flicker of relief crossed Arya’s face, but her voice remained steady. “We’ll think of one. Just keep your eyes open, and stay close. The moment we see an opportunity, we’ll act.”

Hot Pie sighed, shifting uncomfortably but nodding all the same. “Alright, Ary. If you say so.”

She gave them both a small, grateful smile, feeling the weight of her resolve settle more firmly on her shoulders. She knew the risk they were taking, the danger they faced. But for Y/N, for her sister-in-heart, it was worth it.

As they huddled closer, discussing possible ways to slip past the guards and navigate the castle’s many corridors, Arya’s eyes caught a familiar figure in the distance. The shadows played tricks in the dim light, but she recognized the silhouette of Jaqen H’ghar, his silent, calculating gaze lingering on her for just a moment before he turned and disappeared around a corner.

She felt a shiver run down her spine. Jaqen was mysterious, unpredictable—a man of many faces and secrets. And while he’d saved her life once, she wasn’t sure what he’d make of this plan. With a last, wary glance, she turned back to her friends, ignoring the figure as best she could.

“Alright,” she said in a hushed voice, returning her focus to Hot Pie and Gendry. “We keep to the shadows, stay out of sight, and don’t get caught. And when the time comes, we get her out of here. No matter what.”

With nods from her friends, Arya felt a surge of determination. She didn’t know how, or even when, they would make their move. But one thing was certain—they wouldn’t leave Harrenhal without Y/N.

#game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf #house of the dragon #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #got tywin #tywin x reader #tywin lannister #tywin x you #tywin x y/n #house lannister #house targaryen #legacy

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writtenwhalien · 25 days ago

Text

a lover's redemption | prologue

part i. prologue

pairing ↠ mafia leader!park jimin x reader

genre ↠ mafia AU — romance/action (angst, fluff, smut)

summary ↠ Blood, business and betrayal is all that Park Jimin has ever known, but when you cross paths again, the stakes are raised even higher and he finds himself battling his conscience, and his heart.

word count ↠ 6.3k

18+ | warnings ↠ drinking, explicit sexual content, all sorts of crime (please see the series masterlist for a complete list of warnings).

taglist is open – dm/comment/send an ask to be added <3

notes ↠ please enjoy and share xoxoxox chapter 1 coming next tuesday evening! <3

*important* the flashback is pretty much the same as the teaser but keep reading because most of what comes after it is new :)

29th June 2003

Sehun was tired. His day was dragging on and the throbbing in his head only seemed to get worse by the hour. All he really wanted was to spend the rest of his evening at home with his family, to hug his wife, and listen to you talk about your day, but he was still stuck here. Lines creased his forehead as he sat across from the two men he has only ever called his closest friends – brothers – yet these days, it seems less so.

“This isn’t what we agreed,” he said, lowering his voice.

Neither of the two men said anything at first, certainly having expected this response. Lee Han-Jae at least had the decency to look somewhat concerned by Sehun’s disapproval, reaching forward to pour himself a drink.

“It’s wrong, we don’t do stuff like this, it’s more for the likes of the Takahashi or the Cheong’s,” Sehun pressed. “Not us, never us.”

Lee Han-jae was the first to speak. “But what if it is us?”

If Sehun hadn’t known the man for long, he wouldn’t have been able to detect the impatience hidden behind the curiosity in his tone. But he had, he’d known him for nineteen years.

Han-jae slid the drink in front of Sehun instead.“We have all the power to help these people, we can do this.” He glanced sideways to the third man in the room.

Cold eyes and hard set features, Park Jihoon merely nodded before speaking. “He’s right, Sehun,” he said, unmoving in his seat. His eyes were focused on your father. “And it only puts us at an advantage. Everyone will be on our side.”

“Everyone’s already on our side,” Sehun said, impatience cutting through his tone. “We don’t need this, it’s not right.”

“We’ve already spoken to all the families involved. They’ve agreed on the price and most of them are happy to proceed—”

“They’ve agreed to sell their own family into prostitution to make their debts disappear?” Sehun interrupted sharply, missing the way Jihoon’s fingers curled into his fist.

Han-jae paused, eyes flickering with brief uncertainty as his lifelong best friend looked at him in anger. “Don’t say it like that, we’re not criminals, it’s not like we’re forcing them–”

Sehun’s patience was running short. “You’re giving them no choice, it’s either this, or you kill them, right?”

“No.” Han-jae’s gaze sharpened. “We’re setting them up for a better life than those kids would ever have, and with the nightclub we can legitimize our money, that’s what you wanted, is it not?”

Releasing a sigh, Sehun leaned back into the leather couch. “Not like this. Under our names the club will be successful enough, we don’t need to buy innocent men and women from these desperate families to make it better—”

“We’re not buying them,” Jihoon cut in calmly. “Their service is owed to us.”

The nonchalance in Jihoon’s tone flared anger in Sehun. “No, the service of criminals who have wronged us is what is owed to us, not of their innocent family members,” he responded, looking between his two friends. “How would you feel if it was Jimin?” he asked Jihoon before turning to Han-jae. “Or Taemin?”

Jihoon’s expression remained unchanged, however Han-jae sighed, pouring himself another drink. No one said anything as he emptied his glass, and when he finished, he still seemed unsure.

“They’ll do better under our watch. We’ll give them housing, an education, more money than they’ll ever see in their lifetime if they are to stay living as they are now.”

“No,” Sehun shook his head. “If you really cared about helping them then you would give them that without asking them to live a life indebted to you.”

“So what do you suggest we do then?” Jihoon asked, only now sitting forward as he tilted his head, awaiting an answer.

“Find some other way for the men to pay the debts. We never have any shortage of dirty work that needs doing, they can be tasked to those jobs,” your father answered swiftly.

Han-jae and Jihoon looked at each other for only a brief second before Jihoon nodded and sat back again.

“Alright,” Han-jae said quietly, looking back at your father. “We’ll try to stop it.”

“Try?”

“The kids have already been moved to a remote location—”

“Then bring them back.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Oh come on, Han-jae,” Sehun couldn’t help but scoff. “You speak of being the most powerful man in Seoul and yet you can’t stop an operation you’ve started.”

“Will you help us then?” Jihoon asked as though testing how far his friend is willing to go.

“Of course,” your father’s answer came with no hesitation, his heart hurting as he thought of you in the same position as those kids. “Whatever you need.”

“Very well then,” Jihoon said, looking at Han-jae and raising his glass. “We bring them back.”

It was an hour later that Sehun could tell that something was up, and it was Jimin who made him realize.

Halfway through dinner, Han-jae received a text. “Gentlemen,” he said, clearing his throat and wiping his mouth. “I’ll have to excuse myself momentarily to deal with some business for the house.” He got up and looked at his son. “Taemin, come with me.”

Taemin nodded, getting up and doing as he was told.

As Sehun watched Taemin leave, he didn’t see Jihoon and Han-jae exchange glances, however he looked back and saw Jimin staring down at his plate, jaw tight and fist clenched on the table unlike moments prior.

No one else was paying him any attention as Han-jae and Taemin left the room, leaving Sehun with Jimin and Jihoon, as well as a few of the other Lee men. Jihoon carried on eating, his knife cutting into his steak as Sehun watched him and Jimin.

Then, Jimin looked up and accidentally met Sehun’s gaze.

He swallowed, eyes telling far too much before he blinked and looked away.

He said his goodbyes, allowing Han-jae and Taemin to walk him out to his car before he got in and drove off the property, but Sehun didn’t go home later that night.

Parking off on a quiet road less than a mile out and hidden from sight, he got out of his car and went to the trunk, opening up a hidden compartment at the bottom and pulling out his hand gun. It took him no more than twenty minutes to get back to the property, evading all the security measures he was familiar with since he had them for his own home, and slipped into the back of the courtyard.

He stayed quiet, hiding behind some of the foliage decorating the yard, and for a moment, there was nothing. Just the steady blowing of the wind through the trees surrounding the property. He didn’t know exactly what he was waiting for, he just knew it was something. Then he heard it.

Harsh whispering and muffled sounds coming down the steps of the back entrance. One look up and his heart froze when he saw someone being dragged out of the house, mouth gagged and hands tied yet she still fought as hard as she could. But there were three men dragging her to the car, struggling, however still succeeding to throw her into the trunk, and then Sehun saw her face.

He felt a rush of emotions — anger, betrayal, disappointment and determination — when he realised it was Ji-young being thrown into the car.

Sehun always had his suspicions that Han-jae cared little for his step-daughter from his late wife who he also cared little for, especially considering he isn’t Ji-young’s father, but he never would have expected his friend to do something like this.

At that moment, he knew that his friends lied to him, and Han-jae was meaning to send Ji-young away to the same fate as those others.

So Sehun did what he had to do, unknowingly sealing his fate, and that of your family by saving Ji-young behind Han-jae’s back.

It was easy enough to take out the first two men as they made their way back into the house, unaware of their surroundings. He used his pocket knife, a clean cut to the throat so they couldn’t cry out and draw any attention. He shoved their bodies onto the grass before trailing alongside the car to get to the third guy climbing into the driver’s seat.

With great force, Sehun pulled the guy out of the car, slamming him into the side of the vehicle. The man had some weight on Sehun but not much skill. As he tried to grab his gun, Sehun jabbed him hard in the neck before taking the gun and slamming the butt end into his face a few times.

His body fell to the floor with a heavy thud and Sehun was well aware that the sound of the scuffle would have grabbed the attention of someone nearby – he needed to hurry.

Wiping the spattered blood from his face, he rushed to the trunk. Ji-young trembled, wailing into the cloth tied around her mouth as she looked up at your father. Relief instantly flooded her features as she recognised him.

“It’s okay,” Sehun shushed her gently, working as fast as he could to untie her hands. “Get in the back of the car, I’m right here, okay? We need to get you away from here.”

Ji-young nodded frantically, tears staining her cheeks. “O-okay.” She wiped her tears away, pulling off the last of the bonds as Sehun rushed to pick up the first of the bodies from the floor.

He struggled while dragging the first to the trunk, but as he started shoving it into the car, Jiyoung was there helping him. He paused, looking at her warily. She simply nodded, averting her eyes away from the dead body in front of her to finish shoving the man’s legs inside the trunk.

Together, they got the bodies in the trunk and within a few minutes, they were driving off the Lee property and into the night.

present day

The loud bang echoes across the space but you don’t wait for the sound to settle. Pushing your index finger down, you take another shot, and another, and another.

Time passes quickly when you're here, ten minutes quickly turning into an hour. You stay for as long as it takes for you to feel lighter, more sure of yourself.

Lowering the gun onto the table, you let your shoulder relax as you try to scrutinise the target fifty yards ahead of you, before turning away to head towards the door leading out of the range. However, before you even get there, you pause.

Yoongi stands ahead of you, leaning against the wall. He gives you a small smile when you look his way, but there’s no hiding the solemn expression his face shows. Letting out a small sigh, you nod, motioning for him to walk out with you.

Once out of the range, you pull your ear defenders off while Yoongi takes the gun from you to safely return.

“You’ve improved,” he muses, nodding in acknowledgement to the staffer who checks off the weapon.

Slipping into your jacket, you glance across at him. “You think so?”

“Mhm,” he nods, stepping towards the exit and placing his hands in his trouser pockets as he faces you. Yoongi has always been one to dress smart no matter what the occasion. “You always used to miss the mark by half an inch, now you’re almost there.” He smiles again, this time a bit brighter.

Shooting him a playful look, you respond while grabbing the last of your belongings, “I’m just out of practice, it's been a while.”

“Ah, well it’s a good thing you’ve started again,” he says, this time his voice is lower, making you look up at him. He’s no longer smiling and he doesn't try to disguise his concern. Your expression falls in response and a silent exchange passes between you.

“Not here,” he mutters, nodding towards the door.

Less than fifteen minutes later, you find yourself seated outside a convenience store with him, sipping on some chocolate milk. You take long sips, wondering what it could be; truthfully, you’re not sure if you really want to know. Yoongi says nothing until you ask him first, so with a quiet sigh, you place your half full carton down on the table.

“Tell me,” you say quietly, “What is it this time?”

Yoongi lowers his carton too, fingers twiddling with the straw. “The Cheong’s are back on the street,” he says, cutting to the chase as he always does (and you prefer it that way). “They intercepted a cargo shipment that was meant to dock at Gwangyang Port for DK Pharmaceuticals yesterday.”

“What was in the shipment?”

“Opioids.”

A sigh escapes you. That’s the last thing you hoped it was; you would’ve preferred it to be a shipment of handguns. Opioids back on the streets only means that the rich are preying on the weak and vulnerable again.

“Is anyone doing anything about it?”

Yoongi pauses, looking at you in apprehension. “I thought I’d come to you first.” You’re about to say something but Yoongi quickly continues. “I know you’re trying to get out of it but you helped me out a lot last time and I could really use your help now. No one knows you’re back in Seoul and that puts us at an advantage.”

“No one except you,” you note, watching your friend steadily.

“No one except me,” he repeats. “I’m taking your secret to the grave with me.”

You nod in acknowledgement, picking up your carton to take another long sip. “What about your people?” you ask.

Yoongi gives you a weary look. Despite how close the two of you are, Yoongi is especially secretive about who he works for – you know that they’re no doubt linked to the life you grew up in, the one that you’re still evidently caught up in, but you don’t know who. You never press him to know though; you understand the need for secrecy and in some ways are grateful for it – there’s a lot Yoongi doesn’t tell you and it’s his way of protecting you.

“There’s other stuff going on,” he answers quietly. “It’s a lot.”

The statement naturally piques your interest. “Like what?”

A small smile appears on Yoongi’s lips. “You’re trying to get out, remember?” he reminds you. “It’s best not to ask questions.”

You frown at him in indignation. “You’re the one who said it’s stupid to try and get out, but now you’re agreeing with it?”

He shrugs. “No harm in trying.”

You smile amusedly. “I’m a small cafe owner who visits a shooting range in her free time to stay sane.”

Yoongi‘s smile widens. “No one said you’re a normal cafe owner. You might’ve changed your last name, Miss L/N, but you’re a Han. Always will be.”

“I know.” Your gaze falls to your lap. “I’m not trying to hide who I am.”

“I know you’re not.” Yoongi’s expression changes to a soft one. “If you were, you wouldn’t be out here living a double life at my request.”

“Well, like you said, I’m a Han. It’s what my dad would do.”

“Ah.” Yoongi stretches. “Cafe owner by day, vigilante by night.”

You chuckle softly. “You make it sound like I’m doing something good… there’s not much good in the life we’re living, Yoongi.”

There’s a quiet pause in which Yoongi sighs, a thoughtful expression passing over his face. “It’s not all bad, at least not what you’re doing.”

“Honestly, it keeps me going and it’s the least I can do to help.”

Yoongi smiles, and a brief silence full of thoughts passes between you as you finish what’s left of your chocolate milk. “So,” you place the empty carton down, “where are they keeping the shipment?”

“The same warehouse off highway 46 from Jung-gu. They’ll have several guards on watch surrounding the place.”

“It’s the same place as last time?” you ask, frowning. “They’re not very smart.”

“Well they have tried stealing drugs from a legitimate pharmaceutical company,” Yoongi says pointedly. “I don’t think they’re very bright. But,” he adds, “they’re powerful.” He sits forward, pulling out a car key fob from his inside pocket and places this on the table.

You look down at it. “Same drill as last time?”

“Yep. Everything you need is there. You’ll also find a burner phone in there. Once it’s all done, text me from there. The police will come and seize the drugs.”

“Why don’t they just deal with it themselves?”

Yoongi frowns deeply. “The Cheong’s have been dealing with the Takahashi’s. If the police get in there first, they’ll detain the guards and any evidence which includes their phones. If that happens, the Takahashi's get brought in…” He lets out a slow sigh. “That can’t happen. They’re under our protection for a while.”

You don’t ask any further questions. Picking it up, you turn the fob over in your hand, your thumb sliding over the metal print of the Mercedes sign. Letting out a small breath, you look up at Yoongi. “No holding back?”

Expression somber, he nods. “No holding back.”

You know you should feel something in those words, maybe a little bit of guilt, or at least fear for what you have to do, but you don’t. It’s hard to, when you know what will happen to innocent victims if you don’t do this.

Instead, you see an opportunity. “I need something in return.”

Yoongi lifts his head calmly. “Is everything okay?”

You nod, placing the key down on the table. “Just, promise me you’ll do it first.”

At this, Yoongi’s expression changes to one of concern and he hesitates.

Meeting his gaze, you say his name. “Please.”

“Alright.” Yoongi shifts, keeping his eyes on you. “I promise.”

The car is exactly where Yoongi said it would be. You don’t bother looking at what he’s given you until you’re parked in close proximity to the warehouse but distant enough to not be seen by any of the guards.

There’s two cases in the trunk, one significantly larger than the other. You open the small one first, smiling when you see two handguns sitting snug in the case. A FNS-F9 Longslide – your weapon of choice – and a Glock 17 – Yoongi’s personal favourite.

The larger case contains magazines, two thigh holsters, a waist strap, a bulletproof vest, and a smaller case sheathing two double edged, partially serrated hand knives – Gerber Mark II’s.

Strapping the holsters around your thigh, you slot the guns in and arm yourself with the knives too, just in case, and tuck a spare magazine into your side pocket, as well as a silencer. You choose not to wear the bulletproof vest – although it’s light, it’ll still slow you down.

Closing the trunk, you quickly grab something from the front of the car that you brought with you from home. In a silk pouch, you keep a vial of chloroform and multiple napkins – you pocket these before making your way towards the warehouse. It’s surrounded by a patch of trees, making it the perfect place to hide such crimes, but it’s also advantageous for you to approach easily without being seen.

You quickly scout the place from the outskirts, noting a total of eight guards outside; three at the front, two at the back, two on the east side, and one on the west. You’re well aware that as soon as any of them realise you’re here, they’ll send a call out for more, so you need to be strategic and quick.

West is where you hit first. A man walks slowly along the concrete wall, kicking at stones with every step. You observe him silently from the shadows and note how young he looks, at least definitely younger than you. Yoongi’s words echo in your head – “No holding back” – but you can’t forget that some of these guards aren’t here by choice. Besides, killing them only protects the Takahashi’s and that’s of no interest to you. Sometimes, collateral damage happens, and you know Yoongi knows that.

So, you sheathe the knife you intended to use and instead pull a napkin from the pouch and douse it in chloroform. It only takes a few careful steps for you to reach the guard from behind, and with a swift movement before he can reach for the gun at his waist, you pull him into a secure headlock and smother his face with the cloth. For a second, he almost has you, struggling and resisting your arms, but the chloroform works fast and he slows.

Seconds later, you’re lowering him to the ground. You take the gun from his waist, disabling it and tossing it somewhere into the trees before taking his phone and stowing it away into your pocket. Before you move on, you drag his body out towards the trees so no one who comes looking will be alerted to your presence.

You begin moving fast along the warehouse wall, only slowing down when you approach the corner to the back. Back pressed against the wall, you peek slowly around the corner only to draw back almost immediately – another guy has joined them making it three men now, one of whom is peeing just a few feet away from where you are, facing away from the warehouse, while the other two stand on the other end, out of earshot.

Again, you come up with a way to avoid a kill – you wait until the man is doing up his zipper before taking a firm hold of the glock and walking right up behind him. Then you tap his shoulder.

He turns around and meets your smiling expression, looking visibly confused. “Huh?”

Before he can look past your face to see the weapons in your holster, the butt end of your gun is hitting him square in the jaw followed by you hooking your hands behind his head and bringing his head down to meet your knee.

You feel the pain in your knee as his unconscious body drops to the ground. “Ouch,” you grumble, rolling your shoulders too from the force with which you hit him. It’s been a while since you’ve done this, it would’ve been a good idea to stretch first.

Crouching down, you quickly take the guy’s gun and remove the bullets before moving him into the tree line like you'd done with the other guy. Then you cautiously move towards the other two. As you get closer, you pull out the silencer and attach it to the longslide while listening to the idle conversation between the two.

“It’s been almost a month since I’ve been back there and I swear I’ve never been happier,” the shorter of the two says, taking a drag of a cigarette.

The taller guy laughs. “Bet you emptied your pockets too.”

The short one laughs too. “Spent at least a million won but it was worth it. You should’ve seen those girls and the one I had in the private show, fuck,” he exhales, smirking grossly. “The tits on her. I got a fucking semi just by looking at them.”

You cringe upon hearing that, hurrying up as you check the bullets in the barrel.

“Would’ve spent all my money too then. Where is this place, huh?”

“It’s the Lee’s place, the best place for this shit in all of Seoul.”

“I heard about that, they’ve been running it for years now, apparently they keep the girls–”

Standing up, you unhesitatingly shoot both of them in their dicks.

High pitched groans fill the space surrounding you as they keel over onto the ground, blood staining their jeans rapidly.

You step out from where you are and walk over to stand between them. They both look up at you, still rolling over in pain, their teary-eyes wide and red.

“You fucking bitch,” the short one rasps, heavily breathing as he tries to reach for his gun.

“Nu-uh,” you tut, taking it from him before he can and taking the other guy’s too. You remove the bullets from them both before dropping the guns right over the men’s crotches. “Oops,” you pout sarcastically.

They cry out, the sound too stilted to be able to be heard from anyone else unless they’re close by.

“The fuck d’you want?” the taller one hisses, grabbing onto your ankle.

You shoot him a dirty look, pulling your ankle free and digging your heel into his crotch. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out as his body curls up.

“Nothing, at least not from you idiots,” you answer, removing your heel to do the same to the shorter guy, watching emotionlessly as they both suffer in pain.

Sighing, you drag your heel in the ground to remove some of the blood and take a look at the time on your phone. 1.07am.

“I guess you’re lucky. I'm short on time.”

The two barely have a chance to look at you before you’re putting a second round of bullets in them and dragging their bodies closer to the trees.

Adrenaline is starting to course through you now, coming at the perfect time as your patience runs low after killing those last two guards. You don’t bother hiding as you walk along the east side of the warehouse, approaching the two guards walking towards you.

“Hey!” One of them calls out as they both draw their guns. You already have yours cocked and ready in your hand hanging by your side.

The two men look at each other before turning back to your figure as you approach, their faces expressing confusion when they see you; you have no doubt that they only haven’t shot yet because they can see you’re a woman. But then they see the longslide in your hand and the glock at your thigh.

“Oi! Stop right now or I'll shoot!” The same guy warns again but you don’t.

You don’t stop until you’re only a few feet away so you can have a better aim at the man’s chest. A second later he’s on the floor and his friend is bewildered, aiming his gun at you.

“What the fuck?!” He exclaims, his gun shooting in your direction but you’ve already ducked and rolled out of the way having expected the shot. As you straighten up with one knee still on the floor, you steady yourself by outstretching a leg in front of you, placing your foot firmly on the ground and getting a perfect shot to the second one’s chest.

Six down, two to go. Well, for the guards outside at least; there’s no telling how many are inside.

The last two go down as easily as the rest and within a few minutes, you’re approaching the huge rusted metal doors of the warehouse. One has been left slightly ajar and you press your back close to the metal as you approach it, straining your ears to listen for any voices. You can make out at least three and your judgment tells you they’re around twenty feet away from the entrance where you stand.

Ever so slowly, you edge closer until you can peer inside. The space ahead of you is mostly obscured by tall shelves carrying scaffolding poles — it’s the same set up as the last time you were here. The warehouse is disguised as a unit for scaffolding materials with aisle after aisle of tall shelves. This works greatly to your advantage so you can enter unseen.

However, although you’re confident in your skill, you know that you can’t take on three armed men at the same time, so to make things easier for yourself, you draw them out.

One hard knock on the metal door is enough.

“The fuck was that?” You hear one voice say.

“Oi, go check it out.”

“You go check it out, you pussy,”

“Who the fuck you calling pussy?”

“Prove it then, go fucking look.”

“I will, fucking idiot, don’t call me pussy.”

You hear a few more mumbles but you’re not paying attention as you draw the small Gerber Mark II from your thigh. Moving behind the door that’s slightly ajar, you wait with bated breath as you hear the sound of a gun cocking just a few feet away from you.

Seconds later, the door is being kicked open further and you move steadily with it, careful not to make any noise behind the creaking metal.

The door being pushed open further gives you better space to hide and as the man raises his rifle and steps out, aiming at the space around him cautiously, you quickly step out from behind the door to make your move.

One hand clamps over his mouth as you press your chest against his back as close as you can to protect yourself if he tries to shoot. He doesn’t get much of a chance though, only managing to shoot one stray shot in a second of panic before the sharp edge of your knife is slicing his throat.

He drops to the ground, body writhing and his gaze meets yours — your chest tightens and you have to look away as you shoot him once more in the head to end his misery.

With no time to spare, you grab his phone and throw it hard against the warehouse wall. You know that the men inside will have heard the shot which means you need to hurry before they realise the rest of the guards are dead and call for more help.

Hurriedly, you slip into the warehouse and move to hide behind the closest shelf while you hear the sounds of footsteps coming closer.

You hold your gun up towards the sound of the footsteps, ready to shoot as soon as someone comes into view. Finger hovering over the trigger, you wait patiently in your obscured position, and then the first man appears.

Bang. Bang, Bang. The shots fire from your gun and before his body even hits the floor you’re stepping around the corner of the shelf and moving fast behind the next one to change your position before you get caught. You’re grateful it’s mostly dark here so you can move more freely.

“Who the fuck are you and what do you want?” A harsh voice bellows from where you just were.

Of course you don’t respond, instead rushing down the length of the aisle. You reach the end and cautiously peer around the corner to see one of them by the entrance. He’s facing away from you, standing still with his gun raised. Without hesitation, you aim for his chest and pull the trigger.

He drops to his knees first, his rifle dropping to the concrete ground before he falls.

Your mistake is watching — from right next to his body, a man steps out with his gun raised right at you. He shoots and it misses you by a thread as you step back just in time.

“Go around the other side!” You hear his voice call out and footsteps fill the space around you.

Fuck. There’s two more men and you have nowhere to go from here, so you do what you have to do.

Looking around the corner again, you see the man approaching. He shoots as soon as you stick your head out but this time you shoot back in his direction, noticing your advantage as he walks towards you out in the open. But you know that there’s the fourth guard coming in your direction so you have to be quick.

You step back after every shot you take and after the third, you hear him swear out loud. One more look and you see him clutching his shoulder as blood drips down his arm.

Before you can even shoot again, you’re alerted to the presence of someone behind you and just as you turn around to aim, a hard kick meets your ribs and your gun gets knocked out of your hands.

The pain shoots through you and your hand instinctively raises to the source as you stumble back, your other hand reaching for the glock.

“Not so fast, pretty,” the guard says, grabbing your arm and pushing you against the shelf. He’s the same height as you with an average build — you reckon you can take him but you’re still aware that the other guard is still alive and more importantly, armed.

However, this guard is your first concern. He reaches for the glock himself and you let him. It gives you the chance to discreetly reach for the knife at your other thigh and stab him in the first place you can. That happens to be his hip.

He grunts loudly, grip on your arm tightening but with one hand still holding your glock, you quickly use his strength against him and push into his body, stabbing him again in his abdomen and once at his wrist so he drops your gun.

With no time to pick it up, you kick this out of the way just in time before his strong hands grip at you again. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses, throwing a punch to your face which you manage to block with your arm but it still hurts.

Teeth gritted, you struggle to get free of his grasp this time so you bring your knee up but he jerks backwards in time. This only angers him more and he throws you harshly to the floor.

You feel nothing as your knees and elbows hit the concrete, adrenaline surging through your fight response kicks in – kill or be killed.

The guard comes closer and you look around quickly trying to figure out what to do. You spot your longslide that was knocked out of your hands just a few feet away from you.

“Wait!” you say instinctively, eyes rounding in false fear as you look up at him. “Please don’t hurt me.”

He pauses, eyes trained on your frightened expression and for a second you think you have him. Then he shakes his head and reaches for his gun.

In a split second, you use all your upper body strength to push yourself off the ground while sweeping out one of his legs from beneath him.

He’s stumbling forward as you lunge for your own gun but just when you’re about to grab it, his hand is on your left calf and dragging your body towards him. You spot another gun strapped to his right thigh.

“Hey, I got her!”

You try to kick free from him but he’s stronger and has you on your feet, body restrained by his arms in seconds. As the other guard comes around the corner with his arm bleeding thanks to you, an idea suddenly comes to mind.

Using only a fraction of your strength, you try to resist the man holding you and watch carefully as the other one approaches with his rifle aimed at you despite his bleeding shoulder.

“Who are you?” he questions.

“Answer the question,” the guard holding you says, squeezing you harder.

“Just kill me,” you mutter, slowing down in the other’s arm.

“I will, after you tell me who sent you,” the guard spits, pressing his rifle into your chest.

Kill or be killed – it doesn’t have to be as a simple gunshot or the throw of a dagger…

Faking a fearful expression, meeting the guards sharp eyes as you answer, “I didn’t want to, they made me do it.”

The two guards exchange wary looks.

“Please, I’ll tell you everything just don’t hurt me.”

The one holding you nods at the other one and he lowers his gun.”Who sent you?” his voice comes from behind your ear.

“It was Takahashi,” you answer shakily, bracing yourself as you feel the man’s grip on you loosen further.

The one holding the rifle lowers it completely. “Takahashi?” he asks, confused. “Why the fuck would he send someone here?”

“I-I don’t know.” Your right hand slowly moves towards the man’s thigh behind you. “They said something about teaching the Cheong’s a lesson.”

“Why did they send you?” the one holding you questions. “You work for them?”

“No,” you fake a whimper, head lowering as your hand closes around his arm as though in fear.

“Then why’d they send you?” he asks again, except this time you note his voice is softer. Time to move.

Your hand closes around the gun at his thigh and you shoot once at the ground to disorient them both before immediately pulling on the man’s arm to have his body in front of you as a shiel.

He takes the bullet that his friend fires in retaliation to yours, straight in the chest – the man holding you goes slack, his hold on you weakening as a result of the shot his friend just fired at him. “Shit, Jung!”

Using Jung as cover, you shoot the space three times ahead of you and then there’s silence.

Jung drops to his hands and knees, groaning as he clutches his abdomen and slowly looks up at you. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks.

You glance at his friend’s dead body, blood pooling from two fatal wounds. “No one.” You look away before you put a bullet in his head.

Weariness catches up to you as you walk out of the warehouse and into the cover of the trees back to where the car is parked. Pain is starting to spread through your sore muscles and you have no doubt you’ll be covered in bruises tomorrow.

Once you reach the car, you find the burner phone Yoongi gave you and text him a simple ‘it’s done’. Two words which should weigh heavy on your mind as you remember there are men who just lost their lives tonight.

But you know that this is how this works, so tonight, you go home and sleep as though none of this happened.

author's note. thank you so much for reading! <3 chapter 1 coming next week sunday! pleeaaase share your thoughts with me :) xoxoxo

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