#that place that thing might come rushing at you again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

earthlybeam · 3 days ago

Note

Could you do elves with parter reader (established relationship but a new one) where the reader isn't used to being treated with kindness. Like maybe they were in an abusive relationship before that they haven't really opened up about and how the elves would react to them flinching/ expecting them to be angry over normal things/ being shocked at being treated with normal decency etc

Could you do this with Cirdan, Thranduil, Elrond and Gil galad

Thanks and love you work !!!

Thank you so much for your thoughtful and encouraging words, They truly mean a lot and are deeply appreciated. ❤️‍🔥🥺✨

Gil-Galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Cirdan version below.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

The realization comes suddenly, like a cold hand gripping your chest. A mistake—small, perhaps, but still a mistake. You’ve forgotten something. An errand, a meeting, a task he had entrusted to you, and in the rush of the day, it had slipped from your mind completely. Your breath hitches. Your hands grow cold.

You stop where you stand, heart hammering, as if the very walls of Lindon might close in around you. A familiar dread coils in your stomach, tightening with each passing second. He will be disappointed. He will not say it outright—no, not in anger. But he will remember. He will store it away, bring it up later in those small, insidious ways that linger beneath the surface of kind words. A passing remark, a quiet sigh, a subtle reminder that your fault has not been forgotten.

You have lived this before. A breath stumbles out of you, and you brace yourself, already reaching for an explanation before he even knows there is something to forgive. “I—I’m sorry,” you blurt out, your voice too fast, too unsteady. “I didn’t mean to forget, I just got caught up in something, and I—” The words tumble out before you can stop them, desperate to explain, to preempt the reaction you fear is coming.

Gil-galad, who had been reading at his desk, looks up at the sound of your voice. His expression is calm, steady. He studies you with quiet intent, his sharp eyes missing nothing. But there is no flicker of disappointment, no tightening of his jaw or brief falter in his movements that might betray frustration.

You wait for it anyway. You wait for the sigh, the weary remark that will sit like a stone in your chest for days. For the cool silence that will follow, an unspoken reminder of your failure. You wait, body rigid, heart thudding in your ribs like a trapped bird. But it does not come. “It is forgotten,” he says simply. His voice is even, untroubled, as if the mistake itself holds no weight. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

For a moment, you do not understand the words. They should bring relief, should allow you to breathe again. But instead, you remain tense, caught between the instinct to defend yourself and the unsettling kindness before you. Your mind races, searching for the hidden edge in his tone, the faintest sign that his patience is not infinite.

Gil-galad sees it. His brow creases—not in irritation, but in something softer, something almost pained. Slowly, deliberately, he sets the book aside and rises, his movements careful, measured. There is no sharpness, no sudden motion to startle you. “Do you think so little of my love that you expect me to hold this against you?” His voice is gentle, but beneath it is something else—something deeply sorrowful.

You freeze. You do not know how to answer. He watches you—not with judgment, not with disappointment, but with the quiet understanding of someone who has long known how to read between the lines. He does not press, does not demand an explanation. But the way his head tilts, the way his hands remain at his sides rather than reaching for you—he knows.

“Love is not a tally of mistakes,” he murmurs, his voice a steady anchor against the storm in your mind. “It is not a weapon to be wielded against you.” The words land somewhere deep within you, in a place long locked away, where love had always been a thing to be earned, a fragile thing that could be taken away with the slightest misstep. You had been taught that love was conditional, that affection came with rules and unspoken debts.

But here he stands, telling you otherwise. He sees the wariness still clinging to you, the shadow of past wounds that have not yet faded. And he does not push them aside, does not try to pry them from your grasp before you are ready. Gil-galad exhales softly. Then—without hesitation—he reaches for your hands.

His touch is warm, grounding. He does not hold too tightly, leaving room for you to pull away if you wish. But when his thumbs brush lightly over your knuckles, his touch is firm, reassuring. “You are allowed to forget things, meleth nin.” His voice is low, steady. “You are allowed to make mistakes. I will not use them to wound you.”

Your breath wavers, something tightening in your throat. You want to believe him. Want to trust that love could be something as steady, as unwavering as the warmth of his hands against yours. “I do not know how to unlearn it,” you confess, the words barely above a whisper.

Gil-galad does not waver. His hold does not tighten, nor does he let go. Instead, he nods, as if this is the answer he expected. “Then let me show you,” he says, his voice filled with quiet certainty. And he does. Not just with words, but with actions. He never brings it up again. There are no lingering remarks, no subtle reminders, no shift in how he treats you. His affection does not wane, his patience does not fray. He does not make you prove yourself worthy of his love. He teaches you—not with grand gestures or sweeping declarations, but with something far simpler. With love that does not count your mistakes.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The evening air was cool, laced with the scent of the ancient trees that surrounded Thranduil’s halls. The gentle rustling of leaves in the canopy above created a soft, whispering symphony, and the glow of candlelight flickered against the polished stone walls of his private chambers. It was a quiet moment, one of the few where neither of you felt the need to speak. The weight of the world, the duties he bore, and the shadows you carried—none of it mattered here, not in this fragile bubble of peace.

You sat beside him, the warmth of his presence a steady thing at your side. This was still new, this closeness, and you found yourself treading carefully, as if one wrong step might shatter whatever it was that had begun to form between you.

Your gaze wandered, drawn to the way the candlelight caught in his hair, a silver cascade that gleamed like moonlight against his pale skin. There was an effortless regality about him, a quiet power in the way he carried himself. He looked untouchable, as eternal as the trees of his kingdom, and yet, here he was, close enough to reach for—if only you dared.

And then, without thought, he reached for you. A simple thing, an unthinking gesture—his hand lifted toward your face, fingers poised to brush aside a stray strand of hair that had fallen against your cheek. But before his fingertips could make contact, before you could even register what was happening, instinct took hold. You flinched. It was slight, barely a flicker of movement, but enough. The tension in your shoulders, the way your breath caught, the brief tightening of your jaw—you knew it was there, and worse, so did he.

Thranduil’s hand froze midair. His fingers, mere inches from your skin, lingered for a heartbeat too long before he withdrew, slow and measured, as though unwilling to startle you further. The shift in his expression was barely perceptible, but you saw it—the way his sharp, piercing gaze darkened, not in offense, but in realization.

Your stomach twisted. Foolish. You knew better. You had spent years perfecting the art of keeping such reactions hidden, of swallowing them down, of smoothing your features into something unreadable. But the body was treacherous, bound by instinct rather than reason. And now, you had given yourself away. You cursed yourself silently.

“I—” The word barely left your lips before you stopped, swallowing hard. What could you even say? That it was nothing? That it was a reflex? That he shouldn’t make something of it? He had seen the truth, and worse, he had understood it. The silence that stretched between you was not an empty one. It was heavy, weighted with something unspoken, something neither of you were quite ready to name.

Thranduil was not a man who acted carelessly. He did not fill silences with meaningless reassurances or rush to smooth over uncomfortable truths. He was deliberate in all things, and so, when he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of careful consideration.

“Who made you expect pain from something so gentle?” His voice was soft, but beneath it lay something sharper, colder—not toward you, never toward you, but toward the memory of whoever had instilled this reflex into you. The question settled like a stone in your chest.

You did not answer. Not immediately. Because how could you? You had spent so long swallowing the past, convincing yourself it was behind you, that it did not matter anymore. And yet, here it was, surfacing in a single, involuntary movement. It was humiliating, infuriating, and worst of all, undeniable.

Thranduil did not push. He did not demand explanations or force you to meet his gaze. He only waited, his patience as vast as the ages he had lived. Your hands curled into your lap, fingers pressing into your palms. “I—” The words tangled in your throat, a bitter knot of hesitation. You wanted to say it was nothing, that it didn’t matter, that he shouldn’t look at you like that—with understanding, with pity. But you could not force the lie past your lips.

His gaze remained steady, unwavering. And then, with the same deliberate care he always carried, he reached for you again. This time, there was no suddenness to it. No movement quick enough to startle. His hand moved downward instead of toward your face, his fingers brushing against your own, resting lightly atop your hand. A touch so careful, so measured, it was almost weightless.

But it was there. And it was yours to accept or to pull away from. You let out a slow breath, forcing your shoulders to relax, the tension unwinding just enough. You did not pull away. His hand lingered, warm against your skin, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a single, quiet motion. It was not meant to soothe or comfort, not an attempt to erase the past or fix what had already been done. It was simply a presence. A reminder that you were not alone in this moment.

“You are safe.” His voice was softer now, the earlier edge tempered into something quieter, something more sure. “Whatever ghosts you carry, they will find no hold here.” The words settled deep, slipping past your carefully constructed defenses before you could stop them. You had no response, no way to put into words the tangled emotions pressing against your ribs.

So you only nodded, allowing the weight of his words to settle around you. Thranduil did not ask for more. Not tonight. He did not need answers, nor explanations. He only needed you to understand one thing—he would never be a man you had to flinch from. And somehow, despite everything, you believed him.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The library of Rivendell was a sanctuary of quiet, a haven of parchment and ink, where the scent of aged vellum mingled with the faint trace of lavender and candle wax. The golden light of late afternoon streamed through the tall windows, spilling warmth over the polished wooden floors, casting long shadows that danced with the flickering of the lamps.

You sat curled in one of the carved chairs near the window, your legs tucked beneath you, a thick, leather-bound book resting in your lap. It was peaceful here, the kind of peace you were still learning to accept, still hesitant to trust. But in Elrond’s presence, it was easier. He was steady—calm and patient, never demanding, never pressing. Even in silence, there was a quiet understanding between you, a newness to your relationship that felt like standing at the edge of something vast and uncharted. It should have been terrifying. But with him, it felt… safe.

At his desk, Elrond worked with quiet efficiency, the smooth glide of his quill over parchment the only sound breaking the stillness. He was composing a letter, his brow furrowed slightly in thought, though not in frustration. He had a way of carrying himself that spoke of wisdom and measured restraint, of power held carefully in check. With him, you never had to guess at his mood, never had to walk on uneven ground, wondering when it would give way beneath you. He was predictable in the way a river was—flowing steadily, unwavering in its course.

But then his voice rose, clear and commanding.“LINDIR!” The name echoed through the chamber, firm and authoritative, a summons rather than a reprimand. But the instant the sharpness registered, something inside you recoiled. It was not anger—your mind knew this. He was not speaking to you—you knew this too. And yet, the reaction was already set in motion before reason could intervene.

Your shoulders tensed, your hands clenching around the edges of your book. The breath caught in your throat, too shallow, too quick. A shiver ran down your spine—not from cold, but from instinct. Your heart pounded against your ribs, and in that brief, terrible moment, you were no longer in Rivendell. No longer in the warmth of the library, in the company of a man who had only ever shown you kindness. You had flinched. The moment was small, subtle—barely more than a tremor. Perhaps most would not have noticed. But Elrond did.

The sound of rustling parchment ceased. Silence settled between you, but you felt his gaze before you dared meet it. His eyes, sharp as a blade and yet impossibly gentle, flickered from your face to the rigid set of your shoulders, the way your fingers had curled so tightly around the book that your knuckles were white. You forced yourself to relax, to smooth over the moment before it could become something real. You knew how to do that—how to swallow down fear, how to dismiss your own reactions as nothing, how to pretend. “I was not angry,” Elrond said softly, his voice now a soothing contrast to the sharpness that had startled you. “Nor was my voice meant for you.”

The kindness in his tone was worse than if he had ignored it. Worse because it asked nothing of you but acknowledgment. Worse because it was patient. Worse because it saw you. You swallowed, shaking your head as if to dismiss the entire thing, trying to will your body into forgetting. “I know,” you murmured, forcing your voice into something steady, something dismissive. It was fine. It was nothing. Just a foolish reaction. You could move past it. You always had before.

But Elrond was not so easily deterred. He did not speak right away. He did not press, did not demand explanations you were not ready to give. Instead, he simply remained—watchful but not scrutinizing, steady but not imposing. And then, slowly, he extended a hand toward you. Palm up, fingers relaxed, offering rather than insisting. You stared at it for a moment.

The instinct to refuse, to pull away, was immediate. It had always been easier to deny comfort than to accept it, easier to pretend you didn’t need it. But Elrond’s patience was a quiet thing, unwavering and endless. He would not withdraw his hand if you did not take it. He would not be wounded if you refused. It was simply there, waiting, reminding you that you did not have to navigate this alone.

Tentatively, you let your fingers brush against his. His hand was warm. Steady. The contact was not possessive, not seeking to hold or control—only to anchor. The moment you accepted it, his fingers curled around yours, not to keep you in place, but to assure you that you were not lost. “I would never raise my voice in anger toward you,” he said, quiet and certain. “Nor do I wish for you to fear me.” The words settled in your chest, unfamiliar in their gentleness, in the way they asked nothing of you but to believe them. You wanted to believe them.

Your fingers tightened slightly around his, just a small shift—but it was enough. A silent acknowledgment. Not a promise that you would stop reacting this way overnight, nor that you could undo the years of conditioning that had taught you to brace for pain where there was none. But for now, in this moment, you allowed yourself to breathe. And Elrond, ever patient, simply remained at your side.

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

The wind carried the scent of salt and woodsmoke through the Grey Havens, crisp and familiar, whispering across the docks where Círdan worked. The golden light of the setting sun shimmered across the waves, gilding the wooden planks beneath your feet and casting long, gentle shadows across the shipwright’s steady form. The rhythmic lapping of the tide against the shore blended with the distant cries of gulls, filling the air with the quiet hum of a world in motion—one that Círdan had known for countless ages.

You stood nearby, watching him work with quiet admiration. His hands, calloused from centuries of shaping wood and weaving sails, moved with a certainty that spoke of experience beyond reckoning. There was something soothing about the way he carried himself—unhurried, precise, as though time itself bent to his will rather than the other way around.

Beside you, a small wooden box rested on the dock, filled with nails and tools for his latest vessel. You had been lost in thought, content to exist in this moment, basking in the peace that seemed to settle around Círdan like the tide at dusk. But in your distraction, you shifted your foot too suddenly, knocking the box from its place.

The sharp clatter of nails spilling across the dock split the air like a whip crack. Your breath caught. Too loud. Too sudden. Too much. The reaction came before thought—your stomach clenched, hands jerking up in instinctive apology, heart pounding as though the small mistake carried the weight of something greater. “I’m sorry,” you blurted out, already dropping to your knees to gather the scattered nails. “I wasn’t paying attention, I—”

The words tumbled from you before you could stop them, before you could even consider if they were necessary. You braced yourself for what would come next—a sigh of exasperation, a sharp look, quiet disappointment at your clumsiness. You had interrupted him. You had caused a mess. You had— Warmth. Not anger. Not even the slightest trace of frustration. Just warmth, as Círdan’s large, steady hands covered yours, halting your frantic movements. His touch was gentle, grounding, like the solid weight of the earth beneath your feet after too long spent adrift at sea.

“There is no need for that, meleth,” he said, his voice deep and steady as the waves beyond the harbor. His thumbs brushed lightly over your fingers before he withdrew, kneeling beside you with the same unshaken calm he always carried. “It is a small thing.”

But it did not feel small. Not to you. You swallowed hard, forcing your breath to steady, but the tightness in your chest remained. “I wasn’t thinking. I—I’ll be more careful next time.” Círdan’s keen eyes studied you, the depth of his gaze seeming to pierce through layers you had carefully built around yourself. When he spoke again, there was no scolding, no chastisement—only quiet understanding, something deeper than mere sympathy. “You apologize often,” he observed, his tone absent of judgment. Your fingers curled slightly around one of the fallen nails. “I don’t mean to.”

“I know.” He picked up a few of the scattered nails himself, placing them back into the wooden box with slow, deliberate movements, as though to show you there was no urgency, no cause for distress. “But there is no fault here. No harm done.” You nodded, but the familiar knot in your chest did not loosen. You knew he meant his words. Knew, logically, that he was not merely placating you, not holding back irritation that would emerge later. And yet—your body still braced for something that would never come.

A sigh left Círdan’s lips then, but it was not heavy with frustration. No, it was something softer. Something knowing. “I have done the same,” he admitted after a pause. His voice, usually so steady, carried a thread of something distant—something old, something worn but not broken. You glanced up at him in surprise. “You?”

He nodded, his gaze drifting for a moment toward the western horizon, where the sun’s light met the endless sea. “A long time ago, I apologized for things that did not need apology. For staying behind when my heart longed for the West. For burdens that were never mine alone to carry.” He turned his eyes back to you then, ancient and fathomless as the waves. “But those who loved me did not ask for my apologies. Just as I do not ask them from you.”

Your throat felt tight again, but this time, it was not from fear. Círdan reached for your hands once more, slower this time, giving you the choice to pull away if you wished. You did not. You let him take them, let his warmth settle over you like the tide washing away the debris of a long, storm-ridden shore.

“You do not need to apologize for existing,” he murmured, pressing his palm gently against yours. “Nor for small things that do not trouble me. You are not a burden.” It should have been simple. It should have been easy to believe. But the weight of those words, the sheer certainty in them, settled deep inside you like the first breath of fresh air after years spent beneath heavy waters. Círdan did not rush you to answer. He did not demand that you believe him in an instant. He only gave you time. And for the first time, you let yourself consider the possibility that he might be right.

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saebyeokbliss · 1 day ago

Text

JUST MEET ME AT THE APT.— K. SAE-BYEOK

CHAPTER NINE

synopsis: managing a rising rock band is already chaotic enough, but when you're stuck touring with four reckless musicians, things get even messier. between late-night facetime calls, teasing that feels a little too knowing, and a certain guitarist who might just be your biggest problem, keeping things professional is getting harder by the second. but hey, no one said the music industry was easy.

warnings: mutual pining, intense eye contact, teasing that borders on flirting (or maybe it is flirting), friends who refuse to mind their business, secondhand embarrassment, slow burn that burns, emotional whiplash, online scandals

playlist: spotify

It started with a tweet.

A blurry, low-quality video posted by some fan who had managed to sneak backstage. The caption was cryptic but damning:

"WTF did Jisoo do to make Kang Sae-Byeok this mad???"

And underneath it—

A video of Sae-Byeok pinning Jisoo against the wall.

The audio was grainy, muffled by the distance and the hum of post-show chaos, but some words were crystal-clear.

"I don’t want to see you near her or the girls ever again."

"You don’t get to come in here and make her feel like nothing."

The internet exploded.

At first, there was confusion. Speculation. Wild theories about why HOT DIVISION’s lead guitarist was this close to throwing hands with an influencer-turned-socialite like Jisoo.

Then came the sides.

Some people immediately took Sae-Byeok’s, praising her for standing up for whoever she was talking about. Others rushed to defend Jisoo, twisting the narrative into something uglier—something about how��aggressive Sae-Byeok had looked, how scary her temper seemed, how it was unprofessional for an artist of her status to act like that.

And then, of course, the worst theory took hold.

That it was about you.

Screenshots of old photos resurfaced—pictures of you with the band, of you standing next to Sae-Byeok at award shows, of you in the background of HOT DIVISION’s biggest moments. Someone even found a picture from that night, showing you leaving the backstage area just moments before the video took place.

And suddenly, you weren’t just the band’s manager anymore.

You were the reason for the fight.

The narrative twisted: Sae-Byeok was in love with you. Jisoo had done something to you. You were caught in the middle of some messy, behind-the-scenes drama that no one was supposed to know about.

It spiraled fast.

By the next morning, articles were being written. Think pieces dissecting Sae-Byeok’s reputation, questioning her professionalism, debating whether or not HOT DIVISION’s label would make a statement.

And through it all—

You stayed quiet.

Because you knew exactly how this worked.

Scandals like this didn’t just pass. They grew until someone stopped them.

And that someone had to be you.

You found Jisoo before anyone else did.

She had been avoiding the internet, dodging calls, probably waiting for it all to blow over before she made her next move. But you weren’t going to give her that luxury.

You cornered her in the back of a café, where she had been sipping an overpriced latte like her name wasn’t being dragged online.

She barely had time to react before you sat down across from her, fixing her with a look that made it clear you weren’t here to play games.

"Fix it," you said, voice steady.

Jisoo blinked. "Excuse me?"

You leaned forward. "You fix it. You clear it up. You tell everyone exactly what the fuck happened before this gets worse."

She scoffed, setting her cup down. "I don’t owe anyone anything."

Your patience snapped. "Are you serious? You owe Sae-Byeok everything right now. Because you’re sitting here, drinking your stupid fucking latte, while she’s getting torn apart for something that wasn’t even her fault."

Jisoo frowned, finally looking uncomfortable. "I didn’t mean for any of this to happen."

"But it did," you said sharply. "And I’m not letting you be the coward who lets her take the fall for it."

A beat of silence.

Jisoo looked away, jaw tightening. "I didn’t think she actually cared that much."

You exhaled through your nose, forcing yourself to stay calm. "That’s the problem. You never thought about what you were doing. You never thought about how it made me feel—how it made her feel."

She swallowed. "I just… I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong."

You shook your head. "Exactly."

Jisoo sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Tell the fucking truth," you said. "Make a statement. A video. A post. I don’t care. Just fix it."

She hesitated.

Then, finally, she pulled out her phone.

And for the first time since this entire mess started—

She actually did something right.

Jisoo’s video went up within the hour.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t some grand, emotional apology.

But it was enough.

She admitted that she had been careless, that she hadn’t realized how much she was excluding you, that she had walked into HOT DIVISION’s space without thinking about how it might have made you feel.

And most importantly—

She cleared Sae-Byeok’s name.

She explained that the argument wasn’t about anything romantic, that there was no secret drama or jealousy, that Sae-Byeok had only been angry because she had stood up for you.

The backlash didn’t disappear overnight. But it shifted.

Now, instead of attacking Sae-Byeok, people were applauding her.

And you— You finally let yourself breathe. But the damage had already been done.

And you weren’t sure if things could ever go back to the way they were before.

Dinner was quieter than usual.

Not because there was tension—no, after everything that had happened, the tension had finally cracked, leaving something raw and unspoken between all of you.

The girls had chosen a small restaurant, tucked away from prying eyes and the chaos of the internet, somewhere they could just be without worrying about cameras or fans or another scandal brewing.

And tonight, for the first time in a long time, they weren’t just HOT DIVISION.

They were just friends trying to make things right.

Ji-Yeong was the first to break the silence, setting her chopsticks down. "Alright, let’s just say it."

Se-Mi exhaled. "Yeah, we fucked up."

No-Eul nodded. "Big time."

Sae-Byeok, sitting across from you, was unusually quiet, arms crossed, her gaze flickering between you and the others.

Ji-Yeong leaned forward. "Look, we got caught up in our own shit, and we didn’t notice how much we were leaving you out. That’s on us. Completely on us."

Se-Mi sighed. "We should’ve realized sooner. We should’ve—" She hesitated, then met your eyes. "We should’ve been better friends to you."

You swallowed, feeling the weight of their words, the sincerity behind them.

And then No-Eul, ever direct, said, "We’re sorry."

Your chest tightened, but this time, it wasn’t from pain.

It was relief.

You let out a small, shaky breath, nodding. "Thank you."

Ji-Yeong gave you a hesitant smile. "Does this mean you forgive us?"

You huffed a quiet laugh. "I mean… yeah. But you guys owe me. Big time."

Se-Mi grinned. "Obviously. We’ll buy you so much coffee to make up for it."

No-Eul smirked. "Or we could just kick Jisoo’s ass next time we see her."

That made you laugh—really laugh, for the first time in days.

And just like that, things started to feel okay again.

After dinner, you stepped outside for some air.

The night was cool, the city lights flickering in the distance, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you actually felt lighter.

But you weren’t alone for long.

No-Eul appeared beside you, hands in her jacket pockets, her usual calm, unreadable expression on her face.

"You doing okay?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

You hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Better than before."

No-Eul tilted her head, studying you in that way she always did—like she could see right through you. "You sure?"

You sighed, leaning against the railing. "I mean… I still feel kinda stupid for letting it get to me so much."

No-Eul frowned. "Why?"

You shrugged. "Because it’s not like they meant to hurt me. And I knew that. But it still—" You exhaled. "It still sucked."

No-Eul was quiet for a moment, then said, "You don’t have to justify feeling hurt."

You glanced at her, surprised.

She met your gaze, something unreadable in her eyes. "You deserved better from us. And you were right to be upset."

The way she said it—so steady, so certain—made warmth bloom in your chest.

You smiled, small but genuine. "Thanks, No-Eul."

She nodded, her gaze lingering on you.

And for a moment—just a moment—something shifted.

The space between you felt smaller.

The air heavier.

Her eyes flickered to your lips, just for a second, and you felt your breath catch.

Was she—?

Were you—?

Before anything could happen, a voice cut through the air.

"Time to go," Sae-Byeok’s voice rang out, firm but unreadable.

You both jolted slightly, stepping back as if the moment had never happened.

When you turned to look at her, Sae-Byeok’s face was blank, but her eyes—her eyes—were sharp, flickering between you and No-Eul with something you couldn’t quite place.

You cleared your throat. "Right. Yeah. Let’s go."

No-Eul didn’t say anything—just shoved her hands back into her pockets and followed after you.

And as you walked ahead, you could feel Sae-Byeok’s gaze lingering on you.

Like she had seen everything.

Like she was thinking about something.

But she didn’t say a word.

Not yet.

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#fanfic #sae byeok #saebyeok x reader #squid game #wlw fiction #kang sae byeok x reader #wuh luh wuh #angst #⋆˚࿔ just meet me at the apt.#kang no eul x reader

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sakuraszn · 1 day ago

Text

# LOVES LAST FLIGHT ! ㅤ♡

ft. cupid!katsuki bakugo x reader

synopsis.. once an angel of love, he was punished for meddling too deeply in human affairs. Stripped of most of his power, he has one final chance to make things right. With only a bouquet of enchanted roses, he must deliver a message of love to a soul who has lost all hope, before his wings disappear forever.

cw.. sfw content┊fluff┊mild romantic themes┊ a hint of angst┊supernatural

nia's notes.. happy late valentines day! here’s a little something for you guys on this special day, hope you guys enjoyy💌 [0.7k words.]

Once, Katsuki had been an angel of love. He had tangled fates together, whispered in the ears of poets, and turned yearning gazes into destined encounters. But unlike his celestial brethren, who worked with a light touch, Katsuki had always been reckless. He had interfered too much, defied the natural order, and even tried to force love where it didn’t belong.

And for that, he had been punished.

His wings, once so majestic and radiant, had faded into nothingness. The divine power that once coursed through him had dwindled away, leaving him trapped in a sorrowful limbo between heaven and earth, no longer an angel but not quite mortal either. Now, he faced a poignant, final task—one last opportunity to demonstrate his worth before his wings vanished forever, a haunting reminder of who he used to be.

In his hands, he held a bouquet of enchanted roses, their petals pulsing with soft light. Each one carried the essence of love—of laughter shared, of hands brushing in quiet moments, of unspoken confessions finally voiced. If he could deliver them to a soul who had lost all hope in love, he might be forgiven.

But time was running out.

He discovered her sitting by herself on a weathered park bench, a neglected book lying forgotten in her lap. The streetlights struggled to illuminate her, but even in the dimness, he could sense the deep weariness etched in her eyes. She wasn’t merely tired—she was utterly defeated.

Y/N.

That was her name. He knew it the moment he saw her, felt it resonate deep within him.

Katsuki had watched countless souls lose their faith in love, but something about her made his chest ache. She wasn’t just heartbroken; she had locked her heart away, convinced that love wasn’t meant for her.

Carefully, he stepped forward and placed the bouquet beside her. He wasn’t sure if she would see it—his presence was fading, and soon, he would no longer exist in this world or any other. But if she touched them, if she accepted them, then maybe…

Y/N shifted, rubbing her tired eyes before glancing down. She frowned at the roses that hadn’t been there before. A trick? A coincidence? She hesitated before reaching out.

The moment her fingers brushed the petals, warmth bloomed in her chest.

Memories rushed in—of love that had come and gone, of laughter she had almost forgotten, of nights spent dreaming of something more. But it wasn’t just the past that she saw; it was the future. It was the love she had yet to find, the hands she hadn’t yet held, the moments waiting for her if only she dared to believe again.

Tears welled in her eyes, not from sadness, but from something she thought she had lost forever—hope.

Katsuki exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He had done it.

A sudden gust of wind swept around him, and he felt it—the final feather drifting from his wings. He looked down, expecting to see nothing but bare skin where his wings had once been. But instead…

New feathers. Smaller, but solid. Not the wings of an angel, but something else.

Something human.

He inhaled sharply, the scent of roses and earth filling his lungs. His heart pounded—a mortal heart. The weight of divinity lifted from his shoulders, and for the first time, he felt something real.

And then Y/N turned, her gaze locking onto his.

She blinked, surprised as if she hadn’t noticed him before. “Did you…?” Her voice was soft, uncertain.

Katsuki hesitated. He had been invisible to her moments ago, but now she could see him. Now, he was standing in front of her, flesh and bone, as human as she was.

He smirked slightly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. That was me.”

She studied him for a moment, her eyes flickering to the roses before returning to his. There was an undeniable spark in her gaze, a comforting warmth that sent butterflies fluttering in his chest.The air around them seemed charged with possibility, and he could feel the fragile, beautiful bloom of affection starting to unfold between them.

He wasn’t an angel anymore. He didn’t have to meddle.

But maybe… just maybe…

Love wasn’t finished with him yet.

And love had found her again.

©sakuraszn! xoxo

#✎ᝰ — sakuraszn !#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo #bakugo katuski x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugo x black reader #bakugou x y/n #x black reader #anime #fluff #bnha fluff #mha fluff

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ladykailitha · 2 days ago

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Yellow Daisies- A Valentine's Story

When I finished the last of the Boy with a Bat story I wanted to do something fun for Valentine's Day. But I bit off more than I can chew, so I'm releasing the first part and will release the others as the come.

Summary: Steve was told that men only received flowers once and that was at their funeral, so he made it he's life's mission to give everyone flowers as often as he could. Or Five Occasions Steve gave flowers and the time he got them in return.

Each part will have the flowers he gives and their meaning for the occasion.

Steve had heard early on in life that men only receive flowers once and that was when it was too late to appreciate them. At their funeral. It made him sad. Even boutonnieres had to be bought and paid for by the boy doing the asking.

Men got hearty handshakes and boys got a pat on the head. Even in sports, girls got flowers for their wins, boys if they were lucky got teddy bears and other stuffed animals. Things that guys immediately tossed on their way out.

Not Steve though. If he got a teddy bear, he kept. Some times they got regifted if the girl really liked one of his collection, but rarely.

So he always tried to make sure he gave as many flowers as he could. Because even though he would never get any back, he wanted to make sure everyone else in his life got as many as possible.

1. Mother’s Day: Pink Carnations- motherhood

When Steve was about eleven and was given money for the first time as allowance when he started middle school, the first thing he did was rush out and buy flowers for his mom.

He bought her white roses, like his father did all the time.

Maureen sighed. “I know you don’t know any better, Steven. But don’t be an idiot like your father. I’m allergic to roses.”

Steve nodded and quickly carried them away when he saw that her eyes were starting to water.

Then he tried poinsettias for Christmas, because he had seen her put out the plant every Christmas and he even picked out the best ones.

Again the gesture was dismissed, though this time it took longer for Steve to notice the poinsettias that were on display weren’t his. It had been hard to tell at first. Because they all seemed to look the same to him.

But then while he was taking out the trash, he spotted a pot tucked away by the garage with wilted leaves and a cracked base.

Steve felt a swooping in his stomach. He knew without taking a single step toward it that it was the one he gave his mom. And while he wanted to believe that the cracked base was the reason it was hidden away. He knew it wasn’t. He knew just didn’t fit his mother’s idea of perfection.

The last time he tried to give her flowers was on Mother’s day a few years later. She had actually been home for a change and so Steve had wanted to do something special for her. So he bought her her favorite chocolates and pink carnations.

Maureen took them with a pained smile and a quiet thank you.

It wasn’t until Steve had come out to the kitchen for a glass of water did he understand what that meant.

She was on the phone with one of her friends. “The chocolates are all right, I suppose. I’ll just have to be sure to portion them out so I don’t get fat. But those flowers, Sophie! They were dreadful! Like I wanted to be reminded I was a mother. My youth is already fading and now carnations! I might as well have one foot in the grave at this point!”

Steve put a hand over his mouth as tried to fight down tears, but they spilled out over his fingers, hot and stinging. He slid down the wall and sat down with a quiet thump. He listened as his own mother complained about how she had felt pressured by Clint to have children and was honestly relieved when told she wouldn’t be able to have anymore.

He got up and walked back to his room, where he held his pillow to his chest and laid down on the bed as he cried and cried. He knew his father hated him for being such a disappointment but to hear that his mother hadn’t wanted him in the first place was hard pill to swallow.

“Dude,” Steve huffed, smacking Dustin on the back of the head, knocking his trucker hat to the ground. “You aren’t doing anything for you mom for Mother’s Day? I thought you loved your mom.”

“I do!” Dustin protested slamming his head back on his head. “But gifts to moms are like baby stuff.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “No they aren’t. Now, if you tried to make her shitty ashtray or macaroni necklace I’d agree with you them being childish. But a heartfelt card or even make her one of your electronic doodads would really make her smile.”

Dustin scoffed.

Steve leaned forward into his face. “Because if you don’t I will completely show you up and you’ll never live it down for the rest of your life.”

Dustin gulped, eyes wide. “What would you even do?”

Steve just smiled slow and sinister.

Dustin had made a light up sign that said: Happy Mother’s Day, Ma!

Claudia kissed the top of Dustin’s head when he handed it to her. “Oh baby, I love it. Thank you so much. It’s going right on the mantle.”

Dustin puffed out his chest. Just beat that, Steve! he thought gleefully.

Then Steve showed up for dinner with the biggest bouquet of pink carnations he had ever seen. They were like the size of his head. They were wrapped in a delicate white tissue paper and tied neatly with a pink ribbon.

“Oh Steve, they’re beautiful!” Claudia cooed, gently taking the flowers from him. “You didn’t have to get me anything. I’m just grateful you could make it to dinner.”

Steve beamed up at her. “Nah, I wanted to. You’ve been more a mom to me than mine in every way possible. And I know everyone loves to get get flowers.”

She kissed his cheek and then went to go put them in a vase. “It makes me so angry when I think about your mother, Steve. There are some people who don't deserve children. But I’m grateful you’re here, now.”

“Yeah, Steve,” Dustin said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Even though you aren’t blood, you’re as much a part of this family as either me or Ma.”

Steve blushed. “Thanks guys.”

Claudia bustled him further inside to the dinner table and started dishing out the gorgeous meal she had made.

Steve smiled up at her. He had offered to make it for her, but she told him she loved cooking and it was always a treat to make something special so he let her. And seeing her now, he was glad he had gotten her flowers instead pressing the dinner issue, because she looked really happy.

And when he came back the next week, he found the carnations turned upside down to dry out so she could keep his flowers for longer. The love he felt for her grew so much more when he saw that.

2. Get Well: White Spider Lilies, Snowdrops, and Yellow Orchids- Good Health, Consolation, and New Beginnings and Friendship

Steve wasn’t sure who was less surprised when Nicole got mono their freshman year, her parents or her friends.

Even at the tender age of fourteen, Nicole liked the boys and she wasn’t afraid to get what she wanted.

Which made it more hilarious when it was revealed that she got it from a dirty drinking fountain at the elementary. When kids too young to be kissing got mono, her parents first thought that she got it from a boy who had a sibling at the elementary and had been contagious. As her younger sister hadn’t gotten it.

But nope! She had drank from the same fountain because she been there to pick up Penny from school and had gotten thirsty waiting for her.

So when they were allowed to visit her, Steve of course bought flowers. He had asked the florist for something especially nice for a sick friend and she made a bouquet of beautiful white flowers.

Steve went up to her house, flowers in hand. Nicole’s mother cooed over the flowers and told him what a sweet young man he was.

But it went spectacularly wrong when he went to hand them to Nicole.

She took the flowers and looked at them mournfully. “I–I mean thanks. But I only think of you as a friend. I–the flowers are very pretty but I’m not sure I can accept them.”

Steve stared at her for a moment shock. “No, no!” He waved his hands back and forth. “No. It’s not that. I promise! I just taught growing up that you got people flowers when they weren’t feeling good. That’s all, okay?”

Nicole looked down at the pretty white flowers and breathed out a sigh of relief. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Steve.”

Things went smoother after that. But Steve made sure to let the person know they were get well flowers right off the bat.

Something he was sure he didn’t have to say, but now he wasn’t so sure.

The aftermath of the Battle of Vecna as Dustin was calling it, was rough on everyone. Eddie and Max were in the hospital. Neither one with good prognoses. Max was in a coma and Eddie was still in surgery after eleven hours.

Even Steve was currently in the hospital being treated for sepsis because once the adrenaline wore off after bring Eddie to the hospital his body decided to overreact to his injuries and shut down.

He hated it. He hated that he was there in a bed that should be used for someone else.

“Steve!” Robin admonished when he voiced these complaints to her. “You almost died! I think it’s okay for you to take a break and let other people handle it for a change.”

Steve really didn’t have anything to say to that, because she was right. He could have died if he hadn’t fainted when he did. And they were telling him it was going to be a long and painful road back to normal, but he would get back to normal. He was in good health, kept up a healthy diet and exercised regularly, it was just almost getting eaten alive that caused his body to go into overdrive.

Which, fair.

So he made sure that both Max and Eddie had flowers delivered every day. He even told the nurses to give the other flowers to patients that didn’t get visitors. Something the nurses loved him for.

The flowers he sent Max and Eddie were the same ones he had gotten for Nicole all those years ago. Snowdrops and spider lilies. But for them he asked that another flower be added to the bouquet. Yellow orchids.

When Max woke up, he was standing there, holding her hand. She looked over to see the flowers and scoffed.

“I don’t need flowers, dumbass,” she said rolling her eyes.

“Everyone needs flowers,” he insisted. “The snowdrops are for consolation. The spiderlilies are for good health, and the orchids are for new beginnings and friendship.”

Max looked over at the flowers again and then up at Steve. “I love you, you asshole!” And she gave him the fiercest hug.

Steve held her tight and kissed the top of her head. “I love you too, Max.”

Tag List: TEN SLOTS REMAINING

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #valentine's fic #language of flowers

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kellycataclysm · 3 days ago

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And there you were

I saw this piece of Shane art today, a little Valentines Day treat for the Shane enjoyers from my friend @sotie-art. And, well, I can't help where the muse takes me. I wrote some words. Sotie, these are for you.

You opened the door to the farmhouse, a breath of cool air sweeping in, rushing through the cosy warmth of the lounge, before being quickly enveloped by the tranquil heat inside. Wrapping the thick, fluffy blanket around your body, the one you’d pulled from the couch when you heard the knock, you found your heart warming, a golden glow throbbing in your chest, to see Shane standing on the doorstep. You hadn’t expected to see him today; things between you were still new, tentative, quietly blossoming, as delicate and fresh as the coming Spring.

‘Hi!’ You beamed brightly, his unexpected arrival such a pleasant surprise.

He smiled sheepishly, a lop-sided grin rising to his face, softening as he met your gaze, a flush blooming on his cheeks. He ran a hand over the back of his neck when he noticed your eyes dropping to the bouquet of red roses he held gently. Your teeth pressed against your bottom lip as you tried to bite back the smile that grew even wider, dazzling, your heart skipping a beat. You failed. Oh well.

Gone was his usual t-shirt and comfortable, worn hoodie, replaced with a smart coat and sweater, defence against the late winter chill. He looked good. A sigh, so full of tenderness escaped your parted lips.

‘Hi.’ He replied simply, clearing his throat. You chuckled lightly. He never was the talkative type and for someone who had left the hustle and bustle of the city for the calm of the countryside, his quiet nature suited you to a tee. If only he could see himself through your eyes.

‘Listen,’ He started, his voice still a little gruff but oh, you could hear a note of that often-hidden sweetness just daring to peek through the cracks. ‘I know I’m a grumpy SOB…’ You smiled again, rolling your eyes, playfully teasing as you listened.

‘And I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with…’ You shook your head lightly. Surely, he knew by now that you were the persistent type. ‘Well, I just wanted to say that I’m…’

At this he paused and drew in a deep breath as if piecing together his words carefully, determined to make this right. You really should tell him that he’d already won you over, but you waited, giving him space to finish.

His gaze returned to yours and a wave of butterflies crashed through you. You couldn’t help but lift your hands to your stomach, as if you needed to hold them back. If you didn’t, you might just melt on the spot. You inhaled deeply.

‘I’m no good at this…’ He gestured between you with his finger. ‘But I’m trying... for you…’

A tear pricked at the corner of your eye, and you blinked rapidly, not wishing for it to escape.

‘I need you to know… you mean the world to me…’

Your heart tried to leap from you, the hands at your stomach now resting on your chest. You felt the thrumming beneath your palm, pulse racing, and for a moment your head swam, lost in his pretty green eyes.

‘Shane…’ You tried to speak but you saw his mouth open slightly, something else left to say. So, you held your breath, expectation and longing buzzing through your veins like electricity. You were a live wire, about to spark to life.

‘And well…’ He frowned for a moment, closing his eyes briefly, steeling himself, and then…

‘Hey hun… would you be my valentine?’ He smiled. You were a goner.

Stepping out onto the porch, you placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. If that wasn’t the most wonderful thing, the glint in his eyes might just take the prize

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

He exhaled slowly, all the tension oozing from him, and you laughed softly as he hooked a fingertip beneath your chin, pulling you closer, the red roses nestled between the two of you.

A petal fell to the ground, carried away by the breeze. Not that you noticed, too lost in the exquisite desire of his waiting lips, surrendering entirely to the kiss you shared.

You can find this here on AO3 too.

Credit for the beautiful dividers goes to @saradika-graphics

#valentines day #valentines day 2025 #stardew valley #stardew valley shane #stardew shane #sdv shane #a little gift #ao3 writer #archive of our own #writers on tumblr

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boyneptunee · 1 day ago

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7k, tomarry, so much fluff it'll rot your teeth

(or) Tom gets a new neighbour in the form of one Harry Potter and his dog. (Chaos ensues).

There was a bag on his front door.

Actually, there was a pink bag with white paw prints hanging from his front door handle.

Tom considered the offending object for a long moment, eyes searching up and down the hallway of his apartment building for anything that might be out of place. The same dark blue carpet that definitely needed cleaning, the same cream walls, the same fake plant by the corner that the keeper kept watering despite it clearly being plastic.

He found nothing out of the ordinary.

He sighed, long and tired. He took the offending bag by the handles and opened his door.

His head hurt behind his eyes, low and pulsing. The beginnings of a migraine had been threatening to topple over back and again for at least two hours, and the meeting he'd had to precede over had not made matters any better. There was nothing quite like having to listen to fools argue against each other over the most insignificant things for an entire day.

He was craving for the specific red painkiller that would hopefully make it go away, no matter how many times his doctors had told him the pill was bad for his health. How was he supposed to go about his life with a migraine pulsing behind his eyes and around his brain each day? They hadn't exactly given him any alternatives.

Back at the problem at hand, Tom laid the bag on top of his wooden table. The grain looked possibly offended at the colour that had been placed on top of it.

Inside, he found a handwritten letter and a single picture.

The latter had a delicate penmanship that looped and tilted just this way off center, not enough to look untidy but certainly enough for him to notice. It had not been written in a rush, but rather —and possibly— on a slanted surface.

Hi Neighbour!

My name is Aquila, and I've just arrived at my fur–ever home! I am five years old and still learning I should not bark at every stranger that walks past the door and how to ask to go potty. I am sorry if you hear me crying while my owner is away, know that I'm still getting the hang of being alone at home.

I've left some treats for you in the bag and I hope me being here is not much of an inconvenience.

If you see me on the halls please come say hi! I love meeting new friends.

A pawprint had been stamped on ink at the bottom of the letter, clearly handmade and just before the owner had sat down to write the little note, as the letters stopped just about the tip of one claw mark on the paper.

The picture featured a man with gold wired glasses, hair tied back on top of his head and holding a white haired dog. On the back of the picture, two names had been scribbled in a rushed hand.

Aquila & Harry

Harry, then.

He knew someone had moved to the apartment next door, the only one left in a single corridor that was previously occupied by a couple who'd grated on Tom's nerves more times than he could count. They had a tendency to play loud music just about the time where he got ready to sleep knowing he would have to wake early for work, and the distressing amount of wine bottles by the trash bins every morning made him weary of the means they had to afford to live in the building. If they were drinking themselves to an early grave surely they had no time to work?

But they had gone early that very same year, and so far no one else had signed the lease for the place.

Tom had toyed with the idea of moving, as the apartment next door was slightly bigger, and had better views as it sat on the corner of two streets. Then he thought about having to move his furniture around a second time after almost murdering the moving company he had hired and stopped the train of thought.

(Better let them live another day than having to deal with that again).

Inside the bag he found two bottles of licor, one chocolate and one vanilla flavoured (strangely, his favourite flavours of alcohol) and a single chocolate bar (the dark kind, strong and bitter).

Tom considered the contents for a long moment, before bringing a glass from the cupboard and pouring out the contents to mix himself a drink. The thought of taking the red pill for his headache and being forced to stay awake against his will as the painkillers worked against whatever was wrong on his brain made him want to curl into a ball and weep.

He could not loose another night of sleep. That would make it the third one in a row.

He ate a good bit of the chocolate and set to prepare himself dinner.

A knock stopped him just as he was putting water to boil.

He stood against the stove for a moment, closing his eyes and begging for a moment of solitude had been too much to ask, hadn't it?

The knock came again, three gentle rasps against the door.

The face that greeted him on the other side was non other than Harry, his new neighbour. A white puppy lay at his feet, big eyes gazing up at Tom like he was a new toy come Christmas.

The man held a red casserole at his hands and a pink blush at his cheeks, clearly flustered as he moved from foot to foot.

"Hi."

"Hello." Tom raised a single eyebrow, looking from the man's face to the casserole to his dog. "I got your bag." He settled on, as the man seemed too embarrassed to continue.

"Oh! Um—" Harry moved a bit, almost tripping on Aquila as he tried to shift his weight. "That's good."

"You needed something?"

"Not–not really." Tom took a metaphorical step back, looking at the man from head to toe. He looked just as he had in the picture, the same mess of curls tied loosely on top of his head, the same maroon sweater with golden stars on it. The same grin. "I made too much food?"

"Is that a question?" A slow smirk crawled up his face, unbidden.

Harry continued on babbling.

"I was wondering if you would like to have some? It's just–I heard you come in, and my fridge hasn't arrived yet so I can't really save any of it for later, and I didn't want to throw it out–not that it's bad! It's good I swear I cook for a living and–"

"Okay."

"–and I had already, huh?" Harry looked startled at him, clearly not expecting the answer. "Okay?"

"Yes. Come in, I'll put it on a plate and you can take your pot back." He waved a hand towards the inside of his dark apartment, he had only turned on a few lamps here and there, their orange glow gentle and dim, as his migraines more often than not made him sensitive to bright lights.

"Oh! Yes, thank you–" He moved to step inside and then stopped on his tracks, eyes settling somewhere near his feet. He looked back up at Tom, a question on the tip of his tongue.

"She can come in too, don't worry." The smile sent his way in response was possibly blinding.

The white dog –against all his judgment– entered his apartment slowly, almost sedately and looked and sniffed around from her place stuck to Harry's side. It was atypical behavior, to say the least. She was tall, and she reached Harry's hip easily at the shoulder. Her pointy ears were pinned back.

Harry must have sensed his hesitation as he guided them to the kitchen. He spoke unprompted as he guided them into the kitchen.

"She was rescued a month ago, from a breeding kennel." He sat the casserole on the counter and opened the lid to reveal a thick red sauce sitting on top of pasta, vegetables and meat alike scattered in between. It smelled heavenly, and it made his mouth water. When was the last time he'd had time to cook himself a proper meal? "She doesn't know how to behave like a dog, really. For the first few weeks she didn't know how to walk property either." A sad smile stretched on his face and his hand unconsciously reached for the dog's head. She leaned heavily on his leg and allowed herself to be pet, loving eyes looking up at Harry. "She's having a hard time with separation anxiety." Big green eyes locked on him, begging him to understand.

Tom suspected the food was a bribe, rather than a mishap, to grease him up.

"It's okay." He found himself saying, against his better judgement. The dog looked up as he spoke, assessing him with two different colored irises for a long moment. He stood close together to Harry, and as such she had no trouble leaning over and resting her weight against his own leg.

Harry startled back from where he stood, eyes wide.

Tom looked up at him, a little apprehensive at being used as a resting pole by a rather worryingly big dog.

"Oh." A laugh tore itself from his lungs and he leaned on the counter for support. "Your face! I should have taken a picture." Harry bit his lip as he leaned over to scratch Aquila behind her ear. "You are so good, sweetie." His gaze rose and met Tom's, almost conspiratorially. "She hates men." He declared, a hand on his hip.

"She clearly does not hate you." He pointed out.

"I know! But it took me days to earn her trust, I had to sit with her for hours and hours on end and I even read the entirely of the Hobbit—and you just–stood there." An amused smile settled on his face as he regained his composure.

"I am more of a cat person." He said, just to be contrite.

"Ah. That just about explains it. She has gone and fallen in love with what she cannot have. Typical." Tom rolled his eyes. Harry looked back at the food and gave Tom a suspicious look over. The facade of good Samaritan with clear intentions fell a little flat. "I hope you are not a vegetarian. I put way too much effort into this."

"Your bribe will not go unnoticed, I assure you. Now move over, I have plates right over your head." Tom moved his leg, prompting Aquila to let go and reached from around Harry to pull two plates and two glasses onto the counter, before reaching for the utensils he rarely had the energy to put to use and scooped out a good amount of the still hot pasta into the plates. "Sit on the table would you? I fear the two of you breathing down my neck will not bring dinner faster to your mouths." Harry stood still for a long moment by his side, and when Tom looked over he spied his jaw slack and mouth open.

"How did you know?"

"How did I know you had in fact meant this as an inducement or the fact you haven't eaten?"

A stretch of silence caught between them, as Harry processed the words.

"Huh, both."

"You were too nervous for someone who was just dropping off leftovers, for one. You stomach is making odd sounds, for another." At that, Harry turned impossibly pink. He hurried down the hallway towards the living room. Aquila stood by his feet for a long second before huffing and turning tail to follow her owner.

What strange new neighbours he had somehow acquired.

Harry was a lovely creature of habit, he had come to find.

Too trusting, too kind, too nervous around new people.

He seemed unused to luxuries and complained about the high prices of produce around their neighbourhood more often than not as they sat down to eat each night. (Because dinners where now mandatory, between Aquila wanting to spend time with Tom, escaping at every opportunity a door was open, and Harry still yet to have his fridge delivered, they had come to an agreement to sit down and cook each night just after Tom got home for work).

Harry, who worked at a restaurant where he was definitely overworked to the bone and didn't pay him nearly enough for him to be able to afford to live in their complex.

Harry, who wore baggy clothes three sizes too big in a style that was so clearly not his own and who flinched at loud noises, even Aquila's barks.

Harry, who smiled so softly and blushed so prettily.

Four months of their company and Tom had grown accustomed to the three rasps at his door after he arrived home.

He had grown to know the timber of Harry's sweet voice, the citrus smell of his perfume and the weight of his body as he leaned against Tom for support, whether it be after a long day of suffering through work or to hide his face in the crook of his neck during a scary film.

He had grown accustomed to Harry in ways he hadn't thought possible.

The migraine already pulsing behind his eyes at the early hours of the morning set the tone for the rest of the day.

He was not above murder as he stepped foot at work.

He wore a rage path all day through the building, and his underlyings made sure to steer clear of him all day, giving his office a wide berth.

Coming home should have been a blessing.

Except.

Except he had already taken his pills for the pain, sat down on his couch and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

But Harry did not come.

He tried to recall the conversation from the night before, to see if there was any indicator Harry would be late, or that he would not show up at all.

He made his way to the door with long strides, decided to check if Harry was home at all.

The light coming from beneath the door was not a good indicator, as he knew Harry left multiple lamps on through the living room for Aquila (even if she didn't need it) along with several toys scattered throughout and the door to her cage door wide open.

She would come to the door if Tom knocked, he knew.

So he did.

The tippy taps of her nails against the wood alerted him of her presence. She sniffed long and hard in the space between the door and the floor, before yipping delightedly (and wasn't that wonderful? she had stopped barking first and sniffing second, and it had only taken her some four months).

But there was not a second set of steps approaching the door behind her, and Aquila remained sniffing and yipping on her own.

Tom knocked again, harder this time. He could hear the dog turning and thumping against the wood.

She did not sound distressed, or angry.

Harry was not home.

Tom sighed. He supposed he could get started on dinner on his own.

He had set the plates on the table, food still hot and covered over the oven and a glass of wine dangling from his hand.

Two hours.

He had waited two hours.

He cursed himself back to Sunday for not asking Harry for his number in all the months they had known each other and where Harry and Aquila had all but moved in.

In fact, now that he thought about it, he knew little to nothing about Harry at all.

Sure, he knew he worked in a kitchen where he was regularly verbally assaulted, from the few times he had been able to pry said information out of Harry, and that he was paid an average wage and nothing more.

He loved Aquila more than anything in the world, and Tom had come to find he did too.

But he never mentioned partners, or friends, and much less family.

His world seemed to revolve around Aquila, Tom and the restaurant.

He went out often with Aquila on long walks everyday at least twice and even took hikes around the surrounding mountains every weekend. He pampered her with toys and soft blankies and heating pads for her bed. He felt bad about leaving her in her cage everytime he left come, and as such had decorated the cage with cloths and toys and filled it to the brim with love. The rest of his apartment was suspiciously and pointedly empty.

He spent his nights more often than not in Tom's apartment, cooking or watchig Tom cook. Four months they had known each other, and not once had they missed a meal.

And at last, he worked the day shift at a restaurant downtown, far from their apartment building but not so far he had to take the public transport. He walked there everyday as soon as the sun rose and got home just after lunch rush was over. From what Tom knew and from what little he had seen of his almost empty apartment, he was taking a few classes at the local college but could not afford to take the full blunt of a year's course due to work.

So, he was a student, he worked during the day and he came to Tom at night with his little angelic companion. Nothing about his daily routine explained why he lived in the apartment next to Tom, or why he was missing right at that moment.

Another hour crawled by before he finally (fucking finally) heard the lock on the door to his left turn and open. He could hear Aquila's excited yips and turns as she greeted her owner.

Tom was by his own door and out of the apartment before he could blink. He caught up to Harry just as he was about to close his door.

When he caught a look at his face, he foced his way between the door and Harry, crowding into his space. He had the beggings of a large bruise on his cheek, and his lip had been split open and oozed blood in between breaths, dripping down his chin and neck where it had been carelessly and roughly cleaned.

He didn't look Tom in the eye as he took a step back. Aquila seemed to sense something as off, and stood between their bodies with her hackles raised.

"Harry?" He received no response, and the man only looked towards the floor and away, arms clutching at his side. Actually, he was standing a bit funny, leaning more on one side to the other. Tom narrowed his eyes. "Come on darling, I have dinner ready for you."

"I'm not hungry." Harry muttered back, turning away from him.

Something hot and angry licked at his insides, begging to be let out and to swallow whoever had decided hurting Harry had been a good idea.

He took a deep breath and let it go.

"Dinner, Harry." He insisted, his tone booking no argument. "And possibly painkillers, after. Lord knows you have no medicine in that decrepit bathroom you call your own." He approached him, mindful of Aquila who, as much as she seemed to love Tom, was loyal to Harry to a fault.

He leaned into his space, breathing the same air. If Harry minded Tom so insistent in his space he didn't protest. He leaned his forehead against the side of Harry's curls and took him in his arms gently and steered him out the door.

Aquila followed silently.

Dinner was awkward.

Harry barely touched his food and Tom was too concentrated on his face to finish his.

He did not ask questions he knew he would not receive an answer to. Instead, he let Harry stew in his silence, absentmindedly petting Aquila beneath the table.

Finally, when it was clear neither of them would eat a single bite more, he rose from his chair and set about finding his first aid kit.

When he got back, Harry was still sat by the table, long fingered hand moving the silver fork from one side of the plate to the other, green eyes looking at a point somewhere beyond the living room.

The anger simmered inside of him like a dragon.

He set the kit on the wooden surface a little too harshly, making Harry slam back to himself and startle where he sat. Aquila raised her head, curious at the noise.

Tom took their plates away to be washed later, and when he came back he found Harry sitting sideways on his chair and looking from the aid kit to the front door.

Hah. As if.

"Up." Tom instructed with a wave of his hand. Harry looked up at him, startled. "Get up Harry Potter, or so help me I will drag you up."

Harry's bottom lip stuck out, a knee jerk reaction each time Tom added his last name in conversation, like a reprimand.

He stood up on wobbly legs and tilted his head at Tom, waiting.

He was terribly obedient when he was upset.

He sighed.

He grabbed Harry carefully by one thin wrist and moved him around to the head of the table. He crowded into his space once more and lifted Harry onto the surface by his hips, prompting him to sit by the red kit he had left at the corner.

He tilted Harry's head back by his chin to get a better look at the shiner on his face. Harry stiffened beneath his hands but did not complain or pull away.

He set about cleaning the wound on his lip and looking for an ice pack for what was sure to be a big bruise on the side of his face.

After, he set a single pain killer cut into two by his side and a tall glass of water, knowing from experience Harry could not take his pills dry.

He settled himself in the space between his legs and leaned his hands on the wooden surface by his hips, a stubborn tilt to his eyebrows on place.

Harry would not escape without giving out some answers.

"Who did this to you?" He would not walk around useless questions. Straight to the point and after, straight to bed.

"No one." Harry mulled for a long second. "I fell on the restaurant st–"

"Don't bullshit me. You know better than to lie to my face." Harry snapped his mouth shut with a click. The green of his eyes seemed terribly dull. "Harry," he started, after taking a deep breath and letting it go to calm the rage begging to spill over "no one will harm you here. No one will touch a single hair on your head while you are with me, do you hear? Not a single person. Let my grave be spat on and my body turn to ash before I let anyone treat you with anything less than respect." He touched Harry's cheek, mindful of his sensitive skin as he settled a hand on the back of his curly head. "You need not lie to me, darling. Whatever it is you are hoping to hide, whoever it is that has hurt you has no power here."

Harry's lip wobbled and trembled.

Aquila whined at their feet.

Harry gasped a breath in too fast, hands reaching for the edge of the table as he leaned forward. Tom rubbed his neck with careful fingers. When he lifted his head again, tears where making their way down his face.

"It's a long story." He tried, at first. Tom leaned on his space and hummed, encouraging. "My uh, my uncle. He showed up at the restaurant today. I guess he wanted to see if his nephew was as much as a failure as he had expected." A bitter smile grazed his lips, and one of his hands lifted to hold onto Tom's wrist. He leaned a bit into his touch. "I thought him asking to meet the chef would just a brief talk down on how awful my cooking was–and that would be it. But it wasn't." He paused, closing his eyes and hiding his face against Tom's arm. "He was waiting for me by the back door when I finished my shift. He—" A hiccup left his lips, and it was enough for Tom.

He embraced Harry, holding him close and letting him sob on his shoulder. Aquila bumped her cold nose against his leg and when he looked down he found two judgmental eyes looking up at him.

A shudder went through Harry and the hiccups increased. Tom leaned a head on top of his curls and dragged a heavy hand up and down his back.

He sighed, taking a moment to give Harry a candy that had been shoved somewhere deep in his emergency kit.

"Eat." He mumbled in the space between them, having leaned back to look at him. Harry took the sweet into his mouth with no complains, tears still streaming down his face. "That's it, good boy."

He let Harry borrow himself again onto his neck, and set himself to wait out the storm.

Long minutes passed.

His weight grew more and more as Harry leaned most of his body on Tom.

He let Harry slump completely against him, tired and sleepy and hurt all in one, before he took the executive decision to move him to a more comfortable location.

He grabbed Harry by the back of his thighs, shushing him as he protested between weak sobs, and walked them to his bedroom.

He put Harry down carefully, and he was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. A few stubborn tears made their way down his face, but his breathing evened out and his body slumped in exhaustion.

He let Aquila settle at the foot of the bed, curling in tight circles and keeping watch towards the door.

The candy laced with sedatives certainly worked magic.

Then he was out the door with his hand on his phone.

Finding out exactly who Vernon Dursley was and how he was related to one Harry Potter was easy.

All he had to do was wake Abraxas and prompt him to look into Harry's files. He had been listed in the past as his next of kin–he was the husband of his only known living relative, Petunia Dursley nee Evans. His mother's sister.

Then Abraxas found his private records, and it went downhill from there.

Harry Potter, by all accounts and purposes seemed to be a troubled teen. Skipping classes, trouble concentrating, showing up with bruises and scrapes all over his body. A delinquent if anyone cared to ask.

He seemed to live in the background of everyone's mind's for eighteen years.

Then a god father seemingly popped out of the woods, rich beyond measure. And this man. This man Tom knew by name, if not by face.

Sirius Black. He had been wrongfully convicted of murder and promptly let loose once the court had been aware of his case. He was deemed unstable and too erratic to care for a child, and thus Harry had been left at the mercy of his aunt and uncle until he turned eighteen.

That's where his records all but stopped.

There was, however, a single property on his name: it listed the apartment right next to Tom's as his.

The camaras they found pointing at the alley at the back of a decrepit looking restaurant were more than enough to put a bounty on the man.

Tom made sure all traces of it were gone.

Tom would have to get the real story out of Harry sometime.

Someother time, that is.

For now, he had what he needed.

He gave Abraxas the green light.

Come morning, Vernon Dursley would be nothing but a bad memory on a child's nightmares.

He went back to Harry and settled himself on the uncomfortable armchair he had been meaning to throw out but kept forgetting to. Laying next to Harry as he was felt wrong, even by his standards, and leaving him alone (even if Aquila snoozed by his feet) felt even worse.

So he laid his feet in the bed by Aquila's tail and rested back against the armchair.

He fell asleep with the sound of two synchronized breaths.

Harry, strangely enough, woke first.

He was groggy and disoriented, and only Aquila's familiar weight by his feet let him relax enough to curl into his side. His legs bumped into something as he tried to bring them closer to his chest, and his breathing hitched on his throat.

He lowered the heavy blanket covering his eyes and took a peak at the morning scene in front of him.

Tom Riddle sat in a position that could not be comfortable to sleep on, in a green antique armchair right by Harry. His long legs were stretched out and his feet rested up on the bed, and Aquila had taken the opportunity to lay her own head against the man's shins.

His curls fell over his eyes in a display Harry had never seen in the time he had known him. He always seemed so poised. So put together.

His breathing was deep and even, and both of his big pale hands rested on his stomach.

Harry considered him from his place on the bed.

So long in fact, that when he stopped counting the curls on the man's head and lowered his gaze to his face, he found himself trapped by two intense blue eyes.

From the first moment Harry had settled eyes on his neighbour, he knew he would be trouble. After all, there was no way this handsome, rich man spent all his evenings alone entertaining a broke college student and his emotional support dog.

And yet.

And yet, there he was.

He was more patient than his demeanor would betray, and he always treated Harry and Aquila gently, with care. He let his space be invaded again and again each night, he let Harry make a home in his kitchen and a mess of his furniture, between his clumsiness and Aquila's white hairs just about on every surface of the place.

He was such an intense person, dry and a little abrasive at times, but he always smiled at Harry like there was a secret in the space between them, just theirs.

There was a reason Aquila had taken an instant like to him.

(Harry had too, even if his intentions at first had been to bribe the man into compliance, to not tell on Harry for having a troublesome dog).

(Harry shouldn't have worried in the first place. About Tom. Or Aquila).

"How are you feeling, darling?" His voice was raspy, and he winced as he moved his neck from side to side. Clearly he had slept on an uncomfortable position. "Harry?"

"Hmm? Better?"

"Is that a question?" Tom leaned forward into Harry's space, caressing a warm hand through his loose curls.

"Better." Harry mumbled back, eyes closing and snuggling deeper into the mattress.

Tom hummed back, pleased.

"I'll make breakfast, yeah?" The hand settled at the back of his curls and helf firm. "Sleep some more, Harry."

Harry could do nothing but agree.

He liked Tom's apartment.

He liked it more than his own, at least.

Sirius had given him a whole place for him and him alone (and no furniture).

Harry had been too embarrassed to point it out.

So he had started small.

A mattress, a chair and a table. Utensils.

Then Aquila had come along, and he had not been able to help himself.

He had bought countless things: her cage, blankets, dog beds and cushions alike, toys and treats and clothes and so many collars to stack on one another that made her look like an old lady holding her pearls–

And then, Tom Riddle had come along. And Harry had little need to be in his empty apartment, other than spend the few hours between the time he got back from work, and when Tom arrived back at his place.

So. He liked Tom's apartment.

This, however, had been the first time he had stepped foot into his bedroom.

He knew, logically, that their apartment plans were the same. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, huge living room. A separate kitchen and a big balcony. All of it overseeing the city at their feet. And yet.

And yet, sleeping in Tom's bed, in Tom's room felt alien. New.

He looked at the apartment with new eyes now.

It somehow looked cozier.

He found traces of himself and Aquila all over. From dog toys to blankets thrown over the living room couch, to the dog bed in the corner, to colourful cushions Harry had brought from his own apartment that did not match Tom's own monochrome greys and blacks. Even the carpet on the living room had been his choice, after he had complained one too many times about the cold wood beneath his feet as they sat brushing Aquila and making a mountain of white fur by her side. Tom had snapped back that he would get a cushioned carpet just so Harry would shut up.

And he did.

In the kitchen there were even more traces of himself, things he had forgotten be had brought over from his apartment so long ago. From utensils and pans he had picked out from a magazine one day as they sat around, to silly mugs on Tom's cupboards that would not be mistaken for his.

Had they... had they been living together like this for so long? Harry had not even noticed when Tom's home became his own.

He wondered how long it could last.

Tom was standing by the stove, and by the ever growing pile right by his hip he was making pancakes.

There was an easy lean to his body, shoulders relaxed forward and he was leaning most of his weight on one leg. His hands moved in sure circles, mixing the batter and dropping it on the hot pan. His curls remained untidy, brushed back by a careless hand and in disarray.

Aquila bumped into his side and whined long and low.

Tom turned at the sound, looking over one shoulder, flat spatula on one hand. His blue eyes scanned Harry from the tip of his hair to his littlest toes. Only when he appeared sure that he was not further injured in the minutes that he was not within his sight does he turned back to the stove, turning off the heat and leaving the utensils by the plate filled with food.

He turned to Harry.

"How are you feeling, darling?"

There was a knot of worry ever growing down his throat. A worry that had not gone away since he was little and could not comprehend why no one would love him as he loved them.

"Better." Was all he could utter, leaning his body on the archway to the kitchen. Tom made a humming sound, approaching with long strides.

He took Harry's chin in his hands and tilted his head up against the light. By the wince on his face, he could tell without having the need to feel around his skin that the bruise had gotten darker.

"We should ice this." His fingers moved around the shape of the bruise, careful not to press too hard onto the skin. "How did you sleep?"

"Like the dead." Tom hummed.

"I figured. Why don't you sit down, darling? Let me finish here and we'll eat."

Tom glanced at the timer on the oven and set about finishing their meal.

Harry had a brief moment of panic where he realized he should be at work. His throat closed and he must have made some type of noise, as Tom returned to his side.

"What? What is it?" His hands settled on his body, gentle and searching for any hurt he couldn't see.

"I—work."

"Fuck work, Harry. You're hurt and you should rest."

"I can't miss a day, they'll cut my check and I can't—"

"Don't worry about it." His voice was firm an self assured.

"Tom! I can't afford—" Hands settled on his shoulders and brought his head back up. Two intense blue eyes looked down at him.

"Don't. Worry. About it." It was all but a promise, as he willed Harry to walk down the short hallway towards the living room. His hands guided Harry to a chair and he sat down heavily. "Whatever you need I can more than make up for, Harry."

"And if they fire me?"

"Then you'll be better for it." His hand grabbed his cheeks with one hand and squished. "I mean it, darling. Whatever you need I can get you." He held Harry still as he let him process the words. Finally, Harry nodded.

Had he promised to take care of him and Aquila?

Surely Tom didn't mean he would—be Harry's sugar, did he?

The thought alone made his cheeks warm.

Aquila bumped her cold nose against his side and he squeaked.

Alright then.

After breakfast, Tom insisted of driving him to a private clinic to get checked out, and no matter how much Harry protested and grumbled and actually held onto his front door with both hands for dear life, he would not take 'no' for an answer.

As it was, he found he had two cracked ribs and the split lip had possibly, definitely, certainly needed sutures. (Oh, well. Too late for that).

Tom sat by his side like a particularly dark cloud of anger and resentment, looking down at the poor doctor that addressed him with way too many honorifics to be normal. He also cradled Harry gently and helped him up the examination table.

By the time they got back home, Harry was about ready to starfish on Tom's bed and hope for the best next time he woke. Hopefully in a week's time.

The doctor had given him a list of things he couldn't do, such as: no sudden movements, no heavy height lifting, and definitely no carrying Aquila up.

Tom sat him down on the couch of his living room and went about collecting his medication. As such, he probably didn't notice the fact that the news channel had been left on the TV.

Harry watched with a growing pit in his stomach as the news played out.

Vernon Dursley had been found late that night (early in the morning) by a dried up river bed in the woods. His body had been mauled by a wild creature, the reporter sad. A tragedy, for his family and friends.

No one, it seemed, dared to point out why the ageing man had been alone at night in such a place.

The news reporter only spoke of a kind man who left behind a frail wife and a single son. No mention of Harry.

He was not breathing.

Tom Riddle came back in the room at that moment, tall glass of water on one hand a handful of small boxes on the other.

His steps halted as he took one look at the TV, eyes dispassionate and cold, the kind of look that made children run the other way and people cross the street, before they settled on Harry, and his eyes were warm and kind again.

Harry gulped in a handful of air and struggled to regain his composure.

There was a battle of emotions inside of him.

No one had ever stood up for him, ever. No one had ever looked at Harry with anything more than contempt on their eyes (except maybe Sirius, and he only ever looked sad when he wasn't wasted).

No one would ever kill for Harry, surely.

And yet he knew, deep down, Tom Riddle had everything to do with the mauling of an old man who was getting on his years right after assaulting his nephew.

There was guilt, and mortification. There was also a curl of satisfaction so strong it made Harry question his sanity.

Tom scanned his face, possibly gauging his reaction. A tiny satisfied smirk stole away at his lips, and it was about all the confirmation Harry needed.

Aquila pawed at her dish by their side, and the moment was broken.

Tom let out a long breath, like he'd been holding it in the whole time he looked at Harry, before settling the meds by the small coffee table and urging Harry to take them.

He pet Aquila softly on her head and tugged lightly and playfully on one of her ears. He promised dinner for her and dissapeared again towards the kitchen.

Aquila looked back at Harry, a goofy look to her as her tongue lolled out and she yipped. She looked content, full and a little mischievous.

He was being silly, he decided.

Tom Riddle knew the exact moment Harry caught on. He was terribly quick, the little snake.

He had watched from the corner of the hallway as Harry was stuck dumb by the news on the TV. How the thought process went about and around his head before settling in the cold facts. Tom had leaned his head on the wall, a smile he couldn't fight off right on his face.

Harry was his. Aquila too. And nothing would ever hurt them again.

Days turned into weeks, and Harry never really left.

His apartment was left empty and unused, and one fine friday afternoon while they watched movies snuggled on the couch Tom asked Harry why he hadn't rented it out in the first place, since the monthly payment would have been more than enough to get him a small apartment somewhere in the heart of the city and even leave some money to spare for him to spend on the daily.

Harry—well. He had never thought about it, and he was a little too embarrassed to admit it.

It had all happened terribly fast, after all. Sirius suddenly in his life, the new apartment, Aquila, and Tom.

Then Tom asked him if he would like to rent it out now. The matters of where Harry would stay rather obvious.

"Are you asking me to move in with you?" He couldn't help but ask, the need for confirmation strong in his gut.

"Aren't you already?" Tom answered back, a smirk playing at his lips as he tilted his head in Harry's direction.

"I wouldn't be able to pay my half of the rent and—"

"Harry." He interrupted. The look on his face was terribly indulgent, amused. "You don't need to go back to work. I make more than enough."

"Are you serious?"

"More than. You can be my trophy wife." He said, teasing just a bit if the raised eyebrows and amused eyes had anything to do with it. A slow smile crept up his face, and he leaned his body on Harry where they sat side ny side on the couch. Harry squeaked as he tried to fight him off. "You can prepare dinner for me every day and we can take Aquila on her night walks together—"

"We already do that, Tom!" He laughed as nimble fingers tickled his sides.

"—And we can go grocery shopping together like one of those disgusting couples that don't move past the produce section—" He continued on, like he didn't have Harry down at the mercy of his hands.

"We do that too!" He laughed uncontrollably, his ribs protesting the movement.

"—you already sleep in my bed, you eat my food in my living room in my apartment, you even water my plants—"

"Okay! Okay, point taken." Harry laid on his back, face caged in by two strong arms. Tom gazed down at him gently.

"Good."

The kiss planted on his forehead preceded the one left on his lips.

Tom was warm and heavy, a grounding weight that melted his anxiety away and left him gasping for air as teeth grazed the wound on his bottom lip and bit down. Pain surely shouldn't feel that good.

Tom leaned more of his weight down and one of his hands sneaked around his hips, making him arch up and away from the touch and into Tom's body.

Tom took small bites of his cheek, his jaw before descending like a vengeful god onto his neck. He bit down with intent, and no matter how much Harry protested and tried to pry him away from his skin he didn't let up until he was satisfied.

He feared he may have woken a monster.

The lips that returned to his mouth turned more gentle, languid and warm. Tom slid his tongue against Harry's and he could do nothing but hum at the feeling of the both of them, together and moving as one.

Harry had never felt so free.

There was a bag in the door to his new apartment.

The bag was pink, and it had pawprints on it.

Inside, there was a letter and a single picture of a couple and their white haired dog.

(OR) pruning shears on AO3, 7K, one shot

#soulseeker #ao3 #tomarry #fanfic #tom riddle #tomarrymort #archive of our own #tomarry fic #fic recs #hp fic recs #tom kills people #what is new #so fluffy #its on ao3

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nana-luvy · 3 days ago

Text

-> 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛

warnings: fem!reader, established relationship, just fluff

It had always been special between you two, somehow, to Luke you were just oh so special. You were every day since you’d first come to camp, in mid-fall a couple years back. But it wasn’t because you were already claimed by Aphrodite, or because your piercing eyes had bore into his first with no intention to back out when you met. You were just…special, in a way he couldn’t exactly pin-point yet could somehow elaborate.

You were special in the confidence you wore like one of your necklaces, at all time around you, exuding it effortlessly like a second skin wherever you were, and intimidating aura he wasn’t used to. He was drawn to it in a way he found twisted, wanting to make your resolve waver and to seep in through the cracks to see behind, but being near you always had him buzzing like from the smell of a heady perfume, your presence alone the thing he wanted forever near and yet the sole thing he was so intimidated by.

You were special in the way you always appeared to stay true to yourself, even in the most out of place situations. He’d always remember the day you arrived at camp, black heels —that, and you corrected multiple times since, were called mary-janes— and knee high socks, tight halter top and short ruffle skirt, coming down Half-Blood hill with a pink bag thrown over your shoulder: you seemed so out of place. So you chose to make the place fit you instead, taking one step after the other confidently, winking at people you didn’t know who eyed you while you walked down on the slippery grass, not even tripping once, and Luke had never been so shocked and amazed, not that he remembered.

And you were special in the way you always kept him on his toes, never knowing what could come next, but knowledge he could surrender when it made the blood buzz in his veins any time you looked at him. He should’ve been used to it by now, except he never wanted to get used to it, he wanted to feel the rush, feel the sparks, and you were the one to make it possible.

As you cleared your throat behind him, making him turn around and take you in, he was reminded of that once again, his mind running a hundred miles an hour just to process how you both could’ve ever landed in this situation. The sun was kissing the horizon behind you and he couldn’t care less about its magnificent hues when you stood before his eyes, twisting a strand of your hair around your finger with a smirk adorning your face.

“I barely saw you all day.”

Gods, even just the tone of your voice did things to him he’d never admit.

Luke took a few steps forward, slowly closing the distance between you two as you didn’t even move a single finger, knowing he’d come to you.

“And I’ve been mourning it every second…”

“I’m making a poet of you, aren’t I ?”

The boy’s lips stretched in small grin, trying to contain the dumb smile tugging at them, because you didn’t need your ego stroked even further by seeing him react to the littlest of flirting. “What can I say, I guess I just needed the right muse.”

You giggled right in his ear as his hands found your waist, slightly tickling the bare skin of your sides before finding purchase on the small of your back. Luke’s smile broadened as your own fingers tickled his nape mindlessly, arms slung over his shoulders, his face coming close to yours, his forehead touching yours with little effort as you stood tall in your heels.

“Be careful, Castellan, or I might start to think you’re quite fond of me, in the end,” you teased, tilting your head to the side in that charming way that had his heartbeat unknowingly increase.

“Believe me, dearie, I’m way past that stage,” he started, looking longingly in your eyes. “Better yet so, I’m putty under your gaze, how is that ?”

Your eyes closed as you chuckled, slowly opening back up to catch his gaze searching yours already. “It’s a good start. But, next thing you know…” You brushed a single finger against the side of his face, tracing along the scar you loved to decorate with lipstick marks, your touch lingering on a skin he felt to be heating up by the seconds. His breath almost caught in his throat as the pad of your finger gently traced along the underside of his jaw, tilting his head up. You closed the small gap between you two, leaving a chaste kiss on his pulse-point and a pink lip shape behind, your voice a whisper in his ear. “You’ll be on your knees, begging to carry my bags and kissing the floor I walk on.”

The poor boy could feel the blood rushing throughout his body, set ablaze, while you just stood there knowing perfectly well whatever emotions were stirring up inside him, and choosing to just absentmindedly play with the short curls on his neck. Luke gulped down hard, finally lowering his face to rest it on your shoulder in defeat. “You’re one of a kind, aren’t you ? Having the best of times while you endlessly tug at my heart…”

“Your heart ? Oh I would never, that I would only cherish. But your mind…” He could practically hear the smirk in your voice as you spoke. “Call me cliché, but I want it wrapped around my pinky finger.”

Luke looked up, only to be met by the flashing, content smile that made your face glow when it reached your eyes, and he almost wanted to get lost deep inside them for an instant, before getting his wits almost fully back —his body straightened every time your fingers as little as grazed his nape.

“You’re cliché, dearie, that’s in your dna,” he simply stated, as relaxed as he could be when his heart was hammering in his chest like it was. And he knew it was silly, really, to be this affected when it had been this long since the first time. Yet, it still always felt like the first time when it came to you, he was always unprepared and accepting anything you’d give him. “But promise to never leave me, and I promise I’ll be wrapped around your finger until you’ve wrung me dry.”

You hid your laugh behind an ever-growing smile, slightly biting the side of your lip before bringing your hand between the both of you, a balled fist with the pinky sticking out. “Promise ?”

“Promise.”

And just as your finger interlaced the boy leaned down, catching your lips with his in a kiss full of a passion he wouldn’t ever attempt to hide, blooming inside his chest like a rose in the spring.

And just as you were about to separate, he couldn’t resist leaning forward a little more, your back arching as he held you tight against his front, his lips whispering on yours. “I guess you’re stuck with me now.”

Did i loose the plot along the way ? maybe. But who gonna say a thing huh ?

Also, I wanna develop bimbo!reader now, I fear there is no going back.

Love you byyye ~

Nana <3

#nana's mind ━☆#luke castellan imagine #luke castellan x reader #pjo series #luke castellan x you #imagine #fanfiction #oneshot #charlie bushnell #valentine fic #valentines day #luke castellan valentine

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featherymainffins · 10 months ago

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Ah fuck it's TOH finale anniversary apparently *the worst flashbacks you've ever seen*

#uh oh girl that means its my catastrophic breakup anniversary #which means its time to curl into a ball in a corner and cry #i avoided the show for 8 months afterwards because i used to watch it with him and he introduced me to it as well #so it was really soured for me and i would get stomach pain anytime id try to watch it #it felt like something you want to avoid forever. like a place where bad things have happened to you and you feel like just by visiting #that place that thing might come rushing at you again #i only managed to watch the finale when i convinced a friend to see it with me. i needed someone there to overshadow the bad #so i could think to myself 'this isnt a show you watched with him this isnt something that is him this is a show youre watching with your #friend right now. with your friend who is here and you can watch it together.'#but i still hate being reminded of the finale specifically and of the anniversary of it #like ah yes the day my whole life fell apart and i should have killed myself on the spot #i would be better off dead

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unauthorized-author · 1 month ago

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not to harp on you (same anon who asked the previous questions (you still didn't answer the other questions i sent btw)) but may i ask why you're neutral on the use of ai?

i actually got this ask last night whoops i won't be super detailed (i will in fact be super detailed) but it comes down to the fact that i don't give a shit. I see a lotta of people being like "yk I may be bad at writing but at least I don't use ai on my essays" and i just... don't understand why we're shitting on people like that. a lot of kids just want to graduate, yk? and besides, most of the time they're talking about high schoolers, who are well enough informed to choose whether they want to use chatgpt on an essay or not, to which i still don't care what they choose it's like vaping in my mind, somehow, except vaping is more joked about compared to the usage of ai (from what i've seen, your experience can be totally different!). sure, vaping has been around longer, but keep that same energy. one destroys the lungs and the other destroys the brain, why joke about one and shit on the other? there's a difference between an elementary schooler using it and a high schooler. one could argue that an elementary schooler is stunting their growth but high schoolers actively choose to use it. i don't particularly believe its lazy because some teachers nowadays allow their students to use chatgpt as a resource and ai isn't actively killing people like vaping, unless i missed a murder robot being created or something. an actual take i've seen is that "ai is theft" which is true when it comes to art... but in this "ai is theft" context, the person was talking about using ai on an essay. it's a problem that people apply ai theft to everything. ai can't steal words. and again i can understand why some high schoolers choose to use it. they might be there just to graduate. i don't think that makes them losers or anything, or that they're destined to fail in life. it just makes them want to graduate. and this "anything is better than ai" take is also a bit funny to me because these are the same people who would find a robotic arm cool, or use their phones because believe it or not, a robotic arm is ai. yes, ai steals art off the internet to generate art and uses a lot of resources. i'm not going to argue that point, i agree that ai is bad that way. but I PROMISE YOU a lot more shit uses ai than you think.

that fucking Roomba? yep. ai

nearly every Google service? ai

fucking Spotify?? ai, along with YouTube Music, Pandora, etc.

it makes me wonder what people think "artificial intelligence" stands for? like, it's not limited to the internet, it's simply more advanced in the context of the internet. fucking cash registers are ai sit your holier than thou ass down I remember when Spotify admitted to using ai and people lost their shit. even back then it was stupid to me. do you expect Daniel Ek to recommend you songs himself??? and believe it or not, ai can create things that are pretty good! a guy once told ai to create a recipe that was better than Gordon Ramsay and according to the dude, the recipe was pretty damn good! he may have been biased against Ramsay, but the fact that an ai recipe didn't taste like shit still says something, yk?

"oh ai stole that recipe from the internet" firstly: no it didn't. it COMBINED different recipes to make one.

secondly: … how do you think people cook??? no recipe is original bucko. that ketchup and chocolate spaghetti you made was probably made back in the 1700s

even SHAKESPEARE had inspiration. the bible! he was able to use that inspiration to build his own thing! ai, in that particular cookinng instance (ai art is theft), was basically doing the same thing i know i sound like an ai glazer right now, but i promise you i'm not. 1: let's not import ai quite literally fucking everywhere. i don't want to be judged by a computer screen if i ever got arrested and had to go to court. ai learns from data systems, and if that system includes a bias, then what the ai outputs is also going to be biased. i would highly prefer if we kept it limited to the internet and machinery (many vehicles also use ai via a GPS system) 2: as ai is used more commonly, more people lose their jobs simply because ai is "easier" to train, and possibly more "obedient." i once saw a completely pro-ai guy say something along the lines of "the great depression was caused by humans ai wouldn't do that..." i was sick. ai systems would eventually wear down and cause errors in, say, a banking system, which is why its so expensive to maintain. is it convenient? yes, but also risky as more humans just don't feel a need to work because ai can do it. 3: art theft, as i mentioned before. you've probably heard this to hell and back so i won't explain much. 4: back to point 2, ERRORS. if something goes wrong somewhere, who's responsible? how did it happen? more often than not, multiple people are working on different parts of ai at different times, and because AI systems are (sometimes) simultaneous in, say, generating a response or art, WHAT exactly went wrong is difficult to pin down. if we can't do it confidently, why are we relying on it so heavily? are we ready to face a potentially fatal mistake if something crucial goes wong? i'm not, which is why you won't ever see me talking positively about ANY care that relies SOLELY on ai. if it falters and veers to the right a little too much, someone probably broke six ribs 5: it gives parents an excuse to just not be parents. again, you've probably heard this before so I won't go too into detail, but if you can't be bothered to raise a kid, then don't have one. "o-oh but it's tradition for my fami-" fuck them?? adopt your kid out to someone who'll actually love them. I have zero sympathy for people who throw a tablet in front of their kids and don't spend an ounce of time with them otherwise.

ironically, i've got this while trying to get sources for this post. point 4: errors. there's a ton of other points i didn't even mention, like scamming (people are so gullible nowadays) and laziness (if i EVER read a fic on ao3 and it's ai i'm crashing tf out). but this post is probably getting too long so: TLDR: i don't care for most usages of ai (also yes anon i'll answer your questions soon you asked some heavy ones so)

#if this is the post that blows up i'm killing myself #because as I mentioned previously #you get crucified nowadays if you aren't 100% fuck ai #I felt like the latter half of this post didn't need sources but you can ask if you need them #anyway yeah please don't crucify me :]#that tradition part may sound harmful but some traditions are actively harmful #like forcing babies upon women but that's a talk for another time #jk i'll never talk about it. my blog is meant to be lighthearted and silly #I have a lot of things to say today actually so uh a lot more posts may come out today #i'll probably never bring up this post again because AI discussions can get pretty heated #hellsite #support anarchy (this is a massive joke)#people who are too anti-ai are annoying and people who are too pro-ai are also annoying #mfs complain about the world being judgmental but then turned around #and shit on the first mf they see that dares to breathe of their phone #“but ai is actively contributing to the harm of the environment” sorry bro but i don't particularly care that much #the world is in an especially bleak place now and humans have been harming the environment since we've evolved from neanderthals #NOT to say that i support pollution or anything! just saying that i find that point in this case (AI) mundane at best #i want to be able to breathe clean air and walk on soil don't throw your shit everywhere #this might be a massive hot take since everyone must take a side nowadays #maybe i'm a little nihilistic but if we want to start somewhere to combat pollution it has to start with humanity #don't forget we created and/or amplified all of our issues #this might be messily formatted but give me a break i was in a rush #fourth ask (i think i'll check later)#wouldn't it be funny if i posted immediately after this post to cover it up #i'm not going to do that though (pretty sure i just contradicted myself lol)#look if i do post multiple times today (like answering anon's questions that i left unanswered for a month whoopsies)#then it isn't going to be because of me wanting to cover this post up k? k #done rambling #I sound so old saying “nowadays” I promise i'm not lol I'm part of Gen Z

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itsalwaysdark · 6 months ago

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i do need 2 work on rewiring my brain so that my immediate very first thought whenever i dont do a small task (like brushing ny teeth taking a shower picking up my room etc) isnt 'We Should Kill Connor ." this would be pretty good for me to do. putting this on the list

#its difficult. i used to be rly good abt not doing kms type jokes bc i did when i was younger and then i stopped bc of um . stuff #nd i think it rly was good for me nd then ykw started making them a LOT and now i do them constantly and ik itis bad for me like. as a guy #whos been suicidal since i was 7. yk. ik itisnt good for me but its hard #idk. i need 2 try 2 stop making them again. like idt ppl who make them r evil I personally dont tend to use them very seriously #it rly is judt a like. Ugh something annoying happened i should kms. but like. witht he we should kill connor joke its Less and less a joke #and more just feeding into ummmmm. the bad parts of my thing that i have to be vague abt so ppl dont worry.#Im not planning anything its not that. its just a belief i have that is ummm concerning to many but very comforting to me and keeps me sane #but i dont like 2 talk abt it . bc ppl tend to get worried its rly not anything that bad its judt likeee. I know that thing is true and #there isnt anything i can do to stop it from happening so i made peace with it ages ago and its comforting that i dont have 2 like. worry #abt whatll happen bc ik whatll happen #sry im being vague ive like. i think ive mentioned it a couple times and ppl get very concerned (my old psych literally told me verbatim #That sounds so terrifying.) and likeee. there have been times its scared me a lot like i can remember a few times i woke up having a panic #attack bc i didnt want to do it but i know thats whatll happen and its fine. but it wont be any time soon #it keeps me from doing anything honestly bc like. why rush FJFNFJNFNik itll happen eventually no matter what i do so even when it gets bad #enough i think abt it im like. yk. it helps. i kind of lost a bit of vagueness. please dont worry abt it fr like. it keeps me sane it keeps #me calm. but anyways i say all this to sayyyy that like. idk it might be a while b4 i commit to trying to stop making jokes like that just #bc like. i have a lot of other stuff abt me i need 2 fix first but i think it would probably be good for me if i stopped. sigh. which suck #bc like its been said time and time again that like. Im going to kms is just like. it encapsulates feelings very well there r like no other #exclamations that fit. aside from the like. Krill my shellfish type things but thats the reason i slipped back into just saying kms in rhe #first place so. UGH. and theres so many fucking stupid tjmblr ones. like no im not going to sub Kys for Go step on a lego >_< bc like... im #not 1. 5 or 2. 27. the 2 ages i think ppl would say shit like that.#sry my vendetta against 27 year olds is neverending idk i just dont like whatever happens to tumblr users of dhat age. ive mentioned it #several times inwont go into it and im probably near out of tags anyway #ive got 7 more spend em wisely one supposes. idk. its just difficult. ik its judt words and shit and im sure i cn come up with good #alternatives. theres judt like not any rhat r like the same vibe without also reinforcing My stuff in an unhealthy way. idk. idkk #like not that making kms jokes is gonna make me do it anytime soon but like yk . ik i cant blame my self loathing spike on this alone #bc ive like. Beeeeeeeen going through some stuff thats contributing way more #but i do think before i started making these jokes again my self loathing and like. rhe amt of time i thought abt it was less . idk #sui ment #<- jic i tried not to be like. too much. but you know

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sticky-sugar · 6 months ago

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try it. (matsukawa issei x reader)

tags/cw: roommates to lovers, somnophilia, fingering, mattsun sends porn as a coping mechanism, size kink if you really squint

word count: 3.1k

“i’ve always wanted to try that.”

issei chokes on his beer when you speak. you point at the tv in explanation, as though he needs one. the scene playing has just started out with a couple in bed, spooning while they fuck. everything’s covered, but it’s easy to tell through the blanket that the woman’s leg is lifted, her back arching against the man’s chest while she cries out lewdly.

“never been fucked in the morning?” he jokes, keeping his eyes trained on the screen so he doesn’t have to look at you. his laugh sounds awkward even to him.

“mm-mm.” you shake your head, draining your wine glass, and he can’t tell if that’s a confirmation or a rejection of his guess. but he can tell that that wine bottle on the coffee table is empty, because you would never say these things to him sober.

“not that part,” you explain. frowning when you realize there’s no wine left, you rise from the couch, disappearing from the room and padding down the hall. issei sighs in relief at the moment alone, running his fingers through his hair and tugging hard.

“she’s drunk,” he whispers to himself, a reminder. “she’s drunk, and she’s your friend. and you can’t afford rent anywhere else, you stupid fuck.” that’ll do it. he’s broke as shit, and you’re a good friend. he can steel his nerves with those facts.

“she was asleep when he started,” you call from the kitchen.

fuck.

issei drops his head back, hitting it on the wall a few times with purpose. fuck, fuck, fuck.

you come back in, and he straightens, yanking the throw blanket over his lap. you’re too drunk to notice.

you’re too drunk to notice much of anything, really — including your own running mouth.

“she was asleep,” you say again. “and he fucked her anyway—“ you rush to explain yourself, holding a hand out when his eyes find yours, wide and uncertain. “consensually, obviously.”

that doesn’t help. he’d been assuming that, but you confirming it makes it worse.

somnophilia, his mind whispers, the word latching itself to you.

“i dunno,” you shrug, your refilled wine glass brought to your lips. “i think it’s hot, i guess. i’d try it.”

he really can’t afford rent anywhere else.

—

you’re scouring roommate ads in a hungover daze the next morning.

what is your problem?, you think, rolling over to groan into your pillow. you open your bank app, staring at the number in your checking account and wondering uselessly if it’s enough to afford a place on your own. one where you’ll never have to look mattsun in the face again.

why did you tell him that?

your brain flashes through two bottles of wine and drunk admissions, and you switch over to uber eats, deciding that cooking is simply not an option today. standing in that kitchen for more then four seconds and risking running into him is not an option.

you know why you told him that. you know exactly why you told him.

you told him because, despite every coping mechanism you’ve tried over the years of living with him, matsukawa issei persists in being the most attractive man you’ve ever met.

you told him because you wanted to test the waters. why you would ever test the waters with somnophilia, of all things, and not something standard and vanilla like ‘making out with a friend just happens sometimes’ or ‘drunk hookups aren’t so bad’, you will never know.

but you’d told him because you think about it. you think about him, doing things like that. things that aren’t standard or vanilla or easily explained or plausibly deniable.

you think about matsukawa issei fucking you while you sleep. and maybe it’s happened one too many times. maybe now it’s all you think about, enough that it comes up in your stupid, drunk admissions.

maybe — just maybe — you hope he might take you up on it, now that it’s out there in the open like that.

but that’s just a maybe. so you’re looking for another apartment, on the very real chance that he’s going to call you a freak and never speak to you again.

your phone buzzes in your hand.

it’s a text from him.

[10:17 AM]

mattsun: [link attached]

your face crumples into a frown. “what?” you murmur, jabbing a thumb on the link and hoping it’s not a virus.

your phone starts moaning at max volume.

you scream, slamming down on the side button to lower the volume as the video intro plays through. your eyes fly to the title.

milf fucked by son’s friend while she’s sleeping

there’s no fucking way he just did that.

[10:19 AM]

mattsun: smth like that?

“matsukawa!” you scream, rolling out of bed and storming out into the hall. he’s laughing loudly from his room, and you all but kick his door down. “what the fuck is your problem?!”

he’s in bed, cackling gleefully and covering his face with his blanket — but his eyes are anything but shy when he looks at you.

“just trying to ease the tension-“

“by sending me porn?!”

he shrugs and gestures to his phone. “im just saying, you’re not alone! at least—“ he glances down at the screen “—3.8 million other people are into it, too-“

you scream in frustration, turning and stomping back to your room. his laughter follows, echoing through your door even when you slam it.

he does it for two weeks straight. every few days, you wake up to a new link, each video titled something more obnoxious than the last.

guy takes step-sister while she takes a nap

mom wakes step-son up with a special surprise on his birthday

repairman finds sleeping beauty home alone

each one draws an irritated screech of his name and the echoing giggles of satisfaction from his room.

you could stop it. in fact, he’s asked you more than once if you want him to.

‘if you really want me to stop, i’ll stop, he’d said in your kitchen last week.

‘just say the word,’ he’d reminded you on his way out one morning.

‘i think you and i both know how important consent is,’ he’d murmured just two nights ago, leaning on your doorframe, his eyes hot on yours.

you’d shivered under his gaze and pretended to be engrossed in something on your phone. you’d hoped he couldn’t see the way you’d pressed your thighs together, but when you looked up, he was already staring down at them.

he’d met your eyes again and just hummed, flicking his dark eyebrows up at you before turning away. your phone had buzzed with a new link only seconds after his bedroom door had clicked shut.

you’re certain he knows why you haven’t told him to stop. that the truth is that you don’t want him to stop. you’re certain he’s testing the waters now, too.

because each video he sends you gets closer and closer to being about roommates.

your phone buzzes in your hands. you wonder if he knows that you watch each one, waiting for him to pull the trigger on the one that sits unspoken in the space between you.

he does, a week later.

—

you’ve caught him, issei realizes belatedly.

maybe he should have noticed after you started sitting closer to him on the couch. or maybe after you’d refused to tell him to stop sending you porn. or maybe even after he’d sent you something titled ‘roommate can’t help himself while she sleeps’ at 4 in the morning and you hadn’t called the cops on him.

maybe he should have realized you’d caught him after any one of those. but he doesn’t. he doesn’t realize it, not until this very moment, as you’re standing from the couch and bending over to clean the table of empty beer bottles before bed.

he doesn’t realize it until he realizes you’re not wearing any underwear.

he glances at you shamefully when you bend at the waist, hoping you don’t look back and catch him. and then he coughs violently, choking on his own spit and drawing your attention.

he waves you off, blushing furiously and not even bothering to stop his eyes from flying to your ass when you just shrug and bend over again. your pajama shorts have ridden up, but there’s no lacy edge on pink panties where there should be.

yes, he’d noticed years ago that these shorts tend to ride up and not mentioned it. yes, he knows what kind of panties you wear. yes, he has a favorite pair.

what are you gonna do if you find out, call him a pervert? he’d sent you roommate somnophilia porn and you’d made him coffee in the morning.

“‘kay, goodnight,” you mumble, and issei wonders if you’re shy about it or if he’s just hoping you are.

“g’night,” he breathes, eyes finding yours. you keep eye contact all the way out of the living room. your eyes drop to his lap at the last second, and he watches a grin stretch across your face just before you disappear from the room.

he looks down at his lap, and then he swears under his breath. he’s visibly hard in his sweatpants.

—

he feels like a pervert. he really feels like a pervert.

he stands in the hall outside your bedroom, one hand on the knob, feeling like a pervert. it’s 2 in the morning, and he feels like a pervert.

he sighs to himself and turns the knob slowly — ever so slowly, because he knows how it creaks, and he doesn’t want to wake you. he pushes the door open carefully, and then he finds you in the dark, moonlight spilling over your body.

you’re completely naked.

you’re on your stomach, blankets draped over your lower half and one knee bent out toward the wall. issei can see the expanse of your bare skin and the swell of your breast, but you’ve got your back slightly to him, so he can’t see everything.

but it’s enough.

he breathes hard, stepping into the room and shutting the door silently behind him. he runs his fingers through his hair, tugging hard and giving a soft sigh as he pads over to you.

when he lowers his knees to your mattress, it’s with his heart in his throat and his cock straining against his pants. you look so innocent, so sweet like this, even while he’s sliding the blankets off of your skin and exposing you in the moonlight.

is he really allowed to want this as badly as he does?

your breath is steady, only changing slightly when he braces himself behind you, propped up on one elbow. he scoots toward you, breath caught in his throat, and then slides his hand under the back of your knee. you shiver, probably because his fingers are ice cold, and he keeps his eyes locked on the side of your face.

when you don’t give any other sign of waking, he lifts your leg and hooks it backward over his knee, opening your body up for him.

he swears under his breath, staring down at you in the moonlight.

you shift, adjusting to the new angle of your body with a sigh. your back presses to his chest, and issei has to press his lips together so he doesn’t moan at the sight of you.

he keeps his eyes on your face when he slides his fingers along your inner thigh, watching you intensely as his icy fingertips dance close to the spot between your thighs that’s radiating heat.

when he cups your bare cunt, your skin breaks out in goosebumps, but you don’t move otherwise. issei moans now, because your body knows what he’s doing, but you don’t.

he’d had a feeling before — in the weeks between that moment on the couch and this moment right here — that he’d unlocked a new, previously untouched fantasy. that his reaction to your drunken admission might have been about more than just being attracted to you.

he sees it now. now, as he’s sliding two fingers between your folds and watching as you remain completely unaware, he realizes that you’ve done something to him. that you’ve made him want to do this to you, tonight and every night after.

it takes every ounce of his self-control not to shudder and moan in your ear when your pussy twitches under his fingers, reacting to him even when you don’t.

he drops his head to your chest, eyes locked on your face as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth. your lips part, and he freezes, but the sigh that falls out is nowhere near conscious, so he keeps going, sucking and licking and grazing his teeth over the bud while he massages your cunt with his now-warm fingers.

the first sign that you’re reacting is the growing ease with which he’s able to push his fingers against you. your entrance becomes slick, and he can’t help that he pushes his hips against your ass in response, seeking relief. he drops his touch lower and swipes the pads of his fingers through the mess there, spreading it all over your cunt.

when he circles your clit, slippery and warm now, your breathing changes, harder and rougher. the rise and fall of your chest pushes at his mouth, and he latches on with fresh fervor, watching your brows furrow and your lips twitch at the onslaught of sensations.

it shouldn’t be as easy as it is for him to push his middle finger past your entrance.

“fuck”, he whispers despite himself, mouth slipping off of you with a gentle pop and eyes rolling back in his head. your walls pulse around his finger, warm and velvety and wet beyond belief. his cock twitches hard in his pants as he slides his finger in and out of you, searching for that spongy spot that’ll wake you up.

he knows you might have wanted him to fuck you like this, but he can’t help himself anymore. he doesn’t have it in him to be careful anymore.

when his ring finger joins his middle, it’s with intent. the push is rough, bullying your cunt open with the size of his fingers, no doubt longer and fuller than you can get on your own.

you shift under him, a quiet noise of question leaving you, and he lifts his head, attaching his lips to the crook of your neck.

“y/n,” he whispers, more a moan than anything else. “need you.”

he sucks on the column of your throat while you come to, his fingers curling and spreading inside of you — his sloppy attempt to prepare you for him.

“h-huh-“ your head lifts slightly, and then you’re slamming it back against the pillow, your back arching. “oh, my god, mattsun-“

he almost comes in his pants when you say his name like that.

“couldn’t help myself,“ he starts, shaking his head and pushing his body against yours almost desperately. “you were so pretty.“ your cunt tightens around his fingers in response, and he files that away for later. keeps it in mind, the things that make you react like this. “need you so bad, y/n-“

“yes, god yes,” you breathe, a whine trapped in your throat. you turn your head, back still pressed against his chest, and drop your still-sleepy eyes to his lips.

the coil under issei’s navel tugs hard when he realizes how well he can read you.

he pushes his mouth against yours eagerly, moan unrestrained when your tongue slides against his. he wonders if you know how often he’s thought of this moment, years of wanting you and craving the feeling of you coming undone under his fingers.

“please,” you whisper against his lips, back arching when he pushes the pads of his fingers against that spongy spot that makes you whine. “more, mattsun.”

he groans, shivering when you pull his bottom lip between your teeth. “not yet — it’ll hurt,” he murmurs, leaning on every molecule of self-control.

“i can take it,” you just say, pushing your ass back against his aching cock. “promise.”

he never had that much self-control to begin with.

his moan comes out in a shuddered breath, overpowered by the sound of you whining when he slips his fingers out of you. he shoves his sweats down to his knees, meeting your eyes and seeing the urgency he feels reflected in your eyes.

when he slides his cock between your folds, it’s with a choked groan and a heaving pant in your ear.

“can i- are you sure-“ he stutters, already lining himself up at your entrance.

“please, please, please,” you babble, arching your back to make the angle easier on him.

you come around his cock before he’s even halfway in.

there are stars in his eyes by the time you’re done.

you cry out for him, shaking and clenching down hard, and he can’t do anything except bury his face in your hair and keep your leg lifted high with a trembling hand.

“fuck,” he breathes, voice tight. “fuck, y/n-“

“more, mattsun,” you sob. he thinks you might be the girl of his dreams.

pushing the rest of the way in, he shoves down his own orgasm, fighting and kicking and forcing it away so he can last more than thirty seconds inside of you.

he only manages a minute before he’s spilling into you with a stuttered moan of your name, face buried in your neck and head full of static.

you’re just slumped against him by the time he comes to his senses, breathing hard and synced with his.

“sorry,” he mumbles into your hair, ears burning with embarrassment. “i swear i usually last longer than that-“

you laugh, tired and still weak but bright all the same. “yeah — so do i.”

he snorts, pulling out slowly and letting your leg drop closed, trying his best not to moan at the feeling.

“are you sure that was okay?” he asks, a tiny inkling of doubt still seeded in his veins. you just giggle, whispering his name in fond exasperation.

“sorry, which part of me sleeping naked was a warning sign?”

“shut up,” he mutters, curling himself around you and feeling the beginnings of exhaustion start to drain his energy. “i’m staying here tonight. i don’t do one-night stands.”

you just turn in his arms and wrap your arms around his neck. “was i that good, mattsun? i was asleep for half of it.”

you’re gonna be the thing that kills him, he just knows it.

#banner by @/cafekitsune !!#matsukawa x reader #matsukawa issei #matsukawa smut #haikyuu smut #hq smut #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader

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peachessndreamss · 6 months ago

Text

Weirwood Tree

Summery : While in labour with their second child, Cregan and his wife take s short walk to the Weirwood tree to help get things moving.

Characters : Cregan Stark x f!wife reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings : Pregnancy and childbirth (nothing explicit)

Word count : 3k

A/N : Turns out you never shake being a Stark girl, Ily Cregan so much.

“I’m sorry t’say it, my lady, but your labours have slowed up,” the midwife said softly as she drew the sheets back over Lady Starks bent knees before dipping her hands in a bowl of water.

“Slowed up?” Lady Stark repeated incredulously, dropping her head back on the feather pillow, “but it's been hours already,” she added, tears burning her eyes.

The second child of Lord Cregan stark and his lady wife was in no rush to make their way into the world. Despite the frequency and strength of her earlier pains once the midwife and maester had been sent for, everything seemed to have come to an uncomfortable halt.

The midwife had brought her ancient grandmother along with her, known through Winterfell and the winter town as Auld Joan, she had been a midwife in her own time and had delivered Cregan's father and uncle. She was mostly blind and deaf now but still attended births but spent most of the time sitting as close to a heat source as possible and dispensing wisdom if necessary. She was currently sitting in a chair next to the roaring fire, her ancient hands clasped on her lap, knuckles bulging out of shape and fingers curled like claws.

“I know it's been a while,” the midwife said soothingly, placing a warm hand on Lady Stark's knee, “but sometimes it's just like this,”.

“The last one wasn't like this,” Lady Stark grumbled, her mood darkening as she tried to shift around into a more comfortable position.

“You mustn't compare one with another,” the midwife soothed before touching a cold cloth to the lady's forehead.

“A walk will geyit moving ,” the old woman wheezed from her seat by the fire, “no’ this lying about,”.

The maester, who had been mostly disinterested in proceedings up until this point shot the old woman a dark look, he was standing in the far corner of the room, a leather case of vicious metal tools clutched jealously to his chest. His grey robes matched his grey and sickly looking skin. He wasn't particularly interested in births or deaths or the everyday ailments of life and resented being summoned to the birthing room of any woman.

“This position is agreed upon as being the correct way for labouring mothers,” he said coldly in a clipped southern accent.

“Agreed by men who know nothing about it,” the crone grumbled.

“What does she mean?” Lady Stark asked the midwife who was now gently feeling the swell of the lady's belly.

“Baby's not quite in righ’ place, that's why things have slowed,” she explained as she pressed on the left side of the belly, Lady Stark winced, “but grandmother thinks a little walk might get things moving again,”.

The midwife glanced over at her grandmother who had closed her eyes and was now looking peaceful in the flickering light of the fire, she looked back at her lady and dabbed the cloth over her cheeks before putting it back beside the bowl of cold water.

“What do you think?”Lady Stark asked.

She shrugged, making a point not to look towards the maester before replying.

“It helped me with mine, and it wouldn't do you any harm,”.

The maester opened his mouth to disagree and lady stark held up her hand to silence him.

“Just walking through the keep, out into the godswood for the fresh air should do it,” the midwife continued.

The lady nodded and lifted herself up onto her elbows, she addressed the maester, privately enjoying ordering the sour faced man about.

“Lord Cregan is outside the door, fetch him in,” she said.

Cregan Stark had paced the halls outside of his wife's rooms since he'd been asked to leave them several hours before. While he wasn't accustomed to being removed from parts of his own castle he respected that father's, even lords, were not expected to be present at the births of their children,so he was surprised to hear the door opening when he was fairly certain nothing much had happened yet.

“My Lord?” The voice of the maester echoed off the walls as the lord strode into view, “your wife would like to see you,”.

He nodded, his face stern as he stepped past the man and into the warm, dark room.

“Seven Hells,” he murmured as he pulled at the collar of his shirt, instantly feeling the heat of the room rolling over him like a wave, sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip.

As he looked around the room he was surprised to see the midwife helping his wife into her fur boots, a long, heavy cloak already covering her shoulders.

“Going somewhere?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

She turned her flushed face to him and smiled.

“Yes, we're going for a walk,”.

Cregan’s brows rose but he nodded without further comment, knowing better than to ask questions. He watched nervously as the midwife helped his wife to her feet, ready to spring forward at any moment if it looked like Lady Stark might lose her balance.

Once he was happy she was safely on her feet, Cregan stepped towards them, offering his arm to his wife, who took a small step and linked her arm through his.

“Twice around the godswood’ll do it,” Auld Joan spoke from the chair, she opened one ancient eye that could just be seen through the folds of skin that made up her face.

“Or as far as you need’t,” the midwife added, her eyes flicking towards the maester.

From the darkest corner of the room the maester muttered under his breath “foolishness” but no one else could hear him or pay him a moment's more attention.

As the Lord and Lady of Winterfell stepped out of the stifling room and into the cooler corridor of the keep they both gave a sigh of relief. As they walked they instinctively drew closer to one another. Finding comfort and strength in each other's presence.

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Cregan said as they stepped through the door of the keep and into the much colder air of the inner bailey. The ground was a mess of mud, straw, snow and grey brown slush that cracked and crunched under their boots.

“Yes,” she agreed, her hand tightening on his arm as her foot slipped a little on a patch of hidden ice, “Auld Joan felt this would be the best way to get things moving again,”.

Cregan nodded, “She's seen a fair few babes born in her time, she knows what she's talking about,” he paused and took a deep breath of cold air, “I think she might have even delivered my grandfather,”.

“Surely not!” She exclaimed, looking up at her husband's handsome profile, “that would make her more than a hundred years old,”.

“I've heard of stranger things in these parts,” Cregan said with a shrug.

They walked quietly together, moving slowly and carefully through the slush.

“Not as easy as last time then?” He asked as they made their way past the archery butts where the young men of the household were practising and past the stables with their snorting horses and young boys shovelling straw.

“No, this one seems to have an obstinate Stark streak in them already,” she replied with a soft laugh that sounded like music to Cregan's ears.

“I seem to recall your own family are known for their stubbornness so I won't be taking all the responsibility for that,”.

“Pigheadedness, I believe my father called it,” she replied with a laugh, Cregan gave his own snort of laughter.

“Your father certainly has a way with words,” he agreed. Recalling a few choice phrases her father had used for him during their courtship.

As the pair crossed into the godswood the sounds of the keep and the town beyond the walls seemed to fade away and they became the only two people in the world. The ground was covered in a dusting of snow which had frozen overnight and now crunched under foot. From the dark canopy of the trees small birds sang between themselves and bounced from branch to branch, leaves rusting and falling to the ground in their wake.

“Aly is worried we won't have enough time for her when the baby arrives,” Lady Stark said as they passed under the first dark boughs, “she kept asking me if we were going to send her away when I was putting her to bed last night,”.

“She's a sensitive soul,” Cregan replied with a soft laugh, his mind wandering to the little girl who was at that moment playing in the same nursery he played in as a child, waiting for his own younger sibling to be born.

“I dread the day we do need to send her away,” she lamented, drawing her body even closer to his in the cold air. Her free hand resting low on the swell of her belly.

“We've many years before that day, my love,” he soothed, “and perhaps many more babes to fill our home,”.

Lady Stark laughed softly, feeling the dull ache of her labours growing in strength as they followed the well known path through the trees.

“You are insatiable, always wanting more,” she said softly and Cregan laughed.

They had been married 6 years and now were as comfortable with one another as any married couple could expect to be. Having been friends before they’re union had made things easier but the months after Cregan’s return from war had tested them to their limits. The time spent apart had been long and difficult for the both of them, when Cregan had left he was already old beyond his years but on his return he was darker and colder than the longest winter night. He’d forgotten laughter, softness and gentleness and his first few months back in Winterfell had been fraught as the two learned to live with one another again and find their way back to the happiness they’d briefly shared before the dragons tore the realm apart.

The followed a well trodden path through the woods, her arm wrapped tightly through his and his hand resting over hers, warm and solid. As they walked, Cregan listened to her breathing, noticing every change to her breath and hitch in her voice. He was ready to take her in his arms at any moment to rush her back to the midwife if was necessary.

They turned a corner in the path and were now on course to the weirwood tree, its ancient face seemed to watch their approach and its blood red leaves reflected in the black water at its roots.

Suddenly Lady Stark stopped, her free hand going to her belly with a sharp intake of breath, she groaned, her teeth biting into her top lip as a strong contraction wracked her body. Cregan tightened his hold on her, fear gripping at his heart and twisting his stomach.

After a few seconds of pain her face relaxed and her eyes opened, her cheeks were flushed with colour and despite the cold there was sweat at her hair line.

“I think this might be working,” she said with a small smile, “or perhaps the baby can feel the tree,” she added, glancing toward the weirwood.

“A good Stark then,” Cregan replied, forcing a lightness in his voice he didn’t feel.

She stepped toward the tree and he followed her closely, never letting her more than an arm's reach from him. Once close enough she placed her hands on the tree, feeling the rough bark rasp against her skin.

“Do you think the old kings of the north were born under this tree?” she asked, turning her face up as a shaft of wintery sunlight broke through the dense leaf cover, “snow and leaves for their midwife?”.

Cregan raised his eyebrow in thought for a moment before replying.

“They were certainly conceived under it,” he smiled.

“Yes, I remember the stories,” she agreed, turning to look at her husband and seeing the playful glimmer in his eyes.

During the long months of the war she’d found comfort in the thousands of books in the Winterfell library, starting with the histories of the North going all the way back to the first men and how those ancient kings of the North did everything important in their lives in sight of a weirwood tree, they were born, married, made oaths and died as close to the trees as they possibly could. The histories had included stories of rituals the ancient peoples had contrived to conceive their children under the boughs of the weirwood trees, they believed these children would have the gifts of prophecy or live impossibly long lives because the powers of the tree flowed through them.

“Perhaps, when you’re healed, we should try it ourselves,” Cregan teased.

“When this one is delivered I’ll let you know if you’ll be welcome in my bed again,” she replied with a sly smile, before adding “my lord,”.

Cregan gave a bark-like laugh, stepping closer to her and slipping his arm over her lower back and around her waist. She turned to face him, moving her hands from the ancient and cold bark of the tree to the living warmth of his shoulders, she studied his features before taking a deep breath and letting her forehead press against his. Another contraction wracked her body, she groaned and gripped tightly at the fur and wool of his cloak, taking strength from his body into her own.

“I think we need to go back,” she said softly, their foreheads still pressed together.

“I think so,” he agreed without hesitation.

Keeping his arm wrapped around her waist the two of them turned, she leaned heavily on Cregan as they completed the loop around the godswood and headed back through the castle courtyard. The space now almost completely empty as most of the household had been summoned for the midday meal.

The progress was slow but they soon made it back to Lady Stark’s chambers, the room was cooler now, the windows had been thrown open but the coverings drawn across them to keep the room dark. The two women were sitting by the fire, talking quietly while the maester was still standing in the corner of the room, glaring.

The midwife jumped to her feet and took Lady Stark’s arm, allowing her to slip from Cregan’s hold and move toward the bed.

“How are you feeling my lady?” the midwife asked softly.

“It helped, the pains are coming much more quickly now,” the lady replied.

“Baby will be here soon,” the midwife agreed, “perhaps before the noon meal is over,”

Lady Stark glanced over her shoulder at her husband pausing by the door. His broad shoulders blocked out almost all of the hallway behind him.

“I want you to stay,” she said softly as she was helped back onto the bed.

He smiled but shook his head.

“This is not my place” he said softly, as he felt a burning sensation at the back of his throat and in his eyes as he fought the sudden overwhelm of emotions.

“Thank you, my lord,” the old crone said from her seat, “we’ll take care of them,”.

Cregan nodded, knowing well enough when he was being asked to leave, he gave his wife a final look before stepping out of the room and closing the door behind himself and resuming his pacing. He wondered if his own father had paced nervously or if he had taken to the woods to hunt until the deed was over with and the child was cleaned and neatly wrapped in a blanket. He couldn’t imagine being any further than the castle gate while Lady Stark laboured.

As the midwife predicted the midday meal hadn’t finished before there was the high pitched, squalling cry of a newborn that caused Cregan to stop in his tracks and lean heavily against the wall of the hallway, his hand clutching at his heart that was beating fast enough to burst.

The door to the chambers opened and the midwife stepped out, a smile on her face as she saw her lord in a moment of unguarded emotion.

“A son, my lord, hale and hearty and with plenty to say for himself,” she said, the sounds of the crying child still coming clearly from the room behind her.

“God's be praised,” Cregan said, his voice cracking with emotion.

“Come meet him,”.

Cregan felt his knees turn to water when he stepped into Lady Stark's rooms, the sight of his beloved wife cradling a squalling newborn was a joy that pierced his heart like an arrow.

“Your son, my lord” she said with a tired smile, turning the bundle just enough for Cregan to be able to see the child's face.

He stooped and took the child, cradling him close to his chest, for a few seconds the child stopped wailing, his blue eyes opening wide and taking in his first sight of his father. The two of them looked at each other for a few seconds, Cregan's own eyes filling with tears. One hot tear was about to track down Cregan's face when the baby in his arms screwed his eyes shut, opened his mouth and started to howl, his cries even more desperate than before.

Lady Stark laughed from her seat on the bed, holding her arms out to take the child back.

“Give him back, you're upsetting our son,” she said, grinning at Cregan who jealously clung onto the child, rocking him gently and trying to sooth the screaming babe.

“Sorry my boy,” Cregan said softly, “but you'll just have to get used to me,”.

#cregan stark #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x female reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfiction #tom taylor #fanfiction #hotd #hotd fanfic #house stark #cregan #cregan fanfic #cregan x oc #cregan x reader #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark x you #cregan stark headcanons

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soaps-mohawk · 5 months ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 38: Shattered

Summary: Things aren't okay. They never will be again.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 8,520 words

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, PTSD, nightmares, POV changes, depression and anxiety, medical stuff, injuries, brief description of a possible death, language, mention of weight loss due to medical stuff, emotionally heavy chapter (again), slightly graphic imagery, illness, so much crying

A/N: I just want to make something very clear here since there's a scene in this chapter that might be interpreted this way, but 'mega is NOT suicidal. That's not something that's going to be in this fic, and neither is self-harm. It would have been well warned in advance if that was going to be something coming up in this fic. She's struggling a lot, but she's not suicidal, she's not going to become suicidal, nor will she self-harm even off screen. So don't worry. That's not what's happening. It won't be happening.

Okay, just wanted to make that clear. Enjoy the suffering!

11/30/24: **This chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

The scream slices through the silence seconds before chaos erupts.

John is on his feet and out the door before Kyle is even fully awake. Simon is on his heels down the stairs, the two of them nearly colliding in their rush. His heart thuds in his chest as he sees your door open, the overhead light on. It’s bad. It must be bad if the overhead light is on. You hate the overhead light.

He barrels in like a bull, ready to fight. The screaming has stopped, but it still rings in his ears. The fear, the panic. Something has happened. Someone got in. He should have made you take the room upstairs. He should have put a barrier between you and the door. That window. Someone could break that easily and grab you before they even noticed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

The screaming has stopped, but gut-wrenching sobs have taken its place. He takes a moment to scan the room. Nothing is misplaced. The window isn’t broken, there’s no bodies, no one that shouldn’t be in there.

“You’re okay.” Christine soothes you as you sob. “It was just a nightmare.”

The bright fluorescent overhead light burns his eyes as he stands there, staring at the bed. Christine is right there, having beaten them across the living room, or perhaps she had already been in there, having heard you in your distress before they could. You're tucked in her arms, your face against her shoulder as she holds you.

Nightmare.

The safety and security the cottage promised has faded, leaving you at the mercy of the horrors your mind can conjure up in your sleep. Something twists deep in John’s stomach as he turns, motioning for the others to back up and give you some space. You won’t want them there, and things will only get worse if you notice them.

His heart is still thudding in his chest as he stands there, the sharp sound of your scream still ringing in his ears despite his confirmation of your safety. The other three look just as startled as he feels, standing there tensely in the dark living room. He brings himself to move, turning his back on them for a moment to try and gather his thoughts as he flips on the lamp in the corner. It casts a warm light across the living room, far too warm for how he’s feeling. He’s trying not to panic, trying not to be sick on the floor from the worry. His heart is in his throat, trying to choke him. He’s trying so hard to be strong, not just for him, but for his pack, for you.

He sinks down on one of the couches, rubbing a hand over his face. He had been so sure something had happened, that their safe little bubble had been breached and someone knew about their whereabouts. He had been so sure someone was trying to hurt you with a scream like that.

Maybe someone was, but not in reality.

What is it you dream about now? Your nightmares about your father and your traumatic presentation must seem like nothing now compared to what must haunt your mind. Do you dream of Graves and his torture? Do you dream of them leaving you behind? Do you dream of dying because of their failures?

A hand settles on his shoulder, a body sinking onto the couch next to him. Arms are wrapping around him, easing him against a solid chest.

He’s crying.

He didn’t even realize the tears had started flowing.

He can hear the reverberating voice in his head, yelling at him, telling him not to show such weakness in front of his pack, in front of his team. He’s supposed to be the strong one, he’s supposed to be the stable one keeping the pack afloat and steady. Yet here he is, breaking down in front of them.

“It’s okay.”

Kyle.

His sweet Kyle.

How he’s been neglecting his sweet beta, and yet, how willing Kyle still is to reach out and comfort him in such a time of visible distress. That’s what betas are supposed to do. Mediate and balance the emotions of the pack. How have they been coping with all of this? How have Kyle and Johnny been managing in such a time of disarray and upheaval? Have they been managing it? He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even know the state of his pack, of the members of his team.

What a failure he is.

He lets himself lean against Kyle, something filling his chest as Kyle’s soft scent seeps into his senses. He’s projecting it, not just for John but also for the whole room. Johnny is crying too, soft sobs tearing from his chest as he sits on the other couch. Simon is on his knees in front of him, trying to get him calmed and breathing.

They’ve been ignoring and denying each other for days, fraying the bonds further while trying so hard not to. The pain they’ve been causing in their emotional constipation and intentional neglect is almost worse than the pain caused by their infighting. At least fighting they were feeling something. At least fighting they weren’t cutting each other off so willingly.

“We can’t do this anymore.” He says, his voice thick and shaky from his tears. “Cutting each other off. It’s not helping anything.” He doesn’t move from where he’s tucked against Kyle’s chest, letting the comfort wash over him for the first time in a week and a half.

How he’s missed this.

“It’s not doing any good for any of us.” Simon says, shifting onto the couch next to Johnny.

“Especially not our omega.” Kyle says, voicing the thought flashing through all of their minds.

“We may not be able to do much to help her right now, but we can focus on each other. That is something we can do.” John swallows thickly, his alpha starting to come back to life, his instincts aware again as he stares at Johnny and Simon. “Doing nothing isn’t good for any of us. We need to have something to focus on, something tangible we can do. Denying each other comfort isn’t going to help anyone.”

“I full-heartedly agree.”

John whips around, Christine standing in front of your closed door. He hadn’t even noticed her enter the room, hadn’t sensed her standing behind them. Johnny and Simon are the only two that don’t look startled, but they must have seen her come out from their position facing your door.

“Sorry.” The corner of her lip twitches up in a smirk. “Thought you would have noticed.”

John clears his throat. “How is she?”

“Settled again.” Christine says, moving over to the chair.

“How long has she been having nightmares?” Kyle asks.

“Since that first day in the med center in Dallas.” She says, sinking into the chair. How heavy this must all be on her shoulders. “I’d almost call them more sleep hallucinations. Mostly of Graves. Seeing him in the room, being attacked by him.”

“Is there anything that can be done to help?” John asks.

“For these kinds of nightmares? Not really.” Christine folds her hands in her lap. “Her brain is trying to process what happened. Until she feels safe enough to truly begin working on processing the trauma, it’s likely the nightmares will continue.”

“Is there anything we can do to help her feel safe?” Kyle says.

Christine’s lips purse as she looks between the four of them. “I’m not sure any of you could do anything right now directly, at least. She’s not open to that yet. Working on your bonds with each other, though, could help her omega finally settle and allow her emotions to even out again. That can help her feel safer, remove that instability and the fear of losing control again.”

All of them share looks, John and Simon staring at one another. They hadn’t even thought about that. Well, at least he hadn’t. Christine had told him months ago that omegas need their alpha when they distress, when their omega takes over. They can come back from it with the help of an alpha...their alpha. Without one, the chances of survival were slim. Yet here you are, trying to do it all on your own. Having to do it all on your own.

That ache in his chest starts again as he stares at Simon. He sent Simon after you, he made Simon go through that process of seeing you in that state and scruffing you. He made Simon be the one to help you through that. He made Simon be there when you needed an alpha most because he couldn’t face the fact that he abandoned you, he left you behind like you were nothing but another faceless soldier.

He wipes his face as the tears start falling again. He truly is a failure of an alpha.

Despite Christine’s reassurances, John can’t help the automatic reaction to your screams. On his feet instantly, his heart pounding in his chest ready to fight bare handed whatever might be causing such a reaction. Whoever might be causing such a reaction. He can’t fight the demons in your head, though, and he’s always greeted by the sight of Christine by your side, comforting you as best she can.

He wants to hate her, wants to be angry at her for taking his place, doing what he should be doing. His alpha scratches at his mind every time he sees her by your side, giving you comforts he should be giving, but it’s his fault. It’s his fault she’s the one there with you. It’s his fault you’re suffering so much. Those thoughts send his alpha crawling back into its cage with its tail between its legs.

It doesn’t matter the time of day, whether it was a nap or the middle of the night, your screams have a pain throbbing deep in his chest. His heart is constantly racing, waiting for that rush of adrenaline at the sound of your terrified scream, at that rush of instinct to protect and fight. He’s not sure how much his heart can take.

He might have a heart attack by the end of their stay at the cottage.

That’s something he’s been trying not to think about.

They can’t stay here forever, no matter how much he knows you’ll want to, how much the others will want to. Eventually they’ll begin to go stir-crazy, itching for something to do. They still have jobs, and Kate can only keep them off the radar for so long, and can only give so many excuses. Eventually they’ll have to go back. Eventually they’ll have to make that decision of what comes next.

He’s going to delay that as much as he possibly can.

They can’t go back while Shepherd is still out there. They can’t trust that anywhere is safe while he’s still skulking around, while he still has contacts that could put them all in danger. That could put you in danger.

That’s not a risk he’s willing to take again.

But what comes next?

What will they decide to do? Can they go back, knowing what the inevitable will be? Can they take that risk of having to leave you again, put you through that constant fear and worry that they might not come back? What if they all leave again? Could you survive the fear that something might happen while they’re away again? Not to them, but to you?

Could they leave you alone again?

Those are thoughts for another day when they’re inevitably faced with the fact they have to return to society and their lives and jobs.

They have time.

He has to make sure you’re okay first.

You’re not okay.

You’re so very far from okay.

The bedside lamp is on, casting a golden glow around the room.

There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there.

It’s one of the rare times you’ve woken before you can react, before you can scream and alert everyone in the house that you’ve had a nightmare. They’ll all come running. All of them.

You hate it.

You hate the nightmares, you hate the fear, you hate the constant pain and worry and the constant knowledge that your pack is right there. They want to go back to how things were, they want things to go back to normal, but they can’t. They expect you to forgive them, to go back to loving them, but how can you after everything?

They left you.

They let this happen to you and they just want you to pretend like nothing happened. That’s what they would do. Go back to normal life after being tortured and forget it all happened because that’s what they do.

You’re not them.

You don’t want to be like them.

Cold. Heartless. Uncaring. Unwilling to put anyone but themselves first.

Fuck them.

The only thing keeping you here is the fact you’re bonded to them. That, and you’re an omega. You’d get picked up off the street and brought right back here to your owner. Or, worse, you’d get picked up by someone looking for a cute little omega to add to their collection.

Or worse.

You’d get picked up by someone else.

Graves. Shepherd.

If you’re lucky, they’d kill you instantly. Leave your body on the front porch for the others to find. You won’t care anymore. You’ll be dead.

You hastily wipe the tears from your cheeks, wiggling yourself back until you’re leaning against the headboard. Your shoulder doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore. It still throbs, still aches, still occasionally almost puts you on the floor when you try to reach over your head with it. Your throat is healing too. Soup isn’t quite as horrible as it was a few days ago. Solid food makes you ache, but at least you can get it down without feeling like you’re swallowing glass.

You still haven’t spoken to them, though.

You can hardly stand to look at them.

Fuck them.

Just the thought of them makes you want to scream.

Dr. Keller says it's normal, being angry. ‘It’s all part of the process.’ The anger, the fear, the pain, the depression. It’s all normal. It’s all part of the process. It’s all necessary. You won’t get better holding it all in. You won’t get better numbing yourself. You won’t get better if you don’t allow yourself to feel everything.

You hate it.

Why should you have to go through all these feelings, all this pain? Why should you be the one suffering because of their decisions? It’s not fair. They should be suffering. They should be in pain. They should be the ones on the brink of insanity because of the fear and the pain and the suffering and their omega constantly screaming at them.

It makes you want to scream.

Screaming will only draw them in, force them closer. Screaming will alert them all, make them all come running. You don’t want any of them near. You don’t want to have to see them again.

Fuck them.

You let out a huff before wiggling back down the bed until your head hits the pillow. You won’t go back to sleep. You never do. At least you have the pain and exhaustion and tumultuous emotions and your very nature to excuse your constant naps, constant sleeping during the day. They don’t need to know you’re not sleeping at night. They won’t care. They don’t care. None of them do.

Fuck. Them.

You want your phone, you want something to keep you occupied. It’s probably lying somewhere on the side of the road shattered beyond repair. That, or it’s back in the barracks. The barracks. Fuck that place. You’ll rip your hair out strand by strand if you have to go back there. It’s not safe, it’s not happy. There’s nothing good about that place anymore.

It’s just a place of pain. You might as well have been tortured by Phil there.

You were tortured there.

It wasn’t a physical torture, but a mental one. The entire experiment was just torture for you. No one thought of you, no one cared about you.

Dr. Keller cares.

It’s her job to care.

Still, you can’t hate her entirely. She’s the only one that understands. She’s the only one that can help. She’s the only one that’s been helping. Not just now, but back then. She cared, she fought for you, she did her best with what she had. Sure, she made mistakes, but so did you. She’s the only one you can forgive.

She’s the only one you want to forgive.

Fuck the others. Fuck your pack. Fuck those fucking soldiers who were never going to care about anyone but themselves, who were never going to care about anything but their jobs and their duties and the good of the world.

You should have been their world.

They couldn’t put you first. They wouldn’t put you first. They didn’t want to put you first.

They won’t change. They can’t change. There’s no hope for change.

You’ll just go back to the way things were before and be forced to pretend everything's okay and that you’re happy and fine and content. Were you ever really content or were you just trying to make the best of the situation? Were you deluding yourself into believing you loved them and cared about them and that they loved you and cared about you to numb the fact you knew deep down that they never would, that they never could. Were you deluding yourself into thinking everything was fine and dandy to hide the constant pain from the knowledge that you would never come first?

The pain begins to burn in your chest again. It’s hot like acid, rising in your chest to your throat, threatening to choke you. It’s a deep pain, one nestled right in against your soul. Tears leak out of your eyes again as you squeeze them shut, pushing your right hand against your chest in an attempt to get it to pass.

You thought you were dying the first time.

You could only be so lucky.

The bond.

It’s trying to break, trying to sever itself, trying to free you from the constant pain, but it can’t.

Maybe because deep down you don’t want it to. Maybe deep down you want to forgive them and move past all of this. Maybe you want things to go back to normal, even if normal means pain and distress and fear. Maybe you want to believe them that they’re finally going to put you first.

‘Maybe’ is only a doorway to disappointment and pain.

Fuck yourself.

Fuck your omega.

Fuck your pack.

Hell, fuck Dr. Keller for not fighting harder, for not doing more.

Fuck Graves and his haunting of your nightmares.

Fuck Kate for choosing you.

Fuck Shepherd for creating the initiative in the first place to try and cover his own ass.

Fuck them all.

You tug the blanket higher around yourself, rolling onto your right side.

Fuck. Them. All.

You don’t want him here.

He does it now, usually in the mornings.

You hate it.

You like it. It’s nice. He’s the only one making an effort.

He never says anything, surprisingly enough. It’s silent as he sits there, steaming cup of coffee in hand. Always coffee, never tea. He won’t sink that low. He brings you a cup, but you can never bring yourself to touch it. You feel like a mental patient stuck in a straight jacket. You could free yourself, but that would bring too much awareness, too many questions, too much pain.

You don’t want to.

So instead you sit there in silence, staring out at the sea. It’s so far away still, yet it’s right there. You can hear it and smell it and see it.

The sea.

They brought you to the sea.

John remembered. He did it for you.

The thought has something stirring in your chest, and it’s not pain or anger.

You hate it.

Johnny leans back in the chair, his eyes on the horizon like yours. He sits there in that chair every chance he gets, usually in the mornings when Dr. Keller takes time for herself and leaves one of them watching you through the sliding glass door. You do feel guilty for forcing so much on Dr. Keller’s shoulders, yet you need her.

You’re not ready for the others yet, no matter how loudly your omega screams at you.

You don’t want them.

Fuck, you desperately need them.

Your eyelids flutter frantically as you try to keep the tears at bay. You can’t cry. You can’t let him know how close you are to breaking down. You can’t.

You can’t reach out.

You can’t take his hand.

How desperately you want to.

You nearly breathe a sigh of relief when the sliding door opens, Dr. Keller’s soft footsteps crossing the wood planks of the porch.

“Ready to go inside now?” She asks, pressing the back of her hand against your cheek. You don’t say anything, don’t react, frozen in fear of everything coming tumbling out in front of Johnny. “You’re getting cold.”

Johnny glances your way and you immediately turn to look at Dr. Keller, scared to look him in the face. That desperate hold you have on the gaping wound in your abdomen will open and your guts will come spilling out like some gory scene in a horror movie.

Disembowelment thanks to your own weakness.

Dr. Keller holds the crutch out for you as you push yourself to stand. Your legs are strong enough you could probably walk without it, but it’s still nice to have it in case you get tired.

If you fall, you’ll never get up again.

It’s the weakness from your liquid diet over the past week and a half. The weakness of being unable to eat solid foods, to properly nourish. You’ve lost weight, your clothes hanging from your body in a way they never did before. You’ve lost the softness that marks you as an omega, but it feels fitting. You don’t feel like an omega anymore.

You don’t feel like anything anymore.

You’re fighting your instincts out of pain and suffering and stubbornness. You keep taping your omega’s mouth shut despite how loudly she screams at you. You don’t want your instincts. You don’t want that need. Eventually it has to go away. Eventually it has to recede and your omega has to go back into her cage and sleep. Eventually you can numb yourself to it and force it away forever.

That will certainly make things easier.

But will it make things better?

No. Probably not.

It’ll make things worse.

But if it allows you to keep your distance, allows you to avoid them, you’ll risk it. You’d take numbness over anything right now.

How you miss those long days of depression while they were away. How you took those days for granted.

Who knew those hours spent worrying about them and their distance and what might happen to them would be for nothing?

What you wouldn’t give for all of them to disappear right now.

How badly it would destroy you.

“She’s at war with herself. That instinctual need is screaming at her, but that emotional pain is keeping her shut away. If anyone is going to get through to her, it will probably be you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Simon clenches his jaw as he stares at Christine. As much as he wants to hate the doctor and her ability to see straight through him, he can’t deny how necessary her presence has been. She’s the only one you tolerate, the only one you’ll let close. Without her you’d probably be rotting in bed, stuck and unable to do anything out of stubbornness. You won’t let them close, yet you need them close.

You’re going to rip yourself in half, metaphorically and possibly even literally.

He shakes that mental image from his mind. The horrifying images his mind has conjured up over the last few days have his stomach churning. Even his tea no longer looks appetizing.

He put milk in it this time. Almost how he likes it. Almost how he wants it.

“Johnny’s the one actually trying.” Simon says, staring across at her. She doesn’t shy from his gaze, doesn't even flinch. “You should talk to him.”

“While I agree, reintroducing a beta from the pack is the first step, eventually she’s going to need an alpha.” Christine says.

“She needs her alpha.” He argues.

“She doesn’t want her alpha.” Christine counters. “He’s going to be the last she lets close, but she’s going to need some kind of stability.”

“I can’t give her that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Simon clenches his hand around his mug, his knuckles going white. She’s infuriating, yet he can’t be mad at her. Not completely. The good she’s doing for you, for the pack, far outweighs his annoyance with the doctor. She’s right. He knows it deep down, but he can’t. He can’t do that, he can’t put you through that. He’s already done enough. He did his part, he faced his fears, he saved your life. That’s enough for him. It’s up to John now.

John has to do the work to fix it. He broke it, it’s no one else’s job to fix it.

“Maybe both.” Simon finally says, pushing himself up to stand. “It’s not my job to fix this.”

He leaves his mug behind as he stalks out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. He can’t stand being in the house any longer, cooped up with the same five people. Four people and a ghost.

He shakes his head, jogging down the steps into the gravel. He should go for a jog. A long jog. He could jog to town and back. That will clear his head.

That’s a long jog.

If something happens while he’s away, he won’t get back in time. It’ll be his fault because he took the time to do something selfish. He can picture it, coming back to find five bodies laying in pools of blood, dead because he wasn’t there to help, because he wasn’t there to fight.

It’s a ridiculous thought. There’s three other highly trained soldiers in the house. If anyone tried anything, they wouldn’t make it past the door. He can see it now, Price’s alpha coming out in a rage because someone dared try to enter and hurt his vulnerable omega. He’d probably win in a fight ten to one if that happened, and he has Kyle and Johnny to back him up. Christine would take you and run the first chance she could. She wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Not again.

Still, he can’t shake that fear. If he can’t sprint back, then it's too far. If it will leave the pack too vulnerable, he can’t.

To the beach and back, then.

She’s like an angel.

The soft sunlight streaming through the clouds makes her glow. You wouldn’t be surprised if the sun was shining just for her, sending down a beam just to illuminate just how ethereal she is.

The Garrick beauty is genetic.

Kyle is beautiful in terms of a man. He shares the same ethereal glow as his sister, but Ashley? You don’t feel worthy of looking upon her.

“Kyle never mentioned an omega, but then again, he never says much about his job.” She gives another dazzling smile, your heart rate picking up just slightly. “Can’t, I should say. You haven’t been with them long, huh.”

“About nine months.” You say, your voice still a bit hoarse. It’s not quite healed yet. It might be that way forever.

“Such a short amount of time to go through so much.” She says, giving you a soft, sympathetic look. You don’t know how much she knows, though it’s still fairly obvious you’ve been through hell. That you’re still going through hell. “Christine told me a bit about what happened. I don’t blame you one bit for being upset at them. I would have left them, but I know. In a perfect world, right?”

You make a quiet sound. Indeed in a perfect world where omegas have rights and can make their own decisions and could leave and have support in doing so. You’d leave with Dr. Keller or even Ashley, even though you’ve only known her for ten minutes. She has the same magnetic energy as Kyle, so much so you don’t mind the way the scent blockers burn your nose. She probably smells like something warm and soft, something comforting.

“So, tell me about yourself. What do you like to do?” She says, settling in the chair. It’s cool outside, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it one bit.

You scramble for something, anything. What is it you like to do? What are your hobbies? You’re drawing a blank, your mind searching through its filing cabinets to find where you shoved all the things you like to do.

“I like to read.” You finally say, remembering the stack of untouched books on the dresser across from the bed.

“Oh? What do you like to read?” She asks.

What do you like to read? What is a genre? What are books?

“Oh, I read anything, as long as it’s interesting.” Is that the truth? You’re not quite sure.

“I see, I see. Well, there’s quite the collection on those shelves inside. I’m a reader too. Read through those entire shelves over the years.” She grins at you. “We could do a little book club, if you’d like. Read some books and talk about them over some tea. We could get Christine in on it too. Have a little thing just for us girls.”

You nod, staring at her in awe. This is the first time someone outside of your little circle has offered to do anything with you, for you.

You want to do it.

You want to spend time with someone who isn’t your pack, who isn’t Dr. Keller.

“Okay.” You say, still staring at her in awe.

“I could come over on the weekends, or we could do a call if you’re not up to seeing anyone.” She continues, and you’re not sure if she made this plan before she came, or if she’s coming up with it on the spot. Regardless, you're still impressed by her and her dedication to a complete stranger.

“Would...would that be too much?” You ask, your brain starting to wake up again, the wires connecting once more.

“Not at all.” She shakes her head. “I live and work in Exeter, so I’m not too terribly far away.”

You’re not sure where Exeter is off the top of your head. Your mental map isn’t even sure how far away London is...or even where you are on a map of England. Are you even in England right now?

“What do you do for work?” You ask, realizing you’ve been silent for an awkward amount of time.

“I’m a finance lawyer.” She says. “Mum used to say ‘you love to argue so much, you should become a lawyer.’” She laughs. “So I did.”

“You must make a lot of money.” You say. You don’t know how much lawyers make in England relative to the US.

“I make enough to be comfortable.” She says. Enough to travel back and forth every weekend. “Seriously, though, if you need or want anything, let me know. I’m more than happy to come sit with you and give you a break from those stinky men.”

You’re not quite sure what happens to your face. It contorts, muscles shaking off the dust and starting to move before you even realize it. Your lips are tilting upwards instead of downwards. Something is happening. Something that feels good, something that you’ve been missing.

You’re smiling.

You’re smiling. You haven’t smiled in a long time. Weeks. Not since the cameras. Not since your pack left. You haven’t felt like smiling in so long you’re certain you forgot how to. But yet, here you are, smiling at Ashley. It’s not a genuine smile, one that crinkles your eyes and shows joy, but it’s a smile. It almost hurts your face after so long.

She’s funny too.

Stinky men.

They are that.

Your smile falls as soon as the sliding glass door opens, your head whipping around to look. Ashley turns to look too, perhaps out of instinct at your sudden movement.

You’re half expecting it to be one of the guys, maybe Kyle out to ruin the moment, but it’s only Dr. Keller.

“How are things going?” She asks, stepping up beside you.

“Good.” Ashley says. “We’re planning a book club.”

“Oh?” Dr. Keller raises a brow, looking between you. “I think that would be fantastic.”

“You’re welcome to join in if you’d like,” Ashley says, giving Dr. Keller a smile.

You stare up at Dr. Keller, watching the way her lips turn up a smile, her eyes shining with...something. Her hands open and close, tugging at her pants almost nervously. Your brows raise as you look back up at her face. She almost looks...flustered.

Oh.

Another grin forms on your face as you stare between them, Ashley still smiling and Dr. Keller still looking a bit flustered.

Oh.

“You could join us if you want.” You say slowly, still looking up at Dr. Keller.

She seems to snap out of her daze, her gaze darting down to you. She gives you a soft smile, back to her composed, professional self. “If that’s what you’d like.”

You nod. Even though you see her constantly every day, you’re not tired of her existence yet. She’s the only one whose existence in the house doesn’t make you want to gouge your eyes out, the only one you want to talk to, to see, to have around. If you had the choice, you’d be here alone with her.

That’s not possible. You know it’s not.

“A thing for just us girls.” Ashley says. “On the weekends. No pressure whatsoever.”

“I think that would be fantastic.” Dr. Keller says. “A nice little distraction.”

“A nice break from those stinky men.” You say.

Both Dr. Keller and Ashley erupt in laughter.

Another smile tugs at your lips.

You don’t want to be here. You can feel him staring at you from behind. He hasn’t moved since Dr. Keller left, still just standing there like he’s not sure he can approach you or not. You hope he doesn’t. You want him to.

You don’t say anything, still staring out at the ocean, but you can see him reflected in the glass, obscuring your view of the horizon. Hatred burns inside of you as you have no choice but to stare at him, even when you’re trying not to. He’s like a ghost, always haunting you. He always will be.

“I didn’t want to try to rush into this.” He finally says, knowing you’re not going to say anything. You won’t greet him, welcome him into your space. It already feels like an intrusion into your safety, him being here.

Is this becoming a safe space? A nest? No, not that far. It’s becoming sacred to you, though, and having him in it without invitation feels wrong. It makes you uncomfortable.

You hate it.

“But I just wanted you to know that we’re all feeling the weight of what we did, I’m feeling the weight of what I decided to do. We all feel guilty for putting you through that, for forcing you to endure things you never should have.”

He swallows thickly, falling silent for a moment. You almost feel like laughing at his attempt at an apology, another attempt at an apology. Why is he even bothering? He knows you won’t forgive him. He’s probably doing it for himself again, to make himself feel better.

“I know it’s not an ideal situation, being forced in such a small space together, but we all wanted you to know that you’re the one setting the boundaries. If you don’t want us to be somewhere or do something, then you can tell us, or have Christine tell us. If you don’t want to see us at all, we can make our best attempts at that.”

“That would be ideal.” You say, breaking the silence you’ve held for days. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him since the hospital, since his first sad attempt at an apology.

It shocks him to stillness and silence.

The words hurt, burning your throat like acid as you stare at his reflection in the glass. You hate it, how pathetic he looks standing there. Where’s the big, tough alpha? Where’s the strong protector? Where’s the person that’s supposed to take care of you and care about you?

He never existed.

He left you behind.

He never cared.

Anger begins to bubble within you.

“I’m sorry.” He says, his voice shaking. “I never meant for this to happen-”

“You think your sad attempts at apologies are going to work?” You hiss at him through your teeth. You push yourself to stand, turning to face him. “You left me. You fucking left me there knowing full well what was going to happen!” You’re shouting now. All the quiet movements on the other side of the wall in the main area stop.

They’re all listening.

It’s not like you’re giving them much of a choice not to.

Fuck them.

“I know,” He says, his eyes wide as he stares at you.

“Do you? Do you know?” Your voice is wavering, your throat starting to ache but you can’t stop. Not now. It’s all coming out and there’s no stopping it. “You. Left. Me. You willingly turned your back on me time and time again even when I was being tortured! You leaving was torture enough and you still chose me second. I’ve always been second. I’ve never mattered enough for you to even question anything!”

You let out a sob, the sound cracking in your throat. It hurts, but it will always hurt. You’ll always carry this hurt with you, so you want him to hurt too.

“I asked you once if you would ever leave for me. You said if things got dangerous, if my life were ever at risk because of you, you’d leave in a heartbeat.” The tears are falling, streaming down your face. “Was that a lie?”

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, staring at you. Does he even remember that conversation?

“Was that a lie?” You shout, making him jump.

His eyes drop to the floor, his scent souring. Good, you think. Let it hurt.

“Answer me.” You say, pushing him to give some response to your question. You need to know. You need him to say it.

“I didn’t intend for it to be.” He says quietly.

“You didn’t intend for it to be.” You say, bitterness coating your tone. “What the fuck does that mean? You said you wouldn’t let me go even if the initiative failed. Was that a lie too? Was it all a lie to keep me happy and complacent? ‘The job always comes first,’ even when my life is in danger, right? The job always comes first over everything, even me. You lied to me.” You swallow the sob threatening to come up. “I want to hear you say it.”

He stands there, tears brimming in his eyes. He hasn’t moved hardly a muscle, still frozen like a statue.

“Say it!” You scream at him, your throat tearing around the words. You’re surprised you’re not tasting blood yet from how raw it feels.

“I lied.” He says, swallowing thickly. “I lied to you and I couldn’t keep my promise. And I’m sorry-”

“Don’t apologize.” You cut him off starting to pace as the anger burns hot in you. “Don’t you fucking apologize to me, you don’t deserve to apologize. You don’t deserve the chance at forgiveness. You’re a shitty alpha and you always have been!”

You let out a sob, wiping at the tears streaming down your face. There’s a tear sliding down his cheek, and it brings you some sort of relief deep down. So he can feel things after all.

“I don’t know what I expected, though.” You let out a sardonic laugh. “You military men are all the same. It’s always about the job and the image and the ‘greater good’ and making sacrifices, even if that means sacrificing your pack. You’re just like my dad. You never wanted an omega, you never wanted me. You cast me out and let me suffer when I needed you most.”

The anger burns hot in you again, shooting through your veins until it’s choking you as you stare at him standing there pathetically. He thought he could apologize, he thought his groveling would mean anything to you. Fuck him. Fuck them all.

“You left me.” You grit out, your hands starting to shake. “You left me! You abandoned me, you let me get hurt! You didn’t care, you never cared about me!” You storm over to him. “Fuck you!” You scream, hitting his chest. “I fucking hate you!” You shove him back, sending him stumbling. “Get out!” You shove him again, pushing him back towards the door. “Get out! I never want to see you again!”

He stumbles back out of the door and you slam it in his face so hard it shakes on its hinges. You click the lock as you sob in pain, pain both physical and emotional. Your chest aches, a tearing feeling burning through it.

The bond.

You don’t care. You don’t give a fuck anymore. You hate him, you hate them all.

The tears and sobs threaten to choke you but you don’t care. You don’t care anymore. You don’t care about anything anymore except the anger burning hot through you, making your hands shake. Your legs give out and you slide to the floor against the door, sliding until you’re laying down on your back on the hardwood. It’s cold against your skin but you don’t care. You can’t care anymore.

If you fall, you’ll never get up again.

John stares at the wood in shock. The slam of the door still echoes in his ears as he stands there, frozen. He knew the chance of a negative reaction was high, but something like that? Something to that magnitude?

Your words cut into him like a knife, searing his skin and leaving blisters behind.

Hands push him out of the way. He stumbles to the side, his brain still catching up to his body.

“Sweetie, I need you to open the door.”

The words are muffled from the ringing in his ears, the ringing of your screams as you cursed his very being.

Liar.

His legs are shaking as he turns, his body moving automatically towards the door. The other three members of his pack are frozen, watching him as he crosses the living room, as he wraps his fingers around the handle of the sliding glass door, as he pushes it open just wide enough to slip through.

The thud of it closing feels like a seal being stamped. He’s cut himself off, fraying that bond forever.

Your words still ring in his head as he stands in the middle of the porch numbly.

Liar.

He is a liar. He made a lot of promises that he couldn’t keep, promises that he broke because of his decisions. He should have made you feel comfortable enough to reveal those cameras right away. He should have gotten you off base as soon as you revealed them. He should have never trusted Shepherd, or even Kate in that moment. He should have fought harder, he should have sent you away from base as soon as he made that decision to leave.

So many things he should have done differently.

You can’t change the past.

Liar.

He left you when you needed him most. He proved time and time again that he’d always choose the job over you, no matter what he promised. You’re not a soldier. No matter how much he tried to prepare you, train you, you’d never be able to fight like them.

Not without taking drastic measures.

He saw the blood. He saw the bodies. He saw the proof of an omega pushed too far, an omega forced into its primordial state.

You did it because they left you.

You did it because you thought the abandoned you.

Those words ring out the loudest in his mind. Above all the others those words linger, replaying over and over again.

‘You let me be tortured.’

Christ.

He runs a hand over his face, the realization shocking him as a cold chill settles under his skin. There’s a weight dropping in his stomach, threatening to sink him straight through the planks of the porch and into the ground below.

You think they left you.

He turns on his heel, shocked to find Simon standing behind him. He can’t read his face, hidden behind the mask that hasn’t come off since they arrived at the cottage. He doesn’t need to see his face to read the giant alpha. He’s known Simon long enough to be able to read him just based on his body language.

He’s angry, frustrated. John half expects him to start yelling too, but that’s never been Simon’s style. He only gets loud when he needs to. Instead he’ll stew and glare and darken the room with his rage. The target of his anger will feel it and know, and that’s almost worse than if he’d express that anger through words.

Despite the cold chill of Simon’s stare, John’s mind is reeling too much to care. It all makes sense now. Your distance, your turmoil, your own anger.

“She thinks we left her.” The words come tumbling out before he can stop them.

“We did.” Simon says, the words short and sharp.

“No, no,” John shakes his head. “She thinks we left her with Graves.”

Simon shifts on his feet, the planks of the porch creaking under his weight.

“Of course Graves would fuck with her head, make her feel like she had been abandoned. It was never about following orders for him. He would have tortured her no matter what.” Anger burns hot in John, at himself, at Graves. Of course you’d assume the worst, of course you’d believe Graves because he was playing on your own doubts.

They left you so easily at the barracks, of course they’d leave you to be tortured.

“She’ll never believe you.” Simon says. The squaring of his shoulders has deflated a bit.

“No, she won’t.” John shifts on his feet, staring straight at Simon. “But I’m not going to be the one to tell her.”

Her hand presses against your forehead, wiping some of the sweat beading on your skin. Despite your shivers, you’re burning hot. A fever. You worked yourself up too much earlier in your outburst. She had been proud of you for finally releasing some of it and showing some emotion, but she knew the consequences of getting so worked up would be high. Your omega is still unstable, on top of still trying to physically recover. You hurt yourself doing that, even if it was necessary.

She shushes you as you whine, fingers grasping at the blanket clumsily. She pulls it higher over you, your body shuddering underneath the pile already stacked on top of you. She’d put every blanket she could find over you, and yet you still shiver. Worry floods her again as she stares down at you, your eyes pinched closed. You must be aching, your show of anger taking its toll.

It was necessary, but at what cost?

If your temperature continues to spike, the risk of distress heightens. You can’t handle distress in your current state, which would mean your omega would come out, finally be freed again from the unprotected cage it's been pushed back into. If your omega comes out, that will require John to help, which may only drive you further into distress.

She needs to try and stop this before the situation continues to deteriorate.

But how?

How can she move you past this without the help of your pack? She can’t give you the comfort you need. Medicine or any therapeutic methods can help solve the issue at its core. Sure she can try and lower your fever with medicine, but you need your pack. You need that comfort and stability that only they can offer.

You need someone, and it can’t be her.

If your omega comes back out, they might never be able to get it back in. It’ll be the end of you. All of your recovery, the fight you’ve put up against your body and your instincts and your mind will have been for nothing.

You need someone.

An idea begins to form in her head, her hand resting against your forehead. It’s hot under her hand, your skin burning. You might hate her later for this. It’s risky, but sometimes risks have to be taken in dire situations. Sometimes those risks pan out in the end. What will happen if it fails? The inevitable that’s going to happen if she doesn’t try. It’s a lose-lose situation, but if it works, it could be a win-win.

She can’t help you, but maybe she has someone who can.

She tucks the blankets around you, cocooning you in an attempt to keep you warm and still while she steps away. She won’t be gone long.

She leaves your door cracked open just in case, even though she doubts you’ll be moving much while she’s away.

Just in case.

One can never be too careful.

She heads up the stairs quietly, going slow to avoid startling any of them. She’s intruding on the safe space they’ve made in their solitude. It feels like invading sacred grounds, but it's a necessary invasion. Their omega is in danger. They’ll forgive her.

The bathroom door is closed at the end of the short hallway, a light on inside. The lights are on in both rooms too, glowing beneath both doors, and she takes a gamble. Based on the heaviness of the footsteps above the kitchen she can guess the room on the right is the one Simon and Johnny are staying in. If she’s wrong, she’ll have some explaining to do before she’s ready, and she knows John will have his thoughts about this. Though, with what happened earlier, perhaps he’ll agree. You won’t see him, but maybe...just maybe...

She lets out a deep breath before knocking firmly, waiting a breath before she calls out.

“Johnny, I need your help.”

She just hopes you don’t hate her too much later.

NEXT ->

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#call of duty #call of duty fic #task force 141 x reader #poly 141 x reader #John price x reader #captain price x reader #Kyle Garrick x reader #gaz x reader #Simon Riley x reader #Ghost x reader #John mactavish x reader #soap x reader #alpha/beta/Omega dynamics #a/b/o #omegaverse

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jimxnslight · 8 months ago

Text

Fool's Gold || Part I

Summary: Sweet Y/N, with her fluffy pastel dresses, soft makeup, and ditzy mannerisms. She’s seen as a fool in a world where there is no place for such things, but little do they know, the only fools are them.

Pairing: mafia leader!Jungkook x mafia leader's daughter!reader

Genre: mafia au, arranged marriage au

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: most warnings associated with mafia fics (e.g. violence, blood, etc), additional warnings might be added as the story progresses

<< masterlist || next part >>

“I heard that she’s a complete airhead.”

Jungkook’s expensive shoes smacked against the pristine white and gold marble floors as he continued to walk through the lavish hallway, hands disappearing behind his pockets while his steps were slow and confident. Most would think he was choosing to ignore the comment, but his closest friend knew better than to rush a man as calculating as Jungkook.

Instead, Taehyung strolled alongside him, taking in the glittering chandeliers looming over their heads and the intricate designs carved into the white walls that were much too traditional for his taste. Jungkook and Taehyung were nowhere near out of place in the sea of extravagance with their custom suits and shiny black dress shoes. Taehyung, the more simple of the two, had his brown hair parted and pushed back to reveal a blemish free forehead while his grey and black suit complimented the grey specks in his brown irises.

On the other hand, Jungkook’s black on black outfit adorned two expensive cufflinks and a gold brooch attached to his lapel. Taehyung’s gaze dropped to his black hair, which he noticed had grown in the past month.

When Taehyung realised that Jungkook wasn’t going to speak, he decided to fill the silence.

“Like apparently she’s huge on wearing pink and frilly stuff -which I guess is just a girl thing- but still, this is a mafia not a tea party.”

He paused, waiting for his comrade to offer his thoughts, but was met with silence once again.

“I’ve also heard she’s dumber than a pile of rocks. Barely passed high school and then dropped out of university not even a month in. Her major wasn’t even that hard. Commerce, was it?”

Taehyung’s eyebrows furrowed as Jungkook continued to lengthen the silence.

“And as you already must know, she was also married about a year ago but then was widowed after her husband was killed by a rival gang on the same day. Even though their marriage didn’t even last a full 24 hours, she had been so traumatised by the whole thing that apparently she didn’t even speak for an entire month after the ordeal. Can you imagine how much of a princess she must be for a simple death to shake her that much? She must be a real- come on man, how long are you going to make me go on?”

Jungkook turned his head to offer him a sly grin, “I was wondering when you would reach your limit.”

Taehyung gave him a halfhearted punch to the arm, “you’re such a jerk. Answer my question man. I’m dying to know what she’s actually like.”

He followed Jungkook as he turned into another hallway, curious as to what he thought of her, but his answer had him staring at Jungkook incredulously.

“I don’t know.”

Taehyung faltered in his step, gaping at the back of the man who continued through the hallway nonchalantly. When the weight of his answer finally processed completely in Taehyung’s mind, he ran forward so that he could walk alongside his friend once again.

“I think you misunderstood my question,” Taehyung tried again slowly, “I want to know about Lee Y/N, you know, your soon to be wife? The one you’re about to marry right now?”

“What is there to know?” Jungkook commented, mind occupied with a topic of much more importance, “a marriage with her will allow for the unification of two powerful mafia families and will also allow for an heir to be born. Is that not the whole point of marriages for individuals like us?”

“Well yeah, but there’s no harm in getting to know her at least a little bit. Did you even hear about the ‘dumb as rocks’ part when I was rambling?”

“That will only make her easier to control,” he deadpanned.

“Fine, whatever. Is she at least pretty?”

Taehyung’s eyes widened even more when Jungkook didn’t respond, “please tell me you’ve met her at least once. Oh my god, have you even looked at a picture of her?”

Jungkook's silence was all Taehyung needed to know that the answer was, in fact, no,” I knew I shouldn’t have gone out of the country! My parents kept telling me everything would be fine and they’d take care of the whole thing but you haven’t even met her once? I should’ve made my return flight earlier, then I could’ve-”

Taehyung’s voice faltered as he noticed Jungkook’s distant expression, causing his brows to furrow. He wasn’t listening to a word he was saying, which wasn’t something entirely out of the ordinary, but it usually wasn’t this bad. He sighed as he shifted his gaze to the expensive hall before him.

“Is this about the Parks?” He asked, noticing his friend’s focus return.

“It’s the Parks and the Mins,” Jungkook admitted, “ever since their alliance, they’ve been getting bold. They made a move on our West docks last week and would have been successful in seizing them if it weren’t for the blackmail I managed to procure at the last minute. But that won’t hold them off for long.”

Taehyung’s head tilted to the side, “you’ve always enjoyed a challenge. Why’s this bothering you so much?”

Jungkook turned into another hallway to finally come face to face with a large pair of grandiose double doors that towered over them. The two men came to a stop, aware that their conversation was now on a timer.

“I just… have an uneasy feeling,” he said, unable to reveal anymore to Taehyung. He couldn’t bring himself to tell his best friend what he had really witnessed when he visited the docks yesterday.

Taehyung, clueless to Jungkook’s inner turmoil, slapped him on the back, lightening the mood with a grin, “come on man, this is your wedding. You’ll figure everything out later, for now just relax. You deserve it.”

Before he could protest, Taehyung shoved the double doors open to reveal an enormous and crowded wedding hall. The white and gold marble floor stretched across the entire room, while multiple diamonds came together to form a giant chandelier that hung over the hundreds of tables that had been decorated with shiny silverware and pristine white roses. The people were just as decorated as the furniture, with their elegant gowns and glamorous jewellery.

At the sound of the doors opening, the once chattering crowd silenced, opting to sneak glances at Jungkook and his friend instead. Hushed whispers echoed around the hall as Jungkook straightened his back and held his head high before making his way to the centre of the room. Behind him, Taehyung took his place, his outgoing and extroverted personality tucked away to look just as regal and intimidating as the groom. The crowd began gathering on either side of the aisle, clearly excited for the bride who had been scheduled to appear any second now.

Most men’s hearts would be racing during a time like this, Jungkook thought distantly, eyes focused on the aisle as well. Marriage to others was supposed to symbolise unwavering love and devotion. But not for him. For him marriage was simply a contract, a means to an end that he hoped would lessen the burden of a number of challenges. In a world like this, there was no such thing as love.

Only power.

The sound of the double doors opening pulled him from his thoughts, with two professionally dressed workers fixing them on either side so that they remained open this time. Jungkook watched a pair of women in what seemed like light pink bridesmaid dresses trail behind two girls who couldn’t have been more than five throwing white and light pink flower petals in the air. Behind the entourage was a figure drenched in white.

You walked slowly into the room, your glimmering white dress trailing behind you as a thick white veil draped over your face and the front of your dress. Jungkook could only make out your hands clutching a small bouquet of white roses while your arm looped around your father’s, who was slowly guiding you down the aisle. Despite the aid, he couldn’t help but notice an uneasiness to your steps and a slight shake in your hands.

The crowd’s gaze stayed fixed on your figure, drinking in the Jeon Jungkook’s soon to be wife. There were some gasps of astonishment at the beauty of your dress and figure, while there were some gasps of jealousy towards the woman who was taking Jungkook off the market. You didn’t seem to pay them any attention as your head stayed fixed in front of you, focusing on not falling as you continued through the aisle.

To Jungkook, it felt like years had passed before you finally reached the small steps leading to the stage he was standing on, your bridesmaids taking their places on the opposite side of where Taehyung was standing. Your father unlooped his arm from yours and stepped back to sit on one of the seats that had been reserved for him, leaving you to hesitantly step onto the stage yourself. Your heel wobbled as you brought your foot forward and Jungkook knew exactly what would happen before it did.

He watched your heel slip sideways, causing you to careen to your right under the heaviness of your dress. But before you could crash into the large pots of white roses, Jungkook shot forward so that his hand could grab your waist, hoisting you up to prevent you from falling. The crowd swooned at the gesture, murmuring about its romantic nature, though all Jungkook could wonder was how you’ve been surviving in a mafia family for so long. Taehyung had only said you were dumb, not a complete klutz too.

He could feel the warmth of your delicate hand on his shoulder as he guided you up the steps, only letting go of you once the two of you were facing the patiently waiting priest. Once he had motioned for everyone to sit, he began his sermon in an obnoxiously boring voice. Jungkook had no particular interest in paying attention to a speech he had listened to multiple times growing up. Instead, he took the chance to survey you briefly. With your veil still hiding your face, he could only take in your perfect figure and pristine skin.

Eventually, the priest asked you to remove your veil, to which you complied slowly. Taehyung came forward, offering to take the bouquet in your hands while your bridesmaids helped you hesitantly lift the soft white cloth over your head.

A wave of hushed whispers spread throughout the crowd at the sight of your face, one that caught Jungkook off guard. Your eyes had been lined with a light liner, while your lips and cheeks had been made to look dainty. Your hair fell from the top of your head to your shoulders, styled in a way that framed your features and neck. Jungkook noticed a small silver necklace in the shape of a heart resting against your exposed collarbone.

Your makeup made you look so innocent and… young. Jungkook almost wanted to pull Taehyung’s parents aside and confirm that you really were twenty three and not some nineteen year old. It was a bit of a turn off, he realised, slightly bothered by the fact. As a twenty six year old, he obviously wasn’t into teenagers, so he didn’t know what having a wife that looked like one was going to do for him.

Then again, he wasn’t marrying you for some kind of gratification. He was marrying you because he needed to form a strong alliance between your father’s gang and his so that he could be, or at the very least appear, stronger than the Mins and Parks. You were nothing more than a path to more power and, aside from upholding his responsibilities as a husband, he would treat you as such.

As the priest continued to drone on, Jungkook continued to analyse your form. He watched your eyes stay focused on the priest before they strayed, hesitantly landing on Jungkook for a split second. When you noticed his gaze already on you, a small squeak sounded from your lips before you quickly shifted your focus forward. With the bouquet of flowers now hanging from Taehyung’s hand, your own fingers were clasped awkwardly in front of you.

You were apparently everything Taehyung had painted you as earlier, Jungkook thought. Your makeup and mannerisms had an air of exaggerated innocence, while your body language was shy and sheepish. He had no problem imagining you as a weak girl that was so traumatised by the death of your first husband that you couldn’t utter a single word the following month.

The priest turned to the seated crowd, beckoning anyone that had an issue with the marriage to step forward and speak their mind. Just as Jungkook expected, no one dared make a stand, preferring to cherish the connection between their head and neck instead. Following the silence, you and Jungkook were made to stand facing each other.

Your gaze was fixed on his collar, seemingly too shy to meet Jungkook’s eyes. It only confirmed his suspicions regarding your confidence, or lack thereof.

Yet, despite your evidently timid nature and lack of intelligence, Jungkook couldn’t help but experience an uncanny feeling lingering at the back of his mind. Perhaps it was his untrusting nature, or maybe he had just been forced to over analyse you during the long and boring sermon. But he could have sworn that there was something about you. Just… something about the way you had trouble meeting his gaze yet seemed to have no problem in scanning Taehyung up and down. For a fraction of a moment, the look in your eyes was almost calculated, as if you had been assessing him. But just as fast as Jungkook thought he saw it, the look disappeared, replaced by a timid and shy gaze once again. It left him questioning whether he had even seen it in the first place, or whether he was letting paranoia see things that weren’t there.

Finally, the priest turned to the two of you and made you both say your vows outloud. They were the standard vows, Jungkook and you putting no effort in creating a confession that you both knew was ingenuine. Instead, the two of you repeated after him, answering “I do” when the time was right. Jungkook was glad that, despite your seemingly ditzy nature, you hadn’t requested any giant romantic gestures. According to your father, you had even had no problem with Jungkook requesting that there be no kiss at the altar. It made his life a lot easier and truthfully made this entire situation a lot less awkward.

To Jungkook’s relief, the priest finally addressed the crowd once more, ending the sermon on a final note filled with hope and prosperity. He spoke about how the marriage would strengthen the two mafias, mitigating worries relating to attacks from enemies that may wish to harm them. Jungkook had already expected this part of the speech, as he had been the one to tell the priest to say those exact words.

At the end of the sermon, Jungkook and you were made to walk down the aisle back to where he knew his expensive car was waiting. He turned to you, looping his arm around yours so that you wouldn’t fall again, and guided you down the steps slowly. He noticed that your every step was still wobbly and he could feel your hand shaking as you placed it on his bicep to steady yourself further. But this time, with the veil now draped behind you, he could see the distress in your face as well. Your eyes were wide as you took in the crowd surrounding you, looking as naive as Taehyung had made you out to be.

Jungkook tried to remind himself of Taehyung’s words. About how you had barely been able to pass high school and then completely dropped out of university a month in. About how your style consisted of pink and frilly clothes that didn’t have much place in the mafia. About how, at this moment, you seemed almost scared of the crowd and attention.

A girl like that was shy and naive and ditzy. Aside from being slightly irritating, that meant you couldn’t be much of a threat to him or anyone else. If anything your incompetence would be a threat to your own self. Jungkook had nothing to worry about when it came to you.

So he tried not to be unsettled.

He tried not to be unsettled by the fact that, despite your apparently innocent and weak nature, your fingers were gripping into his bicep so hard he would no doubt wake up with a bruise tomorrow morning.

He tried not to be unsettled by the way your shy gaze, which stayed fixed on the floor, would sometimes stray upwards to almost study the crowd around you before quickly darting back to the ground.

He tried not to be unsettled when you looked up at him to give him a bashful smile, one that the logical part of him agreed looked sweet and innocent enough.

Yet, why did another part of him wonder whether there had been something else lurking behind those seemingly innocent eyes?

The only thing that Jungkook had learned about you from the car ride was that your voice was as light and soft as your appearance.

The ride in his black car decorated with gleaming small white roses and ribbons had been mostly silent, the two of you making no effort to start a conversation. Jungkook had never been one for small talk, more than content to let Taehyung talk for hours instead. The reason for your lack of conversation, though, was unknown to him.

It was only when he was speeding through the highway that you had spoken to request that he slow down a bit. Your voice had been soft and timid, as if you were scared that Jungkook would lash out at you for the simple request. Or maybe that was just the way you spoke. Considering your personality, Jungkook wouldn’t find that too hard to believe.

Now the two of you walked through the entrance of his home, your eyes taking in the grandeur of it all. Despite its vastness, Jungkook felt that this was where he felt the most comfortable: between the white and fawn walls, the elaborately designed bannisters, and the creme marble floors. His home had remained the only constant in his life and, because of that, he cherished it immensely.

There were only a few people that Jungkook had allowed inside, all of whom were people that he trusted with his life. This was the first time, he realised, that someone outside of those few was stepping foot onto the marble floor and laying their eyes on the spiralling staircase. It was an odd feeling, allowing you to enter into what he felt was the only place that truly allowed his mind and body to relax.

He observed your reaction curiously, taking in your wide eyes. They bounced from one thing to the next, each structure seeming to fascinate you more and more. He still couldn’t shake off the feeling that you were assessing the space, but the logical part of him kept trying to reassure himself that you couldn’t possibly be considered any kind of threat.

The sound of the door opening behind him pulled him from his thoughts. He turned around to find Taehyung walking through the doorway, a particular look on his face. Jungkook recognised it right away, causing him to turn to you for a moment while calling over one of the maids.

“Get her to the bedroom,” Jungkook commanded the maid as Taehyung stepped beside him, “and help her take off her makeup and dress into something comfortable.”

The maid nodded before she began to guide you up the flight of stairs, pointing out a few directions here and there to get you comfortable with the new environment. Jungkook watched you look back at him and Taehyung for a split second, an unreadable look in your eyes, before you faced forward once again and allowed yourself to be dragged away wordlessly.

Once you had disappeared up the stairs, Jungkook turned to Taehyung with a raised eyebrow.

“Well?” He prodded.

Taehyung glanced at the top of the stairs to make sure you really were gone, “I should be asking you that. What do you think of her?”

Jungkook mulled over his question for a moment, “she seems to be everything you said she is. Although, are you sure-”

“She is one hundred percent twenty three years old. I triple checked that one,” Taehyung said immediately, hands up in a gesture of surrender.

Jungkook let his hands nestle into his pockets, wondering if he should bring up his other concerns as well. Uptil now, you haven’t actually done or said anything worth garnering suspicion. Jungkook just seemed to be picking up on small things here and there, but he wasn’t sure if those things were just him being paranoid or genuinely things that he should be cautious over. This whole marriage thing was proving to be a lot more confusing than he had initially thought.

“What is it?” Taehyung asked, noticing his friend’s silence. Jungkook hesitated for a moment, but, after earning a questioning look from Taehyung, he relented slightly.

“How well of a background check did your parents do on her?” Jungkook asked cautiously. He didn’t want Taehyung to know too much of how he was feeling at the moment, in case this was just his mind being overactive, but something in Taehyung’s expression seemed to indicate that he knew a lot more than what Jungkook was letting on.

“They did a very thorough one, of course,” Taehyung said, eyeing Jungkook knowingly, “you know my parents. If there’s one thing that they’re the best at, it’s uncovering people’s secrets.”

Then he added with a smile, “couldn’t get away with much while growing up because of it.”

Jungkook let his gaze wander around the room, “I just…”

“You’re just suspicious of her,” Taehyung finished, causing Jungkook to look his way, “of course you’re suspicious Jungkook, you’re letting a girl that you’ve never even met before into your house for the first time. It’s a natural reaction, especially considering how untrusting we’ve been conditioned to be since we were young.”

Taehyung clapped Jungkook on the back reassuringly, “I was the exact same way when I married Chaewon. Hell, in our first year of being married I even accused her of being a traitor when she was planning a surprise party for my birthday. When she finally told me… man, it took me a whole year to make it up to her. On another note, from a married man to a newly married man, don’t accuse your wife of anything unless you’re a hundred and ten percent sure of it. Otherwise you’ll never hear the end of it.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, causing Taehyung to laugh.

“Besides, have you seen Y/N? She’s so shy and naive, her own reflection in the mirror must frighten her. I doubt you have anything to worry about, especially after my parents’ background check. Just enjoy yourself, man, it’s your wedding night,” Taehyung said with a knowing smirk.

Obviously ignoring the suggestive comment, Jungkook nodded, finding logic in Taehyung’s other words. Jungkook had never been married, all of this was new to him. But if Taehyung, who had been married for almost a decade, said feelings like this were normal, then maybe he really was just being overly paranoid about the situation. You’d had a thorough background check done, which revealed nothing, and your personality was quite clear to Jungkook after he’d observed you at the wedding.

It was time Jungkook started trying to enjoy this marriage as much as he could. He was going to be stuck with you indefinitely, and constantly being suspicious of you was only going to wear him out, especially since you now had access to the only place he allowed himself to be free of the constantly vigilant and calculating mind that came with being the leader of the Jeons.

Jungkook turned to Taehyung, about to thank him for the insight, but the sound of the door opening once again caused the two to shift their gaze to behind them. The sight of the man walking through the doorway immediately had Jungkook wrinkling his nose in distaste while Taehyung’s expression had become a distant neutral. The man didn’t seem to mind the reactions if he noticed them, casually strolling deeper into the house until he was standing before the two.

“Jungkook, Taehyung,” Daehyun nodded, the respectful gesture somehow seeming more disrespectful if anything. He had clearly just come back from the wedding, still wearing his black suit and light brown hair styled back, “you just got married, yet I see only Taehyung and no bride. Shall I assume the two of you are running away together?”

The tasteless joke was followed by a deep laugh, one that belonged to neither Jungkook nor Taehyung. Instead they just stared at him with an unamused scowl.

“Relax, it’s only a joke,” he shook his head, gaze wandering the place casually, “I doubt your wife and kid would like the thought of that anyway.”

Taehyung’s jaw ticked at Daehyun’s words. Even if he hadn’t directly threatened or disrespected them in any way, just the mention of his family from his mouth was enough for Taehyung’s gaze to turn icy.

“Careful Daehyun, you’re standing before two mafia leaders,” Taehyung said, voice low and intimidating, “I would be less casual in our presence if I were you.”

To Taehyung and Jungkook’s dismay, Daehyun simply chuckled, “ah yes, but Jungkook and I are cousins. He’ll cut me some slack, won’t he?”

Jungkook didn’t answer, even after Daehyun gave his arm a lighthearted punch. Daehyun was the cousin that Jungkook could never be rid of, no matter how badly he wanted to. He was slimy and tactless and everything Jungkook hated rolled into one unbearable being. Having to give him access to his home, his only place of peace, had been one of the hardest things to do. But at the time, Jungkook had had to make sacrifices and this had been one of them.

Daehyun, undeterred by his cousin’s lack of response, leaned his arm on Jungkook’s shoulder casually, “congratulations by the way. When I saw your wife’s face- god did she look young! You’re so lucky man, I hope my future wife turns out like that.”

Jungkook grimaced as he suddenly felt the desire to wipe off any remnants of Daehyun’s touch from his suit. Daehyun had attended the same university as Taehyung and Jungkook, yet he had evidently obtained none of the class that they had. Everyday he wondered how the two of them could possibly be related. For the sake of Jungkook’s mental wellbeing, sometimes he liked to imagine Daehyun had actually been adopted and his parents had simply decided not to share that piece of information.

“I should get going,” Jungkook said stiffly, brushing his cousin’s arm off his shoulder. He fixed his suit as Daehyung smirked at him, likely thinking of Jungkook’s comment as more suggestive than he had actually meant.

Jungkook faced Taehyung to give him a curt nod before he turned and began walking up the stairs, not bothering to use the fawn iron bannisters on either side of him. He could hear Taehyung taking his leave through the front door, dragging a complaining Daehyun behind him to Jungkook’s satisfaction. The sound of the front door shutting had never sounded so delightful.

A silence ensued as Jungkook walked through the hallway upstairs, continuing until he paused in front of his bedroom’s door. He couldn’t hear any noises coming from inside the room, so, with a light knock against the white and fawn wood, his hand wrapped around the handle to turn it and finally push the door open.

The windows displayed an almost set sun, coating the atmosphere in a blanket of dimness. Everything about his bedroom had been changed. His once dark brown and white bed had been switched out for a cream and fawn coloured one, with a bouquet of vibrant red roses sitting atop the fancy and plush duvet, while his black leather couches had been replaced by light cloth ones. The ceiling and walls had been painted white, complimenting the new white and fawn patterned marble floor. His old dresser had also disappeared, a cream coloured dresser twice its size sitting in its place instead.

Aside from the drastic changes that had been made to his bedroom, no doubt to signify the change that came with marriage, the first thing Jungkook noticed was the maid who was drawing the curtains closed. The room would have fallen into complete darkness if it weren’t for the lamps sitting atop the bedside tables which were emanating a warm light around the space.

The second thing he noticed was you, who was sitting timidly on the edge of the bed and facing him. Your fingers were playing awkwardly in front of you while your gaze had been fixed on the floor, but at the sound of the door opening, your head raised to look at Jungkook. The sight of your face once again caught him off guard, the lack of makeup revealing a different side of you.

You no longer looked young. Without the innocent look that had been created with the blushes and the eyeliners and the lip glosses, Jungkook could see the mature shape of your eyes and the defined look of your features. You looked your age now, a lot more maturity prominent in your appearance.

You were pretty. Jungkook could admit that much now that you didn’t resemble a teenager. He wondered why you had done your makeup like that in the first place. He’d been to many weddings before and none of the brides had been made to look so young. Then again, Taehyung had already told him that, on top of looking innocent and naive, you seemed to dress the part as well.

“Is something wrong?” Your soft voice asked, eyes blinking innocently up at him.

Jungkook shook his head, motioning for the maid to leave the room. She gave you both a low bow before scurrying out the doorway, making sure to close the door behind her.

“No,” he finally answered. For the first time in a long time he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He wasn’t sure if you were expecting anything to happen tonight, or if you even wanted anything to happen for now.

His gaze lowered as he mulled over his next actions. You had changed out of your wedding dress into a light pink, mesh lace nightgown that came all the way down to your knees with a silk bow stitched into the centre of your chest, as if your clothes were meant to compensate for the lack of makeup dolling up your features. He almost wanted to raise an eyebrow at you, but you seemed much too fragile to be ridiculed.

Alternatively, he decided to take an experimental step in your direction, surveying your reaction closely. He watched your fingers close tighter around the duvet on which you sat, your gaze hesitantly darting everywhere but him. That was answer enough for him to know how far you were ready to take it tonight. So instead, he passed the bed, opting instead to drop onto the couch on the far end of the room. While he was facing you, you had to turn your head to keep him in your sights.

“What would you like to do now?” He asked you, resting an arm over the back of the couch while he crossed an ankle over his knee.

Your gaze dropped to your lap, watching your fingers fidget against each other nervously. It was almost as if having to answer a question like that had you stressed, which again made Jungkook wonder how you had survived growing up in a mafia family. How could you have been this weak?

“I-I don’t know,” you squeaked, not able to meet his gaze.

Jungkook sighed, turning his head to the side to survey the room. Technically, the two of you could just call it a night and go to sleep. You were clearly too shy to even speak a word to him, and Jungkook had never been one to beg others for things. Only time would tell how well the two of you would get to know each other.

But then Jungkook’s gaze dropped to the coffee table in front of him, noticing some sort of gift basket placed in its centre. It was obviously a wedding gift, filled with chocolates, scented candles, roses… and some wine and champagne. Jungkook has always been more of a whiskey guy, but right now he’d take just about anything.

“Why don’t we have a drink?” He suggested, uncrossing his leg so that he could lean forward and grab the top of the expensive-looking bottle of red wine. He prayed you weren’t one of those people that didn’t drink, your innocent personality couldn’t possibly extend all the way to drinking as well.

You paused for a moment, taking in the bottle in Jungkook’s hand, before slowly nodding your head, to Jungkook’s relief.

He beckoned you over with his free hand, “come here.”

You hesitated before slowly pushing yourself off the bed and took small steps towards him. Jungkook waited patiently until you were standing right in front of the couch, hands clasped shyly in front of you while your gaze stayed glued to the floor. He held up the bottle of wine and champagne in front of you, hoping you weren’t so dumb that you wouldn’t understand the question in his actions. Thankfully you studied the two bottles before a shaky hand raised and tapped against the bottle of champagne.

He pushed the bottle in your direction, forcing you to take it in your own hands, before standing up from the couch. The unexpected action seemed to scare you, causing you to immediately take a timid step backwards while you hugged the bottle to your chest. Jungkook had to suppress a tired, and maybe even slightly annoyed sigh, as he manoeuvred past you. He was trying to be patient, but this was becoming ridiculous.

“You get that open while I wash up,” he said to you, pointing at the bottle still pressed to your chest, “okay?”

You nodded slowly, allowing him to turn away from you and walk into the joint bathroom. Once the door was closed behind him he let out the sigh he had suppressed earlier. You really were… something. He couldn’t believe he had been suspicious of you earlier when you could barely even function properly, much less be any sort of threat. It was irritating, Jungkook felt, to have someone so incompetent for a wife. He wondered if he would have to break you out of that shell. You were the wife of a mafia leader now after all, you had to keep up at least some air of confidence in the presence of others so that you didn’t make him look weak.

Jungkook walked over to the sink and turned it on, splashing some cold water on his face before he began brushing his teeth. You were far from his ideal type, and he doubted this marriage would ever stem into whatever Taehyung and Chaewon had going on. Hell, he was wondering how the two of you could ever even produce an heir. You’d probably spontaneously combust if he even tried to touch you. And besides, he didn’t really want to touch you if he was being honest. You reminded him too much of a weak and helpless child, which was obviously a huge turn off. He may have been a mafia leader, but he wasn’t a complete monster.

Jungkook placed his toothbrush into the holder after spitting into the sink, drying himself off with one of the towels hanging near him. He was about to start changing into more comfortable clothes, only getting as far as unbuttoning the first few buttons of his black collar shirt, before a crashing sound rang from the bedroom. In less than a second he had pushed out of the bathroom, immediately scanning the bedroom before him as his hand automatically sought out the gun at his side.

It took him a moment to realise the lack of intruders in the room, and then another to take in your completely unharmed form. You were standing with your hands covering your mouth, looking down at the ground. Jungkook followed your gaze to find the champagne bottle rolling along the marble floor, still entirely intact. You had clearly dropped the thing accidentally, causing Jungkook to place his gun back in his waistband.

“I’m s-so sorry,” you squeaked, bending down quickly to pick up the bottle. Suppressing a huff, Jungkook walked over to you to take it from your hands.

“Here, let me do it,” he said, taking two of the crystal champagne flutes from the gift basket and placing them on the glass coffee table as he sat himself down on the couch, distantly annoyed at the fact that you couldn’t even pour a glass of champagne by yourself. Was this seriously what he was going to have to deal with from now on?

He tipped the bottle, filling both glasses to the brim with the bubbling liquid as you hesitantly sat yourself down on the couch to his left. His gaze fell on you as he was about to offer you one of the flutes, but paused when he noticed the look on your face. For the first time since he met you, you looked almost… excited. Usually your eyes would be downturned and focused on the floor, but this time they were fixed on the crystal glasses before you as if you were eager to taste the expensive liquid. Jungkook made a note of it, tucking it into the back of his mind for later.

“Take one,” he said as he motioned towards one of the glasses, but to his surprise you hesitantly shook your head. Your expression had turned timid once again, any hint of excitement from earlier entirely gone. He narrowed his eyes at you as he wondered if he had just imagined it. It had barely been there anyway.

“I don’t drink,” you said in your signature soft tone, not able to meet his gaze. Of course you don’t, Jungkook thought irritatedly, god forbid the princess touch a glass of champagne. He knew the thought was immature, but there was no way he was the most immature person in the room at the moment.

He pushed himself off the couch, very much aware that his patience was starting to wear thin, “well then I guess we should call it a night.”

But before he could step towards the bed, your hand shot out, clutching the edge of his sleeve with your fingers. He immediately looked down at your still seated form, a question in his eyes. You had to look away for a moment, seemingly collecting your nerves, before you met his gaze once again.

“Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean you can’t,” you said, “I don’t want you not to enjoy yourself because of me. Please stay.”

Jungkook noticed the evident guilt in your eyes as your fingers continued to stay enclosed around the edge of his sleeve. When he didn’t move, you hesitantly leaned forward to gently pick up one of the glasses and then slowly presented it to him. His gaze shifted to the glass in your hand, pausing for only a moment, before he took it from you. He let himself sink back onto the couch as he studied you.

You continued to sit in your spot on the sofa, posture still timid. Your gaze bounced from one part of the floor to the next, while your expression remained shy. But there was something else lurking behind the expression. If Jungkook focused well enough, he could have sworn the edges of your lips were turned slightly upwards. It was so faint that it might have not even been there, but the more he focused, the more prominent it became to him.

A naive part of him might have thought it was from being successful in getting him to stay and have the drink, but the more logical part of him had already latched onto an idea, one that refused to be swept to the side any longer.

His gaze lowered to your collarbone, a glint from the heart-shaped necklace resting over your soft skin catching his attention. Unlike earlier, he noticed that the metal heart was actually a locket, and that its two sides were slightly open. It couldn’t have been ajar by more than a millimetre, but Jungkook still noted it down in his mind.

His gaze then ascended to your face, still a perfect picture of innocence. Your eyes were widened to resemble a curious doe, while your lips were pulled into a timid line. The hands resting in your lap fumbled with each other shyly, really completing the look.

Finally, his gaze dropped to the drink in his hand. He brought it closer to his face, as if he were about to take a sip, before eyeing the expensive liquid. His gaze fixed on the miniscule bubbles that continued travelled from the bottom of the flute to its surface, causing it to sizzle.

Jungkook slowly leaned forward, keeping his eye on his drink as he brought it away from his lips and instead calmly set it down on the coffee table before him. He then easily pushed himself off of the couch, which caused your brows to jump. There was an apparent question in your expression, one you decided to voice out loud.

“Is something wrong with the drink?” You asked, voice still soft as your doe eyes looked up at him through your lashes.

Ignoring the question, Jungkook placed a hand on the edge of the coffee table and slowly pushed it forward so that it was farther away from your seated form. The action caused you to blink.

“Is everything okay?” You tried again slowly.

But Jungkook then faced you, assessing you for a moment, before he took a few steps in your direction. You had to crane your neck upwards to continue meeting his gaze, his tall form towering over your seated one. This time your brows pulled together, eyes still doe-like, as you continued to question his actions.

“Jungko-”

Jungkook didn’t let you finish. The second you opened your mouth his large hand suddenly shot out and grabbed your neck, slamming your head into the seat of the couch. You squeaked at the sudden violence, immediately clawing at the fingers now enclosed around your throat. But your efforts were nothing in comparison to Jungkook’s iron hold.

“J-Jungkook, you’re h-hurting me!” You let out a choked cry, continuing to put up a weak fight against Jungkook. Tears had already started to coat your eyes and run down your cheeks, but Jungkook ignored them completely. He watched you struggle, fascinated by the way you thrashed around like an animal yet every jab at him was weak and ineffective. There was no sign of the strength he had noticed when you had grabbed onto his bicep earlier, so hard that he was sure it would leave a bruise. It was enough to make him grin.

Jungkook lowered his face so that his lips neared your ear, his body still hovering over your smaller form.

“If you wanted to kill me princess, you’ll have to do a better job than that,” he said, voice low. Your eyes widened even further as you continued to struggle against him, making pitiful noises that didn’t move him in the slightest.

“K-Kill?! What are y-you talking about?!” You continued to choke out as tears streamed down your cheeks. Your hands had moved to his chest, desperately trying to push him away, yet failing miserably in the process. Jungkook tilted his head at your weak plea, eager to hear what other ways you’d beg him to let you go.

“P-please-” You began, but then cut yourself off abruptly when your tear-filled gaze met his. You must have seen something in his eyes, because he felt your body slacken, no longer desperate to fight him despite his hold on your neck cutting off your lung’s supply of air.

Instead you studied him, really studied him. He could see the same calculated look you had used on Taehyung earlier during the wedding. It was as if you were assessing Jungkook, picking out his strengths and weaknesses to figure out how you could use them to your advantage. He watched you weigh options in your head patiently before you finally tilted your head to the side calmly and shot him a look. In response, Jungkook decided to loosen his grip on your throat. He watched you catch your breath for a moment before you spoke.

“Well, you’re already smarter than the first one,” you commented, but your voice was entirely different. It was no longer soft and timid, rather it was a lot more deep and confident. He watched your expression change in the same manner. Your once wide and innocent looking eyes narrowed into a more matured look, while your lips straightened into more of a dangerously amused grin than a naive pout.

Then he processed your words. The ‘first one’ had to be your first husband, who Taehyung had explained had been killed on his wedding day. Taehyung had mentioned that a rival gang had been the one to murder him, but the actual one responsible for his death was clear to Jungkook now.

“Do you make it a hobby to poison your husbands’ drinks on their wedding nights?” He asked, hand still wrapped around your throat. He had situated himself between your legs, his own leg pushing one of yours against the back of the couch while his free hand pushed the other down against the seat of the couch. The position ensured you wouldn’t be able to kick him, while his body hovering over your own seemed to take care of the rest of you. You were smart enough not to try anything anyway, knowing Jungkook’s strength was incomparable to yours.

You shrugged, panting at the limited oxygen entering your lungs, “golf just wasn’t cutting it for me anymore.”

“Golf? How can a weak and helpless girl like you play such a sport?” Jungkook couldn’t help but quip, bordering on mocking you. It only made you grin, clearly no hint of offence in your expression.

He studied your nonchalant demeanour curiously. You had tried to kill him, and he should send your head back to your father’s doorstep for it. And yet, you couldn’t have looked any less composed with his hand around your neck. Either you were a complete idiot, which seemed much less likely now that he was starting to see your real character, or you believed you had the upper hand in this situation.

“You’re quite calm for someone I should have killed,” he noted, meaning for it to be a threat. But once again you didn’t seem deterred. In fact, the comment seemed to amuse you even more.

“Just because you should have me killed doesn’t mean you’ll actually have me killed.”

Jungkook’s brow raised, finding an opportunity to prod you further, “and why won’t I have you killed? Your father sent you here to kill me under the pretence of an alliance. I should start a war for this.”

You nodded, “but you see, my father did send me here to form an alliance. The whole killing you idea was all mine.”

Jungkook scoffed at the lame attempt at a lie, “you expect me to believe that?”

But you scoffed as well, meeting his gaze just as vehemently. It was an odd sight considering you had spent the entire day trying to make yourself small and avoiding his gaze. Yet here you were now, eyes ablaze like a thrashing fire. Not a spontaneously violent fire either, no Jungkook could very easily handle that. You were more like an electrical fire. It was becoming increasingly apparent that he had to be cautious around you, and that trusting any word that came out of your mouth was dangerous.

“Prove it then,” he challenged, tightening his hold on your neck for a moment to remind you of your vulnerability.

“I don’t need to prove anything,” you said, a hand coming up to wrap around his wrist, “just go ahead and mention to my father that I’m not a complete airhead that’s afraid of her own shadow. He’ll laugh in your face and call you a moron.”

The revelation that your father was just as clueless about your true self as everyone else only confirmed his initial thoughts. It also proved he couldn’t have trusted you to carry out an assassination attempt, meaning your father really did genuinely want an alliance with the Jeons. That was perfect, because Jungkook had certain plans that relied on this partnership. It was a relief that they hadn’t gone to waste.

“If it wasn’t your father’s idea, then why did you poison my drink?” He asked with a raised brow.

Silence filled the room following his question, one that allowed you both to hear the sounds of the wall clock. He got the feeling that you were contemplating something once again, planning out your next move.

Then you squirmed underneath him, seemingly getting comfortable, but Jungkook knew better than to believe whatever you appeared as. The second your hand went for the gun wedged in his waistband, he grabbed your wrist, pining it against the couch, while the hand that had been around your throat pulled out the matte black weapon. He slowly brought it to your temple with an amused grin.

“If you wanted it so badly, you could have just asked,” he taunted, bringing the gun down so that its barrel lifted your chin, “now, I asked a question princess.”

You huffed, your amusement finally falling to give him a half-hearted glare.

“I want a divorce.”

Jungkook couldn’t help the laugh that sounded from his lips at your straightforwardness. You just tried to kill him, it didn’t take a genius to work out that you weren’t a fan of this marriage and wanted out of it.

It was an arranged marriage after all, and even though all arranged marriages didn’t equal a forced marriage, technically he couldn’t be certain that this marriage was of your own choice or not. For all he knew, you had some secret lover waiting for you back home, your marriage with Jungkook coming between the star crossed romance. The thought made his jaw tick. He was far from in love with you, but Jungkook tended to be territorial about what was his. And you were his wife at the moment.

You, on the other hand, seemed surprised by his reaction, as if it was the last thing you expected him to do.

“I mean you obviously want one now too, right?” You asked with your brows furrowed.

Jungkook didn’t respond, and that only seemed to make you more agitated.

“I’m not the wife that you want. You clearly can’t stand me when I have my ditzy front pulled up and you can’t trust me when I don’t.”

Although the points that you were making were true, there was one important factor you were missing, and that was the alliance between the Jeons and the Lees. Jungkook needed this alliance to, at the very least make himself seem like, he was more powerful than the Parks and the Mins. And with their recent moves -with what he saw at the docks just last night- he needed this alliance now more than ever. So while he normally would have had you executed and then sent your head to your father’s doorstep for your little assassination attempt, this time he was going to have to sweep his pride to the side.

Jungkook placed his free hand next to your head as he pushed himself up, choosing instead to stay standing in front of the sofa. His intense gaze dropped to your still form while his gun hung from his fingers firmly.

“No,” he finally said, causing your brows to jump.

You quickly pushed yourself off the couch to stand just as he was, but Jungkook didn’t move. With the sofa right behind you, barring you from taking a few steps back, that left you and him standing dangerously close to each other. The bow from your nightgown pressed against his partly unbuttoned black collar shirt, while its edge grazed his dress pants. Jungkook could feel the heat of your breath raise goosebumps from his exposed collarbone.

“Why not? I’m not the wife that you want.”

He smiled at the bite in your words, finding your frustration amusing, “you’ve got it all wrong. I simply wanted a wife to make the Lees allies, nothing more.”

Like a fire set alight, your eyes flashed in anger, “I won’t change. I’ll still be your idiot wife that will make you look weak.”

It was true that most wives of mafia leaders were strong and confident beings, symbols of their husbands’ power, and that having a wife like you may be a slightly risky choice. But Jungkook was sure his carefully established reputation could take the hit. Besides, although you might make him look weak, your marriage with him would make him far from actually weak.

“You think divorcing you won’t make me look weak?” Jungkook decided to say, unsure of if he was saying it to play with you more or to make sure you don’t believe your threats are inconveniencing him, “you’ve fooled everyone with your ditzy facade. A divorce will make them think I wasn’t able to tame a naive girl. You think people will accept me as a leader then?”

You didn’t react to the point, giving him the feeling that you might have already known that might pose an issue for him. Perhaps you thought his reputation could take the hit? When Jungkook really thought about it, it probably could have. He’d worked hard to be both feared and respected for years, a divorce like this, while questionable in the eyes of the people under him, could have been pushed under the rug given time. But the alliance was too important to him.

And that was something he needed to make sure you knew.

“That means you will continue to be my wife,” he settled, lowering his gaze so that it met yours with unwavering finality, “so you’ll continue to act like it.”

Jungkook felt his voice naturally lower, a hint of a threat evident in his tone, “listen to me well, Y/N. I don’t care if you act like the dumbest woman on Earth or the most sultry. Regardless, what you will act like is my wife. When we’re outside of this bedroom, we will laugh together, we will hug each other, and we will do whatever other damn thing married couples do so that no one doubts this relationship.”

“And if I don’t?” You bit, the speed of your reply making his jaw tick.

“If you don’t, you can stay locked in this bedroom until you learn how to behave. Understood?”

Your rage couldn’t have been more prominent, with a fierce glare burning right through him and a pair of fisted hands at your sides. Yet Jungkook ignored it all, instead meeting your gaze coolly as he waited for your confirmation.

It took a long moment to come, so long that Jungkook thought it wasn’t going to come at all. But eventually he noticed you nod your head. It was barely a movement, your head tipping down slightly before resuming its earlier place, but it was enough for him despite your unwavering glare.

He finally took a few steps back, thrusting the barrel of his gun once again into the waistband of his pants. Your angry form, on the other hand, didn’t move, opting instead to stand perfectly still despite your calves pressing into the sofa behind you. Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, brushing the strands that had fallen onto his forehead away from his face.

“Good, then we’re done here.”

He finally turned away from you, eyeing the door on his left intently. But before he could move towards it, your words made him pause.

“I just tried to kill you,” you commented before he turned to question its randomness. He found you sitting on the sofa once again, an eerily thoughtful look lurking behind your rage-filled eyes, “how will you know I won’t do it again?”

Jungkook tilted his head in response.

“You can try all you want, princess,” he said, liking the feeling of that nickname on his tongue more and more. It was almost addicting, “but you won’t succeed.”

Then his lips curled into a sly smirk, “after all, what kind of husband would I be if I barred my wife from her hobbies?”

He was able to just barely catch the roll of your eyes before he turned and pushed through the door he had been eyeing earlier, his hands automatically locking it behind him as he casually surveyed his office. The room had been spared from the new gleaming white and fawn furniture which had taken over his bedroom. Instead, it was filled with familiar dark brown.

Refined dark oak wood shelves and cabinets lined the walls except for the wall behind his large desk, which was made up entirely of a bookshelf filled to the brim with various hardcovers. For the sake of matching with the rest of the house, the marble floor had been done a light fawn colour, while another wall was made up of bulletproof glass, its centre having the ability to slide open to reveal a decent sized balcony.

Jungkook shrugged off his blazer as he made his way to his desk, laying the piece of cloth over the back of his black leather chair, before he opened the glass cabinet behind it. He didn’t need to think much as his fingers expertly curled around an expensive bottle of whiskey and a crystal glass. Before he knew it, he found himself standing outside on his balcony overlooking his estate, one hand holding the crystal glass filled halfway with light brown liquid while the other clutched the iron railing.

His gaze bounced around his estate for a peaceful moment as he took a sip from his glass, taking in the expanse of the luscious green field bordering the neatly done driveway despite the darkness of the night. In its centre was an intricately designed white fountain spewing water in four different directions, but all of which emptied systematically into the white basin at its base. The estate itself stretched for metres, the gates enclosing the space barely visible from where he was standing. Jungkook’s thoughts bounced around his head just as quickly as his gaze.

What a day it had been. At first, you’d been a complete idiot, one that had irritated him to no extent with your doe eyes and evident shyness.

But then you had turned out to be an entirely different species, far from the innocent and ditzy girl he’d labelled you as. You were cunning and feisty and seemingly very much ready for a divorce.

Jungkook felt the corners of his lips pull upwards into a grin as he took another sip of his whisky.

You were quite the enigma.

But he was going to enjoy the challenge.

A/N: comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated!

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