#when it comes to humans there's rarely a black and white answer

[edenesth]

02. The Gentleman — By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

Pairing: gang member!Seonghwa x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Word Count: 21.5k

Summary: The Black Pirates' poised diplomat, celebrated for his refined demeanour, sharp wit, and unmatched negotiation skills, is always in control. But his composure falters when he encounters an unwilling captive trapped in the Red Room—a ruthless training ground for spies. Driven by an unexpected urge to save her, he finds his carefully maintained boundaries beginning to unravel.

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Trigger Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, human experimentation, scars, murder, language, contains dark themes in general

SERIES MASTERLIST | ATEEZ MASTERLIST

"Ooh, look who's in charge of the Red Room alliance now," Wooyoung teased, sauntering into Seonghwa's office with his usual swagger. The eldest, meticulously double-checking the contents of his briefcase for the upcoming critical meeting, barely spared him a glance. "I'm busy," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Go bother someone else."

Unfazed, the Charmer smirked and plopped into his brother's vacant chair, spinning it around before propping his legs up on the desk. "Oh, come on, hyung. You're about to be surrounded by women—not just any women, mind you—the finest of the fine. Think you could put in a good word for me? Maybe convince Hongjoong hyung to let me tag along? You know we'd make an unbeatable duo." He winked cheekily, his grin as mischievous as ever.

Seonghwa sighed, snapping his briefcase shut and securing the safe after confirming everything was in place. He turned to face the younger man, his expression deadpan. "You? Of all people?" he scoffed. "I'd sooner bring Yunho—if only he were available. A word of advice: focus on your own mission. You can't even handle one bodyguard, let alone navigate an entire organisation of trained spies."

Wooyoung gasped dramatically, clutching his chest in mock offense. "Ouch, hyung! Why so harsh? Last I checked, Cap's the one nursing a broken heart, not you."

At that, the Gentleman's demeanour shifted, his gaze sharp as he stepped forward and smacked the younger man's feet off the desk. Wooyoung stumbled forward with a surprised yelp, glaring up at the elder. "That's quite enough, Woo," Seonghwa said sternly. "I'd advise you not to push your luck with Hongjoong right now. One Mingi is already more than enough."

There it was—the unshakable calm and maturity of the Black Pirates' eldest member. Even the most chaotic among them couldn't rattle him. Recognising defeat, Wooyoung grinned sheepishly, standing to nod at his brother. "Fine, I'll behave since you asked so nicely," he mused, watching Seonghwa nod in approval and stride toward the door. "Safe journey, hyung. Get back in one piece."

The taller man paused, glancing over his shoulder to offer one of his rare, gentle smiles. "I will," he replied confidently. "When have I ever let you down?"

For fuck's sake, who the hell was I kidding?

Now, he wished he could smack himself across the face for his foolish confidence. If only he had known how it would all turn out, how the plan would go sideways so suddenly. He reclined against the stiff guest room bed, the pristine white ceiling offering no answers to the storm brewing in his mind. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to sort through the frustration. The weight of his earlier decisions pressed against his chest like an iron vice.

Just what in the world was he doing? He replayed the day in his head for the thousandth time, dissecting every detail. The mission had started seamlessly—his confidence unshakable. He had left the mansion that morning, projecting the poise expected of the Gentleman, cautioning his brothers to behave in his absence, and promising Hongjoong he'd return triumphant.

His arrival at the spy training facility had gone smoothly, his awe carefully masked by quiet professionalism. The place's grandeur was undeniable—dark, imposing, yet breathtaking in its meticulous design. He marvelled silently at how these women had built something so formidable, so self-sufficient, despite centuries of systemic oppression.

The security was tight, the multiple checks before getting to the building's main entrance were a testament to their efficiency. By the time he was greeted by Madame Scarlet, an elegant woman who appeared to be in her fifties and the enigmatic founder of the Red Room, his admiration had only deepened.

"We hope you had a wonderful journey here. The Red Room welcomes you, Captain Kim of the Black Pirates," the woman had said, her tone formal yet inviting.

Seonghwa had bowed lightly, offering his most disarming smile. "Thank you, Madame. But I must clarify—the Captain was unable to attend due to urgent matters back home. I am his right hand. You may call me Gentleman Park."

The lady's subtle reaction—a raised brow and the slightest tightening of her lips—didn't escape his notice. Still, he handled the rest of the meeting with the same elegance, navigating their discussions with ease. Everything had been on track.

Until it wasn't.

One step—one final step—was all it took to close the deal and forge the alliance. All he had to do was say yes and sign the contract. He cursed under his breath, recalling the words that had left his mouth—words that had deviated from every carefully laid plan.

"I would like to think this over a bit more. While I agree that this would be in both parties' best interests, I would just like to spend some more time here to have a clearer picture of how things work, to better understand our ally, if you will. I hope that's alright with you."

The room had stilled, the practised neutrality of the Red Room's representatives masking their surprise. But one person couldn't hide their reaction—the sole reason for this madness—you.

He saw it, the way your shoulders stiffened, the slight lift of your head as you dared to glance his way. Your wide eyes met his, and for a fleeting moment, the world around him disappeared.

That moment was his undoing.

It was supposed to be simple: finalise the alliance, leave without looking back, and report a flawless success to Hongjoong. But you... you had thrown a wrench into his perfect plan.

The deal could have been closed smoothly, had it not been for one of the trainees who captured his attention almost the moment he stepped through the doors. You stood out like a sore thumb among the neat lines of female operatives in training—your trembling eyes and subtle gulp betraying your struggle to hold back tears. Maybe you were just having a bad day, he reasoned, perhaps a failed performance during a gruelling session. Training couldn't be easy here; the Red Room was notorious for its brutality.

But his curiosity refused to fade. Throughout the visit, his gaze kept drifting to your fragile, trembling figure trailing behind Madame Scarlet and her trusted aide. It wasn't just your withdrawn demeanour or the way you seemed to shrink into yourself—it was the unmistakable fear etched across your features. Pure, unadulterated terror surfaced when a trainer called on you, and in that fleeting moment when your eyes met his, there was desperation—a silent plea for help that cut through his composure like a blade.

You didn't belong here, not even the slightest. Something deep within him stirred, a compulsion he couldn't ignore—a need to act, to intervene, to save you.

His reasons for staying defied logic, and he knew it. By lingering, he jeopardised the alliance, risked his position in the gang, and invited potentially disastrous consequences. Yet the pull was undeniable—an unrelenting drive to uncover the truth about you and why he couldn't let you become just another face in his memory.

Now, in the stillness of the guest room, Seonghwa sat up, elbows resting on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. With you finally out of sight and his mind beginning to clear, the sharp sting of rationality returned. He couldn't help but imagine how the rest of the gang would react once they learned of his recklessness. Everyone had trusted him to seal this alliance, especially Hongjoong. The man was already grappling with enough turmoil—this was the last thing he needed.

And then there was Mingi. If he messed this up, the Firestarter would never let him or the Captain live it down. Not that the tall bastard's teasing mattered in the grand scheme of things, but the stakes here were monumental. This alliance was vital; without it, the White Serpents could easily exploit their instability. So, what the hell was he doing, letting himself get derailed by a girl—a trainee, no less? If only he had minded his own business, he'd already be on his way home, mission accomplished.

But no, here he was...

Yet, deep down, he couldn't shake the memory of your terrified expression. That raw, unfiltered fear—it wasn't something he'd seen in a long time. Not like this. Fear wasn't new to him; in their line of work, it was an almost daily occurrence. But those pleas for mercy typically came from people who deserved their fate, criminals and scumbags who'd wronged others. This, however, was different. Your fear wasn't rooted in guilt but in helplessness.

For a brief moment, Seonghwa wondered if this was what Hongjoong had seen, too. Was this the same spark that had ignited his leader's own impulsive choices?

Shaking his head, he let out a quiet groan. Even if he wanted to help you, how? He had no plan, no resources. He was alone here, without the gang's collective strength. Yunho and Yeosang's clever solutions weren't at his disposal, nor were San and Mingi's brute force. Jongho's unshakable composure, which always kept their missions on track, was sorely missed. Hell, he even found himself longing for Wooyoung's antics, if only to lighten the suffocating tension.

If Hongjoong were here, none of this would have happened. The Captain would have stayed focused, unyielding. But then... what would have become of you?

"Goddamnit," he muttered under his breath, the weight of frustration and uncertainty bearing down on him. He dragged a hand through his hair, his voice dropping into a bitter whisper. "We're fucked."

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The dim light of your cell-like room flickered faintly, casting long shadows against the stark walls. Sleep, elusive as ever, teased the edges of your consciousness but refused to claim you. Your mind was restless, tumbling through a cascade of thoughts, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, they weren't entirely about the nightmare you endured daily.

They were about him.

The man—the Gentleman, as Madame Scarlet had introduced him—was unlike anyone you'd seen before, not just because he was the first male face in years, but because he looked at you as though you were more than just another broken thing in this place. His dark eyes had lingered on you, his gaze following you like a soft, unspoken question. You felt it, even when you tried not to.

You had no idea why he stayed. It was madness, sheer idiocy, for him to risk what should have been a clean, uncomplicated deal. That was how it always worked—outsiders came, signed the agreement, and left as fast as they arrived, never daring to peel back the pristine mask of the Red Room's operations. But he didn't follow the script.

Why?

The question burned in your chest, twisting into an unfamiliar ache. You wished it were annoyance, that you could dismiss him as another arrogant man playing a dangerous game. But it wasn't. It was fear—raw and desperate fear—not for yourself, but for him.

He had no idea what he had walked into. You could tell he wasn't oblivious; his calculating demeanour and sharp wit proved that much. But he was still a fool to stay. What did he hope to accomplish? Surely, it wasn't because of you.

Your heightened senses—the ones the Red Room had painstakingly sharpened until they bled into paranoia—picked up on every stolen glance, every small, deliberate movement. From the moment he entered, you knew he had noticed you, not just as an anomaly but as something... else. You'd been trained to anticipate motives, to understand what people wanted, but his attention baffled you.

It scared you.

The others didn't miss his glances, either. You'd caught the sidelong looks of the senior operatives, the way Madame Scarlet's lips had curved just slightly at the edges, a subtle acknowledgement that she was watching too. It was only a matter of time before they decided he was a liability.

If he stayed, they'd break him.

You clenched your fists tightly against the rough sheets beneath you, trying to quell the overwhelming tide of emotions threatening to drown you. Emotions—weaknesses, as they called them here—were the enemy. You had learned that the hard way. But now, despite everything, your heart betrayed you, pounding with the terrible clarity that he wouldn't last a day if he truly understood what went on here.

You shut your eyes, trying to block out the memory of his face, his voice, the ridiculous bravery in his words as he locked eyes with you and said he needed more time. If he knew—if he lived even a fraction of what you endured—he would've bolted at the first opportunity.

"Fool," you whispered into the stillness, your voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the facility. "What did you get yourself into?"

You hated him for staying, for giving you this fragile, fleeting sense of hope that things could change. You hated him for being so careless with his life. And yet, more than anything, you hated yourself for wishing—just for a moment—that he might be strong enough to do what you couldn't.

Run. Escape. Fight.

Save himself.

Because if he stayed, the Red Room would devour him whole, just as it had done to you.

Perhaps it was already beginning to.

On the other side of the building, the guest room felt colder than it should have. Seonghwa, too, lay sprawled on the rigid mattress, the pristine white walls around him offering no comfort, no reprieve from the maelstrom of thoughts battering his mind. He flipped onto his side, then his back, then his stomach, a frustrated growl escaping his lips as sleep evaded him entirely.

His mind was a battlefield, each thought warring for dominance. Was this all a trap?

It would make sense. The Red Room was too efficient, too methodical, to let someone like you slip through the cracks unnoticed. Maybe your fear, your weakness—it was all calculated. Perhaps they had planted you there, your trembling frame meant to bait him, to test him. Maybe the terror in your eyes wasn't actual terror at all but a meticulously crafted act designed to lure him into a false sense of sympathy.

What if you were a rebel?

His fists clenched tightly against the sheets, jaw set as the possibility burned in his mind. If you were working against the Red Room, you'd have every reason to use him, to exploit the cracks in this precarious alliance. And if you weren't a rebel, then what? Were you a spy? An assassin in training? A failure?

"Dammit," he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. He couldn't shake the image of you—those wide, haunted eyes that seemed to plead with him, even though you hadn't said a single word. He cursed himself for the millionth time that night.

This wasn't like him.

He wasn't the kind of man who acted rashly. Calculated precision was his forte, keeping his emotions locked behind an impenetrable wall. Yet the moment he saw you, it was as though something inside him had cracked, and all the logic he prided himself on was thrown to the wind.

What the hell was he doing?

His brothers were counting on him. Hongjoong, who had trusted him enough to send him in the Captain's stead; Yunho, who would've meticulously planned every contingency if only he'd been given more time; Yeosang, who'd always had a knack for seeing through deceptions; Mingi and San, whose combined strength could've handled this mess in a fraction of the time. Even Jongho, with his unflappable calm, would've been a better choice to stand in this precarious position.

And Wooyoung... God, Wooyoung would never let him live this down.

The Gentleman sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, head cradled in his hands again. He felt the weight of their expectations, of the responsibility he carried, bearing down on him like an iron chain. He had to get this done. He had to sign the deal, leave, and return home with good news.

Not fuck this up over some girl.

You weren't supposed to matter. You were just another face, another casualty of this ruthless place. He had seen plenty like you before—broken people trapped in broken systems. He had told himself he was immune to that kind of thing, that the world was too harsh for him to care.

And yet, when he thought of you, the logic he so carefully cultivated unravelled.

The terror in your eyes wasn't like the fear he was used to seeing—the kind born of guilt or desperation. This was deeper, rawer, something that twisted in his chest in a way he didn't understand.

And he hated it.

He hated that he was here, that he'd let himself get dragged into this, that he'd let himself care.

But no matter how much he hated it, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was already in too deep.

"Tomorrow," he muttered, his voice a low growl in the empty room. "I'll get it done tomorrow."

He repeated the words like a mantra, as if saying them enough times would make them true. He would go through with the deal, close this chapter, and walk away.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

Things weren't really going to go his way.

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Come on, you can do this.

It has been hours since the chamber door hissed shut with a deafening finality, the sound echoing in the narrow space like a harbinger of dread. You sat on the cold metal chair, your wrists clamped to the armrests by invisible shackles of terror. The fluorescent lights buzzed above you, their harsh glare illuminating every crack and scratch on the otherwise featureless walls. No windows. No exit. Just four oppressive walls closing in on you with every passing second.

The robotic voice came through the unseen speakers again, its clinical tone devoid of any humanity.

"How do you feel?"

Regret. Endless regret.

You squeezed your eyes shut, teeth clenched as if that could hold back the flood of emotions threatening to betray you. Your hands trembled in your lap, but you forced them still, your fingernails digging into your palms hard enough to draw blood.

"Nothing," you whispered, the lie cracking in your throat.

The tears you had fought so hard to suppress welled up in your eyes. Regret clawed at your insides like a caged animal, howling against the walls of your mind. It had been there since the day you were dragged into this living nightmare, growing stronger with every dehumanising test, every soul-crushing exercise designed to strip you of your essence. But they couldn't know. They could never know.

"Tell the truth. How do you feel?"

The voice was a hammer against the brittle shell of your composure, striking again and again.

You let out a shaky breath, your chest tightening as if a vice had clamped around your lungs. "Nothing," you repeated, louder this time, willing yourself to believe it even as the walls seemed to close in on you.

The isolation chamber had become your recurring purgatory. You had been here so many times you'd lost count, but the panic never abated. No matter how many hours you spent in its suffocating grip, the claustrophobia seeped into your bones like a cold fog.

The lights dimmed suddenly, plunging you into darkness. You stiffened, knowing what was coming next. A low hum reverberated through the walls, growing louder until it drowned out the sound of your own heartbeat. The vibrations rattled the chair beneath you, a disorienting rhythm meant to shake loose any remnants of control you clung to.

Your mind spiralled back to where it all began.

Regret.

You were just a struggling college student, barely scraping by, when you saw the advertisement. It promised compensation for volunteers to participate in what seemed like harmless clinical trials or government-sponsored programmes. The language was vague, but the money was too tempting to ignore. You signed up, thinking it was your ticket to financial stability.

And then they took you.

Regret.

You learned too late what you had walked into—a secret experiment buried in the heart of this monstrous training facility. Madame Scarlet's calculating gaze haunted you at every turn, her icy demeanour radiating an unsettling confidence. She watched your every move, her success hinging on breaking you, the so-called pioneer of their new programme.

Regret.

You were their first, their proof of concept. The goal: emotion suppression and control. To strip operatives of fear, guilt, and compassion, leaving only a cold, efficient shell. They chose you because of your heightened emotional sensitivity, believing that if they could break someone like you, they could break anyone.

And so they broke you.

The lights flickered back on, brighter this time, the sudden glare piercing your eyes like needles. Your breathing quickened, panic clawing at your throat, but you swallowed it down. You couldn't let them win.

"Repeat your response. How do you feel?"

Your lips quivered, the taste of iron on your tongue from where you had bitten the inside of your cheek. You couldn't let them see.

"Nothing at all," you said, the word hollow and lifeless.

The voice paused, as if deliberating. Then, with clinical detachment: "Well done, Subject 01. See you in your next session."

The door hissed open, and you sagged in the chair, your body trembling with the effort of holding yourself together. You were alive. For now. But the endless regret followed you like a shadow, a constant reminder of what you'd lost and what you could never reclaim.

Fortunately or unfortunately, you weren't the only one drowning in regret. Unbeknownst to you, someone else shared the same sentiment.

The dining room exuded a haunting elegance, its dark, polished wood surfaces and deep red drapes creating an ambience that felt both regal and oppressive. Seonghwa sat stiffly at the long table, his hands clasped on the white tablecloth as he worked to maintain a composed exterior. The weight of his regrets pressed down on him like an anchor, but his resolve was firm.

Today, he would end this. No more distractions. No more detours.

He tightened his tie, adjusted his cuffs, and forced a charming smile onto his face as Madame Scarlet settled into the seat opposite him, her presence both commanding and chilling. Her sharp gaze landed on him, and he inclined his head respectfully.

"Good morning, Gentleman Park. I trust you had a restful night?" she greeted, her voice smooth and calculated.

"Good morning, Madame. I did, thank you," he lied, his tone courteous but distant.

This was it. Today was the day he would close the deal, leave this place behind, and never look back. No more pity for doomed souls. No more foolish meddling. He had learned his lesson the hard way.

He was done—done trying to help people whose fates were already sealed. He should have learned from his past mistakes, should have known better than to get involved. But flashes of a helpless child's face resurfaced in his mind, haunting him. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, willing the image away.

That child… the one he'd thought he was saving, only for his interference to lead to a fate worse than the one he'd tried to prevent. The memory was a dagger he couldn't dull. He had sworn back then that he was finished with helping anyone. From the moment he became a sworn member of the Black Pirates, he had vowed to leave his misguided sense of justice behind.

With a deep breath, he straightened his suit, slicked back his hair, and forced his face into an impassive mask.

This is it—no more nonsense.

But then you entered the room, and every shred of determination faltered. Oh, fuck me.

Your entrance was unassuming, yet the impact was seismic. The elegant wisteria ruffle lace ballerina dress you wore flowed around you like a delicate mist, a stark contrast to the utilitarian uniform he had seen you in the day before. You looked almost otherworldly, as though you didn't belong to this cold, merciless world.

His breath caught, and he cursed himself silently. He quickly averted his gaze, chastising himself for the slip. But it was too late—the image of you was already seared into his mind.

You bowed respectfully to the founder, then to him, your movements poised but weighed down by an invisible heaviness he couldn't ignore.

"Ah yes," the lady said, a hint of amusement lacing her words. "Our star trainee has arrived. Gentleman Park, you mentioned wanting to better understand our work and methods. As requested, we have arranged for only our best girl to accompany you."

Seonghwa's polite smile tightened, his jaw clenching slightly at her words. Our best girl.

The way she said it unsettled him, her tone almost lecherous, as though you were a prized possession rather than a person. He caught a fleeting look in your eyes—disgust, fear, or perhaps both—before you quickly masked it with a practised smile.

His stomach churned. Something was deeply wrong here.

You moved to take the seat beside him, your steps graceful but hesitant, as though the act of simply approaching carried an unspoken risk. He noticed the stiffness in your posture, the way your hands folded tightly in your lap as if to stop them from trembling.

The elderly woman continued speaking, her voice droning on, but the gang member could no longer focus. He nodded along automatically, his mind elsewhere.

You were too composed, too controlled. Every subtle movement screamed restraint, like a bird in a gilded cage. And while he knew the Red Room's operatives were trained to suppress emotion, there was something uniquely disconcerting about your demeanour. This wasn't the hardened stoicism of a seasoned spy. This was survival.

Why were you so different from the others? Why were you here?

The questions swirled relentlessly in his mind, chipping away at the resolve he had built that morning. Curiosity gnawed at him, and worse—a protective instinct he didn't want to feel.

He stole a glance at you, catching the way your gaze remained fixed downward, avoiding both him and Madame Scarlet. The tension in your shoulders was palpable, and he swore he could feel the unease radiating from you.

What were they doing to you?

The founder's voice snapped him back to reality.

"Gentleman Park, I trust you will find her guidance enlightening. She is one of our finest examples of what the Red Room can achieve."

He forced another smile, though his mind was spinning. "I look forward to it," he replied smoothly.

Beside him, you shifted slightly, your hands tightening in your lap. He wondered if anyone else noticed the subtle cracks in your otherwise perfect facade.

As the conversation continued, Seonghwa found it harder to concentrate. The more he observed you, the more his suspicions grew. Every interaction, every gesture seemed to hint at something darker lurking beneath the surface.

And despite the thousand regrets that weighed on him, despite his earlier resolve to stay detached, he felt the pull again—that unshakable need to understand. To help.

But helping had only ever led to ruin.

Under the table, his fists clenched in frustration. No more distractions, he told himself, repeating the mantra like a prayer.

Yet as you sat quietly beside him, your presence a silent cry for help, he couldn't help but feel that fate had other plans.

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The dining room was suffocating. Every clink of cutlery, every flicker of the ornate chandelier above, felt like a weight pressing down on you. You sat rigid in your chair, the elegant wisteria dress clinging to you uncomfortably—a constant reminder of how little say you had in your own existence here.

The meal in front of you might as well have been poison for all the effort it took to take a bite. Every mouthful felt like swallowing stones, your throat tightening against the gnawing anxiety twisting in your gut. You tried to focus on anything but the endless discomfort—tried to ignore the way your skin crawled at the thought of what Madame Scarlet had planned for you.

Your mind drifted back to earlier, to the icy shower they'd thrown you into after pulling you from the isolation chamber. You'd been scrubbed raw, the roughness of their hands leaving you feeling violated, though that was nothing new. That had been your reality since the day you were dragged into this hell. But today was different. Today, they'd put you in this dress.

You knew what it meant.

The dress marked you as "special," a chosen one to entertain the esteemed guest. But this dress… this wasn't like the others. The fine fabric and intricate lace were almost too much, too extravagant. And that terrified you. This wasn't going to be simple. Whatever they had planned for you—and perhaps for him—wasn't ordinary.

You risked a glance at the man seated beside you. Gentleman Park of the Black Pirates. He didn't belong here, not like the others you'd encountered before. He was the only one foolish enough to willingly extend his stay in this nightmare.

Why?

Before you could dwell on the question, the elderly woman's smooth voice broke through your thoughts. She was halfway through one of her rehearsed speeches—the kind meant to dazzle and manipulate—when her right-hand woman entered the room, leaning down to whisper something in her ear.

Her sharp eyes flickered, and she nodded, her painted lips curving into a smile. "Goodness, I'm so sorry to have to excuse myself, but there is an important phone call that I must take," she said, her tone dripping with saccharine politeness.

The man beside you inclined his head slightly. "Of course," he replied, his voice courteous but distant.

Madame Scarlet turned to you then, and you immediately straightened in your seat, your spine going rigid under her gaze.

"I shall leave you in the good hands of our chosen one," she announced, her smile growing sharper. The weight of her words made your stomach churn, and your blood turned cold as she continued, "I trust you to take care of our guest, darling. Show him around a bit, dance for him, won't you? Do what you do best."

Her wink sent a shiver down your spine.

"The success of this deal depends on you, I'm afraid," she added with a lilting laugh that felt like nails against your skin.

You swallowed hard, lowering your gaze as you bowed your head. "Yes, ma'am," you said softly, your voice steady despite the panic clawing at your insides.

The Gentleman beside you cleared his throat, the sound breaking the heavy silence. "Don't worry about it, Madame," he said, offering a polite smile. "I'm sure this young miss will do excellently."

You caught the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw as he spoke, his discomfort almost palpable. But that didn't stop the lady from seizing the opportunity to twist his words.

"Oh, I'm sure she will," she said, her grin turning suggestive, her tone dripping with implication.

The room seemed to freeze.

You felt your cheeks flush with humiliation, though you forced your expression to remain neutral. This was nothing new; you were used to being reduced to a pawn in their games, to being paraded and objectified.

But the gang member's reaction caught you off guard. His polite smile faltered ever so slightly, and you saw the flicker of realisation in his eyes—realisation of how his words had been twisted. He cringed, his discomfort evident as he averted his gaze, a faint flush colouring his cheeks.

"I didn't mean it like that," he murmured, almost to himself.

But the damage was done. Madame Scarlet's laughter echoed through the room as she swept out, leaving you alone with him.

The silence that followed was suffocating. You kept your gaze fixed downward, your hands folded tightly in your lap as you tried to make yourself invisible.

For his part, Seonghwa stared at the table, his mind racing. He hadn't meant it that way, hadn't meant to disrespect you or contribute to whatever hell you were enduring here. But the way the elderly woman had twisted his words, the way she'd left you here as if you were some sort of offering… it churned his stomach.

The tension in the room was suffocating, thick enough to choke on. You tried to steady your trembling hands by folding them in your lap, resisting the urge to fidget.

He cleared his throat again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He could still feel the weight of the founder's suggestive tone lingering in the air, her insinuations poisoning the atmosphere even after she was gone.

You didn't dare to look at him, your eyes fixed on the untouched plate of food in front of you. The silence stretched between you, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the distant clinking of cutlery from the other rooms.

He studied you from the corner of his eye, his brows furrowing slightly. There was something deeply wrong about all of this. He couldn't place it exactly, but your subdued, tense demeanour set off alarm bells in his head.

"Look, I... I really didn't mean it like that," he said suddenly, his voice low but firm.

You blinked, startled by his words. Slowly, you turned your head to glance at him, wary and confused.

"I mean what I said earlier," he clarified, his expression earnest now. "About you doing excellent. I just meant… I trust you're good at what you do. Whatever that may be."

Your lips twitched in the faintest semblance of a bitter smile, but it didn't reach your eyes. Good at what I do? You wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. What were you even supposed to be good at here? Surviving? Being obedient? Being… entertaining?

"Thank you," you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. It was the safest response you could muster, even though the words felt hollow.

Seonghwa's jaw tightened. Your tone only deepened the unease coiling in his chest. He leaned back slightly, forcing a casual posture, though his mind was anything but at ease. "They really put a lot of pressure on you, don't they?"

Your fingers tightened in your lap, but you didn't answer. It wasn't safe to.

"I'm sorry," he added after a pause, his voice softer this time. "If I made you uncomfortable earlier."

His apology caught you off guard. You glanced at him again, searching his face for any sign of insincerity. But his eyes—dark and guarded—seemed genuine.

"It's fine," you murmured, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue.

It wasn't fine. Nothing about this was fine.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. The man struggled to focus on the reason he was here, on the deal he needed to secure, but your presence was proving to be a distraction—a quiet, aching reminder of things he'd tried so hard to bury.

He hadn't come here to get involved. He hadn't come here to care.

But the way you sat there, so small and subdued, made it impossible not to wonder. Impossible not to remember.

His thoughts drifted unwillingly to a certain little boy from his past—the one he had failed so utterly, so completely. The one whose blood was on his hands, no matter how many times he told himself he'd been trying to do the right thing.

And here you were now, another fragile soul caught in a similar cruel web.

He clenched his fists under the table, willing himself to stay focused. He couldn't let himself care. Not again.

But then you spoke, your voice trembling just enough to make his heart lurch.

"What deal is she making with you?" you asked cautiously, barely looking at him. "If you don't mind me asking."

The question threw him. For a moment, he didn't know how to answer. Madame Scarlet's words echoed in his mind: The success of this deal depends on you.

He hesitated, studying your expression. Your guarded eyes, the slight furrow of your brows, the way your hands trembled ever so slightly in your lap—it all spoke of someone desperate for answers, for any shred of control in a situation that offered none.

"I'm here for… business," he said vaguely, trying to sound nonchalant.

You didn't press him further, but your expression betrayed your thoughts. Business. Of course. That's all anyone came here for. Deals made in shadows, forged with blood and broken spirits.

He didn't miss the way your gaze dropped back to your lap, your shoulders sagging slightly as though his answer had only confirmed what you already knew.

Something twisted in his chest—a pang of guilt, perhaps, or regret. He wasn't sure anymore.

"Listen…" he began, his voice low and hesitant. "Whatever this is… whatever they're making you do…"

You looked at him sharply, your eyes wide with alarm. "Don't," you whispered urgently, cutting him off.

Seonghwa froze, startled by the intensity of your reaction.

"Please... don't say anything," you said, your voice trembling but firm. "It'll only make things worse."

The fear in your voice was palpable, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

He nodded slowly, though the knot in his stomach only tightened. He didn't know what they'd done to you—what they were still doing—but he knew enough to see the cracks in your facade, the quiet desperation you tried so hard to hide.

And despite every warning screaming at him to stay out of it, he felt the pull again. That damnable instinct to help. To fix. To save.

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"Dance for him, won't you?"

The phrase echoed in your head, relentless as you changed out of the heels they'd given you and slipped on your worn pointe shoes. Your fingers trembled as you tied the ribbons securely, each movement automatic from years of practice. Ballet—your biggest nightmare—had been drilled into you until it became second nature. It was one of the Red Room's many requirements, justified with cold rationale: flexibility, endurance, stealth, elegance, performance. They were all virtues of an operative, but here, ballet wasn't just about utility. It was a tool of awe and seduction, a weapon veiled in grace.

Perhaps, on some cruel level, this was what you did best—or what you were left with no choice but to excel at.

You stepped into the mirrored practice room, the walls reflecting infinite versions of yourself. The grand mirrors felt more like prison bars than windows of elegance.

And there he was. Seonghwa sat stiffly in the centre of the room, the single chair isolating him like a king on a throne. Except he didn't look like a king. He looked like a man caught in the wrong place, his discomfort etched into every line of his tense body. His hands gripped his knees as though anchoring himself, and when you entered, his gaze darted to you and quickly away again, like he couldn't bear to watch but couldn't bring himself to look away.

You curtsied, the movement sharp and deliberate, your head dipping just enough to complete the mockery of submission. "Enjoy the show, Gentleman Park," you said, your voice carrying an edge of bitter politeness.

His jaw tensed as he sat up straighter, trying to project composure. "Please, you don't have to do this," he said, his voice tight, a plea slipping through the cracks.

A smile ghosted across your lips, brittle and humourless. If only that were true. Madame Scarlet's orders weren't optional. If you refused, she would know. She always knew. And the consequences of disobedience… No, there was no room for refusal.

"Nonsense," you said, shaking your head as though dismissing his concern. "You are our esteemed guest, and I have been bestowed with the duty of entertaining you. So, please—allow me to do what I do best." The words were delivered with a practised calmness, but the insincerity in them hung heavy in the air.

Seonghwa slumped back into his chair, defeated. He didn't believe you, and you didn't expect him to. His hands fidgeted on his lap, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he watched you take your place. The way you carried yourself—head high, movements precise—might have fooled anyone else into thinking you were eager, even proud. But he wasn't fooled. He could see the misery you carried like a weight on your shoulders, even as you rose to your full height, poised and elegant.

And then you began.

The first step was light, a delicate glide that barely disturbed the air. Each movement flowed seamlessly into the next, your arms creating arcs of motion while your legs executed every step with breathtaking precision. The choreography was mesmerising, a performance of impossible beauty.

But to him, it was unbearable.

You were stunning—he couldn't deny that—but beneath the grace and poise, he saw the truth. Every pirouette, every leap, every extension of your arm carried the bitterness of a caged bird forced to sing. This wasn't a gift. It was a sentence.

He clenched his fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms. This was his fault. If he hadn't asked to stay, hadn't let Madame Scarlet pull him into this world, you wouldn't be here, dancing for him like a puppet on strings. He should have known better. He always did this—lingered too long, cared too much, and inevitably made things worse.

When will I learn?

His gaze dropped to the floor as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of you, but it was futile. Flashes of the past flooded his mind. The boy's face haunted him—a child he'd thought he was saving. His naivety had cost that boy everything.

He could still feel the small hand clinging to his, the hope in the boy's eyes as Seonghwa had whispered promises of escape. He had meant well, but his actions had backfired spectacularly. The traffickers had found them, dragged the boy back, and exacted a punishment so horrific that he could barely think of it without feeling sick.

He had thought himself a hero, but he had been a fool. Good intentions didn't save anyone—they only destroyed.

Now, as he sat there, forced to watch your anguish play out in the guise of artistry, that guilt returned with a vengeance. He wanted to save you, to rise from his chair and demand that you stop. But what good would it do? He knew better. Intervening would only bring more pain, more suffering, and this time, it would be yours.

"No more," he whispered to himself, his voice trembling. "No more of this madness."

As you spun into another turn, the sight of his head bowed, his attention elsewhere, sent a jolt of despair through you. I've already lost him, you thought, the words clawing at your confidence. A failure, even at this. So much for excellence. The self-criticism came sharp and unrelenting, and in your distraction, you misstepped. Your foot slipped out from under you, and you tumbled forward, a small, startled yelp escaping your lips.

The sound shattered his trance. His head snapped up, eyes wide with alarm. In an instant, he was on his feet and kneeling before you. The swiftness of his reaction caught you off guard, but it was the touch that followed that left you paralysed. His gloved hands found your bare shoulders, steadying you with gentleness so foreign, so alien to you, it almost broke you.

Concern radiated from him—real and unguarded. It was something you hadn't felt in so long that it almost hurt more than the fall. Your chest tightened, the ache unbearable. Why was he doing this? Why was he making it harder to keep the walls up?

But you couldn't afford to dwell on the warmth of his touch, nor the kindness in his gaze. The room felt smaller, suffocating now, as the weight of your mistake bore down on you. You had tripped, faltered—something they would undoubtedly notice. And in the Red Room, mistakes weren't just mistakes. They were crimes. Punishable ones.

Shit.

The realisation hit you like a punch to the gut, and it took every ounce of control not to let the panic show. You forced yourself to meet his eyes, but as you did, your gaze flickered past him—toward the cold, unblinking lens of the camera perched high on the wall. You knew it was watching. They were always watching.

He followed your line of sight, turning his head slightly. By the time his eyes returned to yours, you had schooled your expression into something harder, even as your heart hammered in your chest. The trembling breath you took gave you away, though, as you leaned closer and whispered, your voice barely audible, "Never let your guard down. Not here. No matter how untouchable you think you are, no one is immune to the hands of the Red Room. Not even you, Mr. Park."

His brows furrowed in confusion, but before he could respond, you tilted your head ever so slightly, drawing his attention to the camera again. That was when it hit him. The room wasn't just a stage—it was a cage. For you. For him. For both of you.

When his gaze returned to you, your words came softer but with an edge sharp enough to cut. "If you know what's good for you, you'll finish whatever business brought you here and leave. Today." Your voice wavered, but your warning was resolute. "Do yourself a favour. Go. Run while you still can. And forget."

The words cut through him, a dagger sinking deep into his chest. He stared at you, his throat tightening, the air around him thick and suffocating. He hated this—hated the helplessness, the way your truth wrapped around him like chains. The echoes of his past whispered cruelly in his mind: You can't save anyone, not without destroying them first.

After a long, agonising silence, he released you, his hands falling away slowly, reluctantly. The absence of his touch left you colder than you wanted to admit, but you forced yourself to push that feeling down, deep where it couldn't hurt you. This was for the best. It had to be.

He nodded, the motion stiff, his jaw tight. "You're right," he said finally, his voice strained, every word sounding like a defeat. "I'll go."

You offered him a sad, weary smile, one that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Good."

The weight of your final word lingered in the air between you. As if on cue, a firm knock on the door had you both stiffening, like deer caught in headlights. The door creaked open, revealing the founder's right-hand woman. "Gentleman Park, the Madame is ready to see you again," she announced, throwing you a sideways glance that sent chills down your spine.

It did the same to him. Rising to his feet, Seonghwa hesitated, casting one last glance in your direction. His eyes spoke volumes, but you knew there was nothing he could do. And then, with a quiet exhale, he turned and walked away. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Your knees buckled, and you sank to the floor, the ache in your chest blossoming into something unbearable. You pressed a hand to your heart, willing the trembling to stop. But it didn't. It never did.

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The founder's voice was a symphony of mockery, laced with faux regret. "Oh dearie, I heard our star trainee did not perform too well. We deeply apologise for that, Gentleman Park," she said, her smile sharp and deliberate as she gestured to her aide. The woman stepped forward with a sleek black folder, placing it delicately on the polished mahogany table between them. "Rest assured, we will train her better. We do not tolerate such mistakes in the Red Room. Please know that through this alliance, we will only provide our best spies where needed. After all, one bad apple does not define an entire tree, now does it?"

Seonghwa's stomach churned at her words, the subtle cruelty wrapped in politeness. He straightened in his seat, his jaw tightening. "Not at all," he said quickly, shaking his head. "There's no need to apologise for that. She did—" he hesitated, swallowing down the knot in his throat, "—amazingly."

Madame Scarlet tilted her head, her smirk widening as if she found his words amusing. "That was hardly amazing," she countered, her voice silk laced with venom. "There's no need to be lenient on her behalf. She lost your attention early on and completely butchered her routine. A failure through and through." Her eyes glinted as she slid the folder closer to him, a pen perched on top. "But we appreciate your understanding. If all is well, the Red Room is happy to finally solidify this treaty with the Black Pirates."

His hand hovered over the pen, his fingers trembling as he picked it up. He tried to steady his grip, but the weight of her words bore down on him like a crushing tide. Look at what you've done, his mind hissed. Your hesitation, your distraction—it's your fault she'll suffer for this. She'll pay for your mistakes.

The pen hovered over the pristine paper, but his vision blurred as a storm of conflicting thoughts raged inside him. You need to leave, he reminded himself. That's the mercy you can give her. Don't make it any worse by staying.

The faces of his brothers flashed in his mind—waiting for him, relying on him. He couldn't jeopardise their safety over this. Caged birds like you existed everywhere, caught in a world of power and cruelty he couldn't fix. He had to let it go. This isn't your battle.

His resolve hardened as he straightened his back, forcing all thoughts of you from his mind. He tightened his grip on the pen, its barrel pressing against his fingers with an almost painful intensity. It would all be fine, he told himself. As long as he got out of here, far away from whatever nightmares took place in the Red Room, it wouldn't be his problem. None of it ever was. He exhaled shakily, lowering the pen to sign.

Then, a sudden, sharp thud jolted him from his thoughts.

He froze, turning toward the source of the sound. Through the decorative latticework of the lounge's window, he caught a glimpse of movement in the corridor beyond. His breath hitched as his eyes landed on you—stumbling, tears streaking your face, a trainer gripping the back of your neck like you were some unruly beast.

The trainer yanked you forward, her other hand poised in warning, but it wasn't the rough handling that made his chest tighten—it was the bruise blooming dark and vicious on the side of your face. Even from a distance, his sharp gaze caught the slight trembling of your legs, the way your breath hitched as you struggled not to cry out.

This is what "train her better" looks like, he realised, the Madame's earlier words reverberating cruelly in his head.

His heart clenched, a searing ache spreading through his chest as the sight of you being dragged away ignited something primal within him. The pen in his hand creaked under the force of his grip, nearly snapping in two. He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a shaky breath to steady himself.

But he couldn't.

The image of you—broken, trembling, afraid—was etched into his mind, refusing to let go. Every instinct screamed at him to do something, to stop pretending he could walk away unscathed. The storm inside him threatened to break through, but he forced himself to bury it, replacing the turmoil with the practised mask of a Gentleman.

He set the pen down deliberately, the click of it against the table sharp in the heavy silence. "No," he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible.

Straightening in his seat, he lifted his head, a disarming smile curving his lips despite the turmoil beneath. "I agree, Madame," he said smoothly, his tone light and persuasive. "It would be our greatest honour to solidify this union. But where's the rush?"

The lady raised a sharp eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Do you reckon it would be alright for me to stay another day or two?" he continued, the words flowing effortlessly despite the storm within. "I believe it would be to our benefit to get to know one another better before taking such a significant step."

Her eyes flickered with intrigue at his sudden shift in tone. Her sharp smile widened, but it was the calculating glint in her eyes that unsettled him. "Hm, a Gentleman who values thoroughness. How admirable," she purred, leaning back in her chair as though savouring the upper hand she thought she held. "I see no harm in prolonging our discussions. After all, alliances built on patience tend to be the strongest, wouldn't you agree?"

Seonghwa nodded, though his throat felt dry, each word a bitter pill. "Absolutely."

Inside, his heart was a cacophony of regret and determination. The image of you, bruised and terrified, was burned into his mind. The sight of you being hauled away like some disposable object clawed at his resolve, unravelling all the arguments he'd carefully constructed to justify his departure. You can't save her, you fool, a voice whispered in his head, cold and unforgiving. You'll only make it worse. For her. For yourself. For everyone.

But another voice—quieter, trembling yet insistent—refused to be silenced. What if you can?

The Madame's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. "Well then, Gentleman Park, consider yourself our guest of honour for another day... or two, if you'd like." She gestured to her aide, who deftly whisked away the unsigned contract. "We'll arrange better accommodations for you. Do let us know if there's anything you require during your stay."

His lips curved into a polite smile, though his stomach churned with unease. "Your hospitality is most appreciated."

The elderly woman inclined her head graciously, but there was no mistaking the glimmer of suspicion in her eyes. "It's always a pleasure to work with someone who values... thoroughness," she repeated, her words deliberate. She waved a hand dismissively. "You're free to explore as you please, though some areas remain restricted for your safety, of course."

Seonghwa bowed his head in acknowledgement and rose to his feet, his body moving automatically, though his mind was elsewhere. The moment he stepped out of the room, the air felt heavier. He couldn't shake the image of your trembling figure, the bruise on your face, the sheer hopelessness in your eyes.

He paused in the corridor, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails bit into his palms. Get it together, he told himself. One wrong move and you'll only get her killed.

But what was the alternative? Walking away while you endured unspeakable horrors? Letting his silence serve as complicity in your suffering? He felt as though he were drowning, the weight of his choices crushing him from all sides.

The sound of muffled cries pulled him from his thoughts. His head turned sharply in the direction they came from, his steps unsteady but driven by an undeniable force. He trailed the sound through the maze-like corridors, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind screamed at him to stop, to turn back before he did something reckless. But he couldn't. Not when the echoes of your pain were right there, slicing through the walls like jagged glass.

He rounded a corner and froze. Through a half-open door, he could see you kneeling on the floor, a trainer standing over you, barking orders. Her boot slammed into your ribs, and you crumpled further, a choked gasp escaping your lips. The sight hit him like a physical blow, and he felt the air leave his lungs.

He should leave. He should turn around, walk away, and pretend he'd seen nothing. That's what he'd been taught—to compartmentalise, to prioritise the bigger picture over fleeting emotions. But as he watched you struggle to breathe, watched you choke back sobs and force yourself to stand under the trainer's cruel gaze, something inside him snapped.

This wasn't about logic. It wasn't about alliances or gang politics. It wasn't even about you, not entirely. It was about what this place represented. The Red Room was a cesspool of power wielded without mercy, a machine that broke people and discarded the pieces. And you—you were a living reminder of everything he despised about this world, everything he'd tried to escape.

He turned on his heel, his jaw set, his movements deliberate. There was no time for hesitation. No time for second-guessing. If he was going to do this, he had to do it now, before his courage faltered. He made his way back to the lounge, his stride steady but his heart pounding.

Madame Scarlet raised an eyebrow as he re-entered the room. "Back so soon? I trust everything is—"

Fuck it.

"I have a request," Seonghwa interrupted, his voice calm but firm. He saw her brows lift in surprise, but he didn't give her a chance to speak. "I'd like to oversee her training."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Her expression shifted, her eyes narrowing with interest. "Her training?" she repeated, her tone laced with curiosity. "And why, pray tell, would a Gentleman of your standing wish to concern himself with such matters?"

He met her gaze, unwavering. "If this alliance is to succeed, I want to ensure that every asset provided is of the highest quality. She shows potential, but she needs refinement. Let me handle it." His lips curved into a disarming smile, one that masked the storm raging beneath the surface. "Consider it my contribution to strengthening this partnership."

The founder studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair, her smile returning. "Very well," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Let's see what Gentleman Park can do."

He inclined his head, hiding the relief that flooded through him. He had no plan, no clear idea of how to fix this. But for now, he'd bought you time. And he'd be damned if he let that time go to waste.

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"He's extending his stay... indefinitely?!" Wooyoung burst out, pushing his chair back with enough force to send it skidding against the floor. His voice, sharp with disbelief, rang through the meeting room. "What in the world is going on there?!"

Hongjoong sighed deeply, pressing his fingers against his temples as if willing away the tension. "That's what the messenger said. I don't—"

Mingi cut him off with a scoff, leaning back in his seat with arms crossed, his expression a storm of frustration and doubt. "First, it was a day. Then another. Now, who knows if Seonghwa hyung's ever coming back? What kind of lion's den did you send him into, huh?" He tilted his head, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "So much for being the 'best leader.'"

Jongho shot him a warning look and reached out as if to calm him, but the taller man pulled away, his resentment tangible.

The Captain's gaze turned icy, his composure hanging by a thread. "What exactly are you trying to insinuate, hm?" His tone was sharp, the growl in his voice betraying the pressure he was under. His mind was already a whirlwind of guilt and worry. First, his love was sent away, and now his closest brother was stranded in that infamous and dangerous training facility. What was keeping him there? Had the Red Room made unreasonable demands? Was the alliance at risk? Why hadn't he gone himself instead of sending Seonghwa? He should've been the one bearing the risk.

The Firestarter laughed bitterly, rising to his feet, his frustration reaching a boiling point. "What I'm saying is that you think everything's fine just because you were noble enough to send her away? Don't act like we haven't noticed you're still wasting our resources to keep tabs on her, to protect her from afar!" His voice was biting, the weight of his accusation filling the room.

Hongjoong stood as well, the anger in his chest clawing its way to the surface. "Watch your damn mouth, Song Mingi," he snapped, his voice low but dangerous.

Before either could escalate further, San slammed his fist on the table, the resounding thud silencing the brewing argument. "Will you two just stop already?!" His tone was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Is fighting about the same damn thing over and over going to bring Seonghwa hyung back? Will it help us figure out what's happening to him?"

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, no one spoke. The Tempest sighed, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. He hated this—hated how divided they'd become, the bond they once shared splintering under the weight of their choices. They used to be united, inseparable. Now, everything felt fractured, and the cracks were only growing. Didn't they see how short life was? How fragile their bond could become?

"Listen to me," San continued, his voice quieter now but steady with resolve. "I say we go after him."

The leader's jaw tightened. His instincts screamed at him to agree, but Yunho shook his head, breaking the silence. "Absolutely not," he said firmly. "We can't make a hasty move like that. What if it backfires? What if we put him in even more danger?"

Yeosang nodded, his voice calm but resolute. "Exactly. Have you all forgotten the code for danger? If Seonghwa hyung were truly in trouble, he would've used it. Whatever's happening, it doesn't seem like he's in immediate danger."

"Not yet, at least," the Anchor murmured, drawing everyone's attention. His voice was quiet, but the weight of his words settled heavily over the group. He opened his notebook, flipping through its pages until he found what he was looking for. "If we're serious about helping, we need to focus on crisis management. Let's map out every possible outcome and prepare contingency plans for all of them. We need to be ready for anything."

The room fell into a heavy silence as Jongho's words sank in.

Hongjoong exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He hated the idea of waiting, of being passive, but he knew the youngest was right. Losing his temper, indulging in Mingi's provocations—none of it would help their brother.

"That's the best course of action for now," he admitted, his tone quieter but steady. "Thank you, Jongho."

The team nodded in reluctant agreement, though unease lingered in the room. As they began strategising, one truth resonated in each of their hearts—no alliance was more important than Seonghwa. He was family, and they weren't about to let him go without a fight—even if it meant jeopardising the entire deal.

Forgive me, my brothers.

While the Gentleman shared their sentiment, something else weighed heavy in his mind as he strode through the shadowed halls of the Red Room, every step measured, deliberate. His brothers—his family—would never understand this choice, this betrayal of their trust. But they weren't here. They hadn't seen what he'd seen, hadn't felt the cold weight of torment that clawed at his insides. For now, he had to shut them out. He had to focus.

Stopping just outside the door where he had last seen you, the memory of your broken form flashed like a burn mark across his mind. He straightened his shoulders, setting his expression into a mask of indifference—a carefully crafted lie. The trainer inside sensed him immediately, turning to meet his gaze. Her eyes, calculating and hard, met his as though he were an accomplice rather than an outsider. Seonghwa offered a curt nod, polite but distant, and received the same in return.

His gaze flickered to you, and time seemed to stretch thin for a moment.

There you were—collapsed on the cold floor like a discarded doll. Your body was unnaturally still, save for the faint tremble in your fingertips and the shudder of your uneven breaths. Whatever they'd done to you had left you completely drained, your small frame appearing even more fragile than before.

The trainer crouched beside you, the scrape of her boots against the floor grating against his ears like nails on stone. The gang member remained rooted to the doorway, his body rigid, his expression unreadable as she reached out to you, fingers threading mockingly through your tangled hair.

"Look at you," she sneered, tucking a strand behind your ear with a gentleness so condescending it twisted something sharp in his gut. Her hand shifted, suddenly locking around your jaw with enough force to make you flinch and whimper. "This should teach you. The Madame has high hopes for you, little one. Stop disappointing her like this, will you?"

Your red-rimmed eyes rose weakly, glazed and unfocused, but you managed the smallest nod, your breath stuttering painfully in your chest.

It wasn't enough.

Her grip tightened cruelly, claws pressing into the soft skin of your cheeks until you whimpered again, the sound soft but devastating. "Answer me," she demanded, her tone low and icy.

"Y-yes, ma'am," you choked out, the words barely more than a whisper.

Satisfied, she released you, and you slumped forward like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Seonghwa's fists curled tight at his sides, his knuckles white from the pressure. Every muscle in his body screamed to move, to tear her away from you, but he forced himself to remain still. The mask didn't crack—not yet. When the trainer finally turned her gaze to him, he managed to shift, allowing a smug, composed smile to play on his lips as though none of it mattered to him.

"You've worked hard, comrade," he said smoothly, his voice calm and polite. "Let me handle the rest."

The trainer smirked, standing to dust off her hands as though your pain had tainted her. "How kind of you, Gentleman Park," she cooed, her mockery like acid on his ears. "Very well, then."

With one last unsettling grin, she turned on her heel and marched off, her boots echoing ominously down the hall until she disappeared.

The silence she left behind was suffocating.

He remained still, standing by the door, though his chest burned with the need to move—to act. He was cautious, his sharp mind reminding him of the cameras lurking in unseen corners. He couldn't afford to rush to your side, not yet. Any show of care, any crack in his facade, would confirm their suspicions. They had eyes everywhere.

He forced himself to stay rooted in place, his gaze lingering on you as you stirred faintly. Slowly, painstakingly, you began to force yourself upright. Seonghwa's heart twisted at the sight of your trembling hands and the way your body shook with every small movement. It was as though each muscle screamed in protest, but still, you pushed forward. The sheer determination etched into you was unlike anything he'd seen. You weren't just enduring—you were surviving.

Blinded by pain, you didn't notice him.

Your silent tears fell unchecked, and you hugged your bruised arms to yourself as you limped toward the exit, your steps slow and agonising. Every inch you covered showed your strength, but it also burned an ache deep in his chest. You shouldn't have to fight this hard just to move.

Finally, you reached him. Your head was still lowered, so at first, you only saw his shoes. You froze, your breath hitching sharply. Slowly, your wide, tear-streaked eyes lifted, and when you registered him standing there, shock overtook your features.

Your legs wavered, weakened beyond their limit, and you began to fall forward.

That was it. Seonghwa moved without thought, his body acting on pure instinct as he lunged to catch you before you hit the ground. His arms came around you securely, holding you steady. You gasped softly, fresh tears clouding your eyes as you struggled weakly to push yourself away from him.

"Stop it," he murmured, his voice low but steady, as he bent to scoop you into his arms. "You're hurt enough as it is."

The fight left you at his words, and you slumped against him, the side of your forehead pressing tiredly against his cheek.

"You goddamned idiot," you whispered brokenly, your voice trembling as quiet sobs escaped you. "I told you to go. You're going to get yourself killed…"

Your words hit him like stones, each one carrying the weight of your desperation and anger. You hated him for this—for being so stubborn, so damn stupid. And yet, there he was, carrying you like you weren't a burden at all.

You hated him for giving you hope. Hope that maybe the world wasn't entirely cruel. Hope that not all humans are monsters. Hope that maybe, someday, you'll get to escape this hell.

He didn't speak, but his hold on you tightened just a fraction as he carried you toward your room—the place they'd told him was yours at least. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the Red Room, not the cameras, not the precarious alliance.

All that mattered was you.

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Seonghwa tightened his hold on you as he carried you through the cold, labyrinthine corridors of the facility, the weight of your frail body pressing against his chest. Every step he took was deliberate, his movements careful to avoid jolting you any further. He didn't speak, the silence filled only by your shallow, uneven breaths and the faint sound of his boots against the hard floor.

Somewhere along the way, he felt you soften in his arms. The tension in your body—a tension he imagined had been present since you first stepped foot in this hellish place—began to ease. Your head nestled into the crook of his neck, and your arms, though weak, clung lightly to him as if afraid he might disappear.

Then, your breathing evened out, soft and rhythmic, and he realised with a pang in his chest that you had drifted into sleep. He couldn't explain the mix of emotions that overcame him. Relief? Guilt? Fury? That here, in this wretched place, in the aftermath of torment, his presence could bring you enough comfort to let down your guard. It shouldn't be like this. You shouldn't have had to fight so hard just to feel the smallest sliver of peace.

You, meanwhile, were lost in the strange sanctuary of his embrace. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the gnawing sense of danger and fear slipped away. You couldn't understand why—what it was about him that allowed you to let go—but it was undeniable. The warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat, the steady strength of his arms around you—it was unlike anything you had felt since the days when life was simpler, kinder.

Your mind wandered back to those days. College. Classes. Part-time jobs. A life that was chaotic in its own right but filled with a kind of normalcy you now yearned for. You missed that life, the one where being tired meant something as mundane as staying up late to study or pulling extra shifts. Not this. Not exhaustion born from fear, pain, and endless suffering. You wished, futilely, that all of this was some terrible nightmare you could wake from.

But it wasn't.

As if your subconscious sensed the reality of your surroundings, your eyes shot open, your body jerking in reflex. A cry of pain escaped your lips as fire shot through your nerves, the abrupt movement too much for your battered body.

"Whoa, hey, it's okay," came a deep, familiar voice, steady and calming. Gentle hands pressed against your shoulders, guiding you to lie back down. "Don't push yourself."

Your gaze darted toward him, and the memories came rushing back. Park. The Red Room. The training. The punishment. It all settled over you like a heavy fog, suffocating and undeniable.

Blinking against the dimness, you squinted at your surroundings. The room was unfamiliar. Plain walls, a bed—a proper bed—and a small desk. Your breath hitched in disbelief.

"Wh-where the hell am I?" you croaked, your throat raw.

Seonghwa frowned, his expression confused but soft. "It's your room, is it not?" he replied, his tone gentle, almost questioning.

You let out a humourless laugh, shaking your head weakly. "My room?" you repeated, incredulity lacing your words. "People like me don't get rooms."

Your voice was a whisper now, bitter and hollow. "They lied to you."

The implication of your words made his chest tighten painfully. His mind raced with the possibilities, each one worse than the last. Where have you been sleeping? On the floor of some cold cell? In a corner, chained, left to fend off the darkness alone?

He didn't ask. He couldn't. Not yet.

Instead, he looked at you, his jaw tightening as he swallowed back the anger boiling within him. You didn't need his rage right now—you needed his steadiness.

"I'll make sure they don't lie to me again," he said quietly, a promise woven into his words. He reached for the blanket at the edge of the bed and gently draped it over you. "For now, just rest. You're safe."

Safe? Here...?

You sighed, shaking your head. "I don't think that's something within your control, Mr. Park. Clearly, they're deceiving you for a good reason. If you know what's best for your own safety, you'd go along with their every wish and leave this place at your first chance."

Your eyes burned with tears forming in frustration, but you were too drained to argue, muttering weakly again, "Why... God, why are you even still here? You're insane..." You trailed off, the blanket's warmth and the bed's softness—luxuries you hadn't known in so long—lulling you into an uneasy but welcome stillness.

Perhaps you were right. Perhaps he really was insane for this. But Seonghwa knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if he walked away today and left you behind, he would never be able to live another moment in peace.

As he sat by your bedside, his dark eyes lingered on your face, the faint lines of pain etched into your features even in sleep. He couldn't stop the rush of emotions building within him—a storm of guilt, admiration, and something else he couldn't quite name.

Your earlier words echoed in his mind. "Why are you even still here? You're insane..." Even in your weakened state, you had been more concerned for his safety than your own. How was it possible for someone who had suffered so deeply, endured such unspeakable cruelty, to still care for someone else? For him, a stranger who had inadvertently become the reason for your suffering.

His chest tightened painfully as he thought back to the chain of events that had led to this moment. If he hadn't pushed so hard for answers, if he hadn't drawn their attention to you...

I'm so sorry. You suffered all because of me.

His jaw clenched. It wasn't your fault. None of this was. You had simply been caught in the crossfire of forces far beyond your control. And yet, you bore the weight of it with a quiet resilience that humbled him.

If only he knew the truth—how your unyielding empathy had been the very trait that had landed you in this nightmare. The kindness that allowed you to care for others, even at the cost of your own well-being, had marked you as a failure in their eyes. To them, your compassion was a flaw to be eradicated, not celebrated. If their experiments had succeeded, if they had stripped you of every last shred of emotion, perhaps you wouldn't have to feel any of this now. Perhaps it would have been mercy.

But mercy wasn't what they had given you.

Seonghwa exhaled shakily, forcing himself to focus on the present. His gaze dropped to the small bundle he had brought with him—an emergency kit he'd tucked into his coat before leaving his quarters. Pulling out the small jar of ointment, he opened it carefully, its sharp medicinal scent filling the air.

This seemed as good a time as any to use it.

He dipped his fingers into the ointment, its cool texture spreading easily against his skin. His movements were slow and deliberate as he leaned closer to you, his free hand brushing your hair aside to get a clearer view of your wounds. You stirred slightly under his touch, but he froze, waiting until your breathing evened out again before continuing.

As he worked, the Gentleman couldn't help but notice the scars that marred your skin, each one a painful testament to what you had endured. His hands hovered over the worst of them, as if hesitant to touch. But he pressed on, spreading the ointment with a feather-light touch, determined not to wake you.

The faint lines of pain on your face seemed to soften as the salve worked its magic, and he found himself watching you again. Not just your wounds, but you—the curve of your cheek, the faint flutter of your lashes, the subtle rise and fall of your chest. He wondered how someone who had been through so much could still carry this quiet strength, this humanity that he wasn't sure he would have been capable of holding onto if he were in your position.

Something shifted in him then, something he couldn't quite name. It wasn't just guilt or admiration anymore—it was something deeper, something that unsettled him even as it stirred a strange sense of purpose within him.

"You shouldn't have to feel this," he murmured softly, the words meant more for himself than for you. "None of this."

His hands paused briefly, trembling as the weight of his emotions threatened to spill over. But he steadied himself and resumed his task, meticulously tending to your wounds until every last one had been treated.

When he finally sat back, exhaustion tugging at his own body, he couldn't bring himself to leave your side. Instead, he stayed there, his gaze never straying far from you.

Seonghwa had made many promises to himself over the years, but as he watched over you in the dim light of the room, he made one more—a silent vow that whatever it took, he would find a way to free you from this nightmare. Even if it cost him everything.

I won't leave you behind... not this time.

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The next morning unfolded in a fog of tension and fleeting memories that lingered in his mind as he sat across from Madame Scarlet. The dining room, grand and dripping with opulence, felt more like a gilded cage than a place of comfort. The soft clink of silverware and the hum of hushed conversation grated against his nerves, the air heavy with artifice. His grip on his utensils tightened as your words echoed in his thoughts, each syllable etched with quiet despair.

"It's not as simple as you think, Mr. Park. There's more to this place than merely spy training. They have more... elaborate plans. And I'm... part of that plan."

Your voice had wavered, the fear laced within it unmistakable. He could still see the way your eyes darted to the door, your movements taut with the paranoia of someone constantly monitored. Your unfinished confession repeated itself in his head like a haunting refrain.

"I'm not just a regular trainee here... I'm—"

The memory was interrupted by the sharp sound of boots in the hallway, the rhythmic echo cutting through the tension like a blade. Your voice had faltered, replaced by a gasp as the footsteps grew louder. And then she had entered—the woman you called your trainer. Her expression was stern, impassive, as she spared Seonghwa a curt nod before dragging you away without explanation. The sight of you, so resigned yet terrified, had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Before he could so much as process what had happened, another figure had arrived, the right-hand woman, beckoning him to breakfast as though nothing had transpired.

And now, here he was, a mask of calculated charm concealing the storm within as he faced the Madame. The founder, draped in her cold authority, watched him with an unsettling smile, her words poised and deliberate.

"So, you find our ways effective?" she asked, her voice dripping with saccharine diplomacy. "I knew we could trust decisive men such as yourself from the Black Pirates to agree with our methods."

Her praise felt like poison, each word curdling in his gut. Seonghwa forced a smile, swallowing his revulsion with practised ease.

"Of course, Madame," he replied smoothly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil beneath. "It is only necessary. After all, the best diamonds are produced in the rough."

Her approving nod was like ice slipping down his spine. As she turned her attention to the next topic, his thoughts drifted back to you, unable to ignore the gnawing questions.

What were you going to say? If you're not just another trainee, then what are you? What twisted plans are they weaving around you?

He pictured you before this nightmare—living a life untouched by the horrors of this place. Perhaps you had once been a girl who laughed freely, who dreamed without fear. The thought felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

What are they doing to you now? What are they turning you into?

"Gentleman Park?" Madame Scarlet's voice cut through his spiralling thoughts, sharp and expectant. He blinked, his façade unbroken as he nodded and delivered a fabricated report of your supposed punishment. Each lie tasted bitter, but he forced it down.

I'll find out. Whatever it takes.

Deep under the building, the isolation chamber felt alive, its oppressive darkness wrapping around you like a suffocating shroud. The relentless hum of machinery echoed in your ears, each vibration a cruel reminder of your imprisonment. Your body trembled, exhaustion weighing heavily on your limbs, but it was nothing compared to the weight of your thoughts. Then came that voice, cold and devoid of humanity, slicing through the silence.

"How do you feel?"

Your fists clenched, nails digging into your palms as a spark of anger flickered to life. "Nothing," you bit out, your voice shaking with frustration. But even as you said it, the word felt hollow, a lie you couldn't quite believe. You didn't feel nothing—no, it was anger, sharp and scorching, that had taken root inside you. Frustration flared hotter with every second, fed by the memory of Seonghwa's words, echoing in your mind like a cruel whisper.

"I'll be here to stay... indefinitely now."

You had stared at him, disbelief coursing through you like a tidal wave. "Wh-what do you mean indefinitely?" you had asked, your voice unsteady, heart pounding with the weight of implications you couldn't yet comprehend.

He hadn't looked at you, his gaze fixed on the jar of ointment in his hands. You hadn't noticed it then, but now, in the suffocating dark, the memory of his careful hands tending to your wounds replayed with an unexpected tenderness. The way his fingers had moved—gentle, deliberate—like someone who cared. His voice, soft and almost hesitant, echoed in your mind.

"I... proposed to oversee your training."

You had blinked at him, confusion and frustration crashing together in a storm of emotions. "What...? Why? Whatever for?" you had demanded, searching his face for answers.

And then his eyes met yours. Determination burned there, fierce and unyielding. It caught you off guard, stole the breath from your lungs. "I'm going to help you," he said, his voice steady, as though the very idea of failure didn't exist.

The memory of his words ignited a whirlwind in your chest—anger, disbelief, and something else you weren't ready to name. Help me? The thought had made you scoff, a bitter laugh escaping before the tears threatened to follow. You had shaken your head at him, the hopelessness in your heart spilling out like poison.

"You don't even know what's happening here—hell, you don't even know me. Why would you risk everything for someone like me? You can't save me from something you don't understand. And they... they'll never let you find out."

You remembered the crack in your voice as you pointed to yourself, desperation seeping into every word. "This... this isn't something you can fix, Mr. Park."

The robotic voice snapped you back to reality, the chamber's suffocating atmosphere closing in again. "Subject 01, how do you feel?"

You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to steady your breathing. You needed to focus on something, anything, to keep the darkness at bay. And there he was again in your mind, that damned determination lighting up his face. His words refused to let go of you.

"Well, they don't have to let me. I'll find out myself, one way or another. And besides..."

You could see it so clearly—the way he smiled at you then, soft and genuine, so different from the carefully constructed smiles he wore for everyone else. It wasn't fair, the way it disarmed you, the way it stirred something you didn't want to feel.

"I have you."

Tears pricked at your eyes again, but this time they weren't born of despair. They carried something heavier, something far more dangerous. Hope. And you hated him for it—for giving you something to hold onto when you had spent so long letting go.

The voice interrupted again, clinical and uncaring. "Subject 01—"

Your eyes flew open, defiance blazing in them as you glared into the black void where you knew the camera was. "Nothing at all," you said, your voice steady, though the fire within you burned hotter than ever.

"Wonderful," the voice responded, its detachment grating against every nerve.

But for the first time, you didn't care. Your focus was sharp, your resolve harder than steel. You would convince him to leave, to abandon this reckless idea before it consumed him too.

And yet... a part of you wanted him to stay.

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The week crawled by in a haze of calculated cruelty and simmering defiance. With Madame Scarlet's permission, Seonghwa was now a near-constant presence in your training sessions, his sharp eyes watching from the shadows or perched casually at the edge of the room. Most of your sessions, anyway. The ones he was allowed to witness.

The others—those sessions—took place far away from his sight, shrouded in secrecy and hidden deep within the facility's labyrinthine corridors. Those sessions were the ones that drained the light from your eyes and left you stumbling back to your dormitory, wearier and more hollow than before. And each time, he noticed.

Though the trainers and the founder kept him occupied with mealtime conversations or endless discussions about "enhancements" to your regimen, he saw it. He saw the shadows under your eyes deepen. He saw the tremor in your hands as you reached for water. He saw the stiffness in your movements, as though your body were fighting a losing battle with pain.

It enraged him, but he hid it well. He always hid it well. Instead of letting his anger show, he catalogued each new bruise and each broken look. He filed it away as fuel for his determination.

Today was no different. Another training session, another round of impossible tasks. The founder herself was present, her sharp gaze piercing through the room like a predator sizing up prey. She pushed you harder than ever, setting you up for failure with tasks that even the strongest would falter under.

"Faster," she barked as you stumbled mid-sprint. "You call that speed? A child could outrun you."

The other trainees averted their eyes, some wincing at the venom in her tone. But you kept going, jaw tight, pushing your battered body to obey despite its protests.

When you managed to finish the drill, she sneered. "Pathetic. And here I thought we were cultivating something special."

Seonghwa, standing to the side with his arms crossed, broke the silence. His voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a blade. "I've seen worse recover faster. She's more resilient than you think, Madame."

The founder turned her sharp eyes on him, her expression unreadable. "Resilience isn't enough, Gentleman Park. What we need here is excellence."

"Excellence takes time," he replied smoothly, his face a mask of polite detachment. "And she's proven capable of rising to challenges when given the opportunity."

His words deflected her attention just enough to ease the pressure on you. And you hated it.

You hated the way he intervened, hated the risks he was taking by challenging the founder—no matter how subtle. It was reckless. It was dangerous. And it was entirely unnecessary.

When the session finally ended, you didn't linger. You stormed out of the training hall, your body aching and your mind racing. But as you turned the corner into the hallway, there he was. He leaned casually against the wall, waiting for you with an unreadable expression.

Your anger boiled over. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" you hissed, marching up to him. "You don't need to make my battles yours!"

His calm demeanour didn't waver. He straightened, meeting your glare head-on. "I'm not trying to fight your battles."

"Then what the hell was that back there?" you snapped, gesturing wildly toward the training hall. "Do you have any idea what you're risking? Why do you keep—"

"I'm just trying to make sure you live to fight them," he interrupted, his voice low but steady.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Your breath hitched, the anger in your chest faltering as something else crept in.

His gaze softened just slightly, but the determination remained. "You don't have to like me being here. Hell, you can hate me for it. But if I can take even one ounce of that weight off your shoulders, then it's worth it."

Your fists clenched at your sides, words caught in your throat. You didn't know what to say. You didn't want to believe him, didn't want to let that flicker of hope take root again.

But damn him, he made it so hard.

You're being stupid, Park. You'll regret this.

Later that night, the training room was cloaked in dim light, the overhead bulbs casting fractured shadows across the walls like shards of glass. It was late, long past curfew, but the ache in your chest and the founder's voice echoing in your mind wouldn't let you rest. The sting of humiliation lingered like a wound left raw, and you poured it all into the combat routine—every sharp strike and block an attempt to claw your way free from the weight crushing you.

But your body betrayed you, trembling under the strain of endless days without reprieve. Exhaustion blurred the edges of your movements, and frustration burned hotter with every imperfect step.

The quiet sound of a door opening went unnoticed until a voice sliced through the haze, steady and low.

"Your form's a little off."

You spun around, fists raised on instinct, only to find Seonghwa leaning against the doorframe, his presence unassuming yet commanding. His gaze lingered on you, calm but observant, and it unsettled you in ways you couldn't name.

"What are you doing here?" you snapped, wiping sweat from your brow, your voice sharper than you intended.

He stepped closer, each movement deliberate but unthreatening. "Couldn't sleep," he said simply, his tone betraying no judgement. "Figured I wasn't the only one."

Your glare hardened, walls snapping into place like armour. "I don't need you here. Go back to your room."

Instead of retreating, he crossed the room with measured steps, his eyes flicking over your stance. "You're letting frustration get the better of you. It's making you sloppy."

His words struck a nerve, cutting deeper than they should have. "I don't need your help," you bit out.

"I'm not offering help," he countered, his calm tone steady as steel. "Just advice."

Before you could fire back, he gestured to the training mat. "Show me what you're working on."

For a moment, you hesitated. Letting him see you like this—raw, vulnerable, struggling—felt like exposing a wound to someone who could twist the knife. But there was no mockery in his gaze, no condescension. Just an infuriating patience that chipped away at your defences.

Reluctantly, you demonstrated the routine, your movements sharp but uneven. He watched silently, his brow furrowed with concentration, and when you finished, he stepped closer.

"Your footing's off here," he said, nudging your leg into position with his foot, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric. "And your weight—it's leaving you open to counters."

You flinched at the proximity, but he didn't retreat. Instead, he adjusted your arm with a careful, steady hand. "Try it again."

This time, your movements flowed with more control, more precision. When you stopped, he nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Better. But there's still something missing."

"What?" The word slipped out before you could stop it.

He stepped behind you, his hands hovering just above your arms, his voice a quiet murmur. "You're too rigid. Combat isn't just about strength—it's about flow. Anticipation. Trusting yourself."

His closeness was overwhelming, the heat of his presence and the steadiness of his breathing weaving into the moment. His hands guided your movements, the gentleness of his touch unravelling something tightly wound inside you.

The routine transformed, no longer a drill but a dance. Each motion flowed seamlessly into the next, and for the first time, you felt a sense of grace beneath the weight of your exhaustion.

"You're stronger than they'll ever give you credit for," he murmured, his voice soft, like a secret meant only for you.

And just as the moment began to settle, he stepped away, leaving a hollow space where his presence had been. You stood there, breathless and unmoored, the room suddenly colder without him near.

He turned to leave, his steps quiet, but something within you resisted. Before you could think better of it, you called out, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Mr. Park... thank you."

He paused, glancing over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

"Seonghwa," he corrected, his smile faint but disarming. "Just... call me Seonghwa. And you're welcome, my lady."

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the stillness, your thoughts tangled and your heart betraying you in ways you hadn't thought possible.

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"Message from Seonghwa hyung."

Jongho's voice cut through the suffocating silence of the Captain's office, and Hongjoong's head shot up from his hands immediately. The younger man stepped forward, closing the door firmly behind him before placing a neatly wrapped package on the desk.

"He sent this through the secret messenger," the youngest continued, his tone laced with urgency.

The leader's stomach churned. That alone spoke volumes. Seonghwa wouldn't have risked using such a method unless it was vital. His hands trembled as he tugged at the twine, unwrapping the package with uncharacteristic clumsiness.

"A secret messenger…" he muttered under his breath. "If the Red Room finds out—"

"They won't," Jongho interjected firmly. "He knows what he's doing. But you need to see this, hyung. It's important."

The package fell open, its contents spilling across the desk in a disorganised heap: photographs, documents, and a few unmarked videotapes. Hongjoong froze, his unease morphing into dread. With a sharp nod toward the small TV in the corner, he gestured for the Anchor to play the first tape.

As the screen flickered to life, a chilling silence settled over the room.

The grainy footage revealed sterile white rooms filled with cold, metallic equipment. A girl restrained on a table. Her eyes, wide with terror or dulled by sedation, seemed to pierce through the screen. The audio crackled with muffled voices—clinical orders interspersed with the occasional scream.

"What the fuck…" Hongjoong whispered, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the desk.

Jongho's face remained impassive, though his jaw was set tight. The footage shifted, showing a stark, windowless chamber—a single chair in the centre equipped with electroshock restraints. The same girl. The same hopelessness.

"This isn't just training," the youngest said, his voice thick with disgust. "This is something else entirely."

The Captain's fingers sifted through the documents spread before him: test results, progress notes, and schematics outlining the chilling details of the experiments.

"They're not just training spies," he murmured, his voice hollow. "They're manufacturing weapons. Breaking people down and rebuilding them into... into something inhuman."

His hand faltered as he reached the bottom of the stack. A profile sheet caught his eye, its clipped photograph grainy but unmistakable.

A lab rat.

No—a person.

His stomach dropped as he scanned the page. The subject's identity was stripped away, replaced with a mere clinical description:

Female. Mid-twenties. High pain tolerance. Physical capabilities surpass expectations.

Jongho broke the silence, his voice grim. "They're trying to turn her into a machine. Stripping away everything that makes her human."

"And Seonghwa..." Hongjoong's voice cracked, the weight of it crashing down on him. His eyes caught the scrawled words on the package's exterior:

Project Android by the Red Room.

A cold shiver ran down his spine. The eldest wasn't there for diplomacy anymore. He was trapped in the epicentre of something far darker than they'd ever anticipated.

The leader slammed the final page onto the desk, his gaze locking onto a message scribbled in their coded language:

"Keep this evidence safe. I'll work on getting her out while securing this deal. I'll use the code if I need help. For now, have faith in me. Sorry for letting you down, Joong."

His jaw tightened, his gaze snapping to the Anchor. "We need to come up with a backup plan. If things go south for him—"

Jongho nodded sharply. "And the girl?"

For a moment, Hongjoong faltered. The weight of it all—the impossibility of what they were up against—threatened to break through his composure. But then his resolve returned, hardened like steel.

"We don't leave anyone behind," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "Not if we can help it."

He leaned back in his chair, his mind already racing through contingencies. Sure, the Black Pirates weren't exactly saints, but even they had their limits.

And this?

This crossed every single one of them.

Back at the Red Room, Seonghwa could only hope his package had reached its destination safely. It was the sliver of hope keeping him tethered amidst the suffocating tension that defined this place. What you didn't know—what no one knew—was how far his determination had driven him. Every moment he wasn't with you or under the watchful eye of Madame Scarlet and her loyal hounds, he was spying. Not because he trusted the system but because he trusted himself more.

He knew he couldn't endure this oppressive environment much longer, and he refused to leave without you. So, he worked tirelessly. Nights passed with little sleep as he used his sharp senses and meticulous skills to catalogue every camera, memorise the labyrinth of hallways, and navigate spaces no one else dared to. His stealth was unmatched, a testament to his experience. At times, he found it bitterly ironic—this was a spy training facility, yet he roamed freely, undetected, a shadow in a house of shadows.

He'd known for some time now what you were to this place. He knew the pain you carried, the torment hidden behind the veneer of precision and obedience. But he hadn't found the courage to confront you about it, not until tonight.

Like many other nights, he found you awake past curfew. Tonight, you were in the ballet practice room—the same room that had led to your punishment, all because of him. This time, you finished your routine with precision, each movement a testament to your perseverance. When you stopped, his soft applause startled you, but only for a moment. By now, his late-night appearances had become so common you no longer questioned them.

And yet, you feared the comfort they brought you. Comfort felt dangerous here.

You sighed, turning away as the corners of your heart warmed against your will. "Can't sleep again, Mr. Park?" you asked, your tone guarded but laced with weariness.

He clicked his tongue in mock annoyance as he sat beside you, just far enough to respect your boundaries but close enough for you to feel the warmth of his presence. "Told you to call me Seongh—"

"Mr. Park," you cut him off, sharp but not unkind. Your eyes met his in warning, firm enough to halt his words.

He sighed in surrender, leaning back against the mirror beside you. The room fell into an uneasy silence, the tension between you as palpable as the moonlight streaming through the tall windows.

You broke the quiet, your voice hesitant but unwavering. "Why..." The single word hung in the air, weighted with the unspoken questions you hadn't dared to voice until now. "Why are you still here? Be honest with me. You're Gentleman Park—a feared member of the Black Pirates. Mercy isn't exactly your calling card. And yet, you're here. Risking everything. For what?"

His lips curved into a bittersweet smile, his eyes unfocused as if staring at a memory only he could see. For a moment, you thought he wouldn't answer. Then, in a voice as soft as the moonlight, he began.

"I once tried to save someone like you," he said, the weight of his confession pressing against the fragile quiet of the room.

"When I was young, before the Black Pirates, I wanted to make a difference. Believe it or not, I was studying to join the police force, still naive enough to think I could change the world." His voice carried a bitterness that made your chest tighten. "One day, I met a boy begging on the streets. He looked so lost, so scared. I found out he was trapped in a human trafficking ring. I thought I was saving him when I helped him escape."

You watched as his expression hardened, his jaw clenching against the flood of memories.

"For a little while, I thought I'd done it. I believed I'd saved him. But those bastards retaliated. They found him again. And they punished him." His fists curled tightly in his lap. "What they did to him… It was worse than anything he'd suffered before. And he didn't survive."

Your breath caught at the raw anguish in his voice.

"I thought I was his hero, but I was the reason he suffered more. After that, I joined the gang and stopped trying to save people. I told myself the world didn't need heroes—it needed survivors." He looked at you then, his gaze piercing but soft. "And then I saw you. At first, I thought I'd learned my lesson. That getting involved would only make things worse. But—"

"Your first instinct was right," you interrupted, your voice calm but resolute. "You should've left me behind."

Seonghwa flinched, your words slicing through him. "You don't mean that," he said softly, almost a plea.

"Don't I?" You turned to face him fully, your eyes sharp but heavy with exhaustion. "You think I don't know what I am to them? What I am to this place? My life is already ruined. But you… Look at what you've dragged yourself into because of me."

The words hung in the air, a thick, suffocating silence settling between you. If you thought your harshness would drive him away, you were wrong. For, instead of retreating, something inside him warmed, a flicker of hope igniting in your pain. You weren't angry at him for making your life worse. You were still thinking of him. You were still asking him to leave, to protect himself. And that thought alone was enough to keep him from walking away.

"No," he said at last, his voice steady, more resolute than you'd ever heard it before. "My first instinct was wrong. The old me wasn't strong enough to protect the people I cared about. But now, I won't make the same mistake. This time, I'll protect you. No matter what it takes."

People he… cared about? Me?

The weight of his words hit you like a freight train. For a moment, you were speechless, the walls around your heart trembling under the sheer force of his unwavering conviction. He wasn't just speaking to you; he was believing in you. And for the first time, a small, fragile seed of hope took root inside you. Maybe, just maybe, he was someone you could trust. Someone you could believe in.

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"Quick, in here!" Seonghwa whispered urgently, pulling you into the narrow closet in the corner of the ballet practice room. The door shut softly behind you, his hand lingering on your wrist to steady your trembling form. You were both about to leave for the night when the unmistakable echo of footsteps down the hall froze you in your tracks. Instinct took over as you tugged him toward the nearest hiding spot—the changing room.

The space was suffocatingly cramped, every breath shared between you as you tried to steady your racing heart. The faint rise and fall of his chest told you his was no calmer. Only a sliver of moonlight seeped through the slats of the door, illuminating the tension that now filled the air.

You swallowed hard, throat dry as you became painfully aware of how close he was. Barely an inch separated you, his broad chest right there, the faint, intoxicating scent of leather and spice curling around you. When your eyes met his, they held a storm of unspoken emotions. Another inch closer, and your lips might have touched. The thought made your breath hitch, but the sound of approaching footsteps snapped you back to the danger at hand.

The two of you froze—not from the proximity this time, but the unmistakable panic that crept in as the footsteps entered the room.

Turning away from him, you leaned forward slightly to peek through the slats in the door. As you shifted, your hair moved, revealing the nape of your neck. In the dim light, Seonghwa caught sight of something he hadn't seen before—seared into your skin was a barcode. Below it, the words: Subject 01.

He stiffened behind you, and though the footsteps eventually faded, it wasn't until silence filled the room again that you dared to exhale.

"She's gone," you whispered, relaxing slightly as you turned back to him. You reached for the door, but his grip on your arm stopped you.

"Did it hurt?" His voice was soft, almost tender, but the barely concealed edge betrayed the anger simmering beneath the surface.

"Did what hurt?" you asked, frowning. Then his gaze dropped to the back of your neck, his fingers brushing the spot lightly, almost reverently. The touch sent a shiver down your spine. Realisation hit you like a wave. He'd seen it.

The gasp that left your lips was involuntary as you instinctively stepped back, but his hold on you was firm, steady, as though he feared you might crumble under his touch.

"It's okay," he murmured, his tone calm despite the fire in his eyes. "I know. I know everything—what they've done to you, what they plan to do. I know that you're... Subject 01 of Project Android."

His words sent a chill down your spine. The strength drained from your legs, and you would have fallen if not for his steady arm supporting you. "H-how…? They'd never—" you stammered, your voice barely a whisper.

He sighed deeply, leaning forward until his forehead rested gently against yours. His breath was warm, grounding, even as your mind spun in chaos. "Like you said," he muttered, his voice laced with a hint of bitter irony, "I'm Gentleman Park of the Black Pirates. There's nothing I can't uncover when I put my mind to it."

Your hands balled into fists against his jacket, your voice trembling with anger and despair. "So you knew?" you asked, incredulous. "And you stayed? Do you have any idea what these people are capable of? You should've signed that contract and left. There's nothing you can do for me. Like you said, doomed souls are everywhere. I'm just another one."

Your eyes narrowed, challenging him. "Why are you even here? Why are you working so hard for me? It's not because of me, is it? It's because this experiment poses a threat to your crew. If Project Android succeeds, it'll be a threat to the Black Pirates too, won't it? That's the real reason—"

"Stop." His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn't answer. Then his expression softened, his eyes meeting yours with a raw, unfiltered vulnerability you hadn't expected. "You silly girl," he said, shaking his head lightly. "Do I really seem like that to you? After everything I've told you? It's… it's because I can't leave you here."

The quiet admission hit you like a punch to the gut. His voice was raw, carrying the weight of emotions he wasn't trying to hide. "I tried convincing myself this wasn't my fight," he said, his tone steady despite the tremor of emotion beneath it. "That it wasn't my place. But I can't look away—not from you."

You stood there, stunned, his words unravelling every defence you'd spent years building. For so long, you'd believed no one cared, that you were nothing more than an expendable experiment. And yet here he was, defying all logic, holding on when anyone else would have let go.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like more than just a declaration of resolve—something deeper lingered in his tone. But there was no time to entertain such thoughts. Survival was the only thing that mattered now.

"Seonghwa…" His name escaped your lips in a fragile whisper, but he shook his head gently.

"We'll talk later," he said firmly, the resolve in his voice leaving no room for argument. "Right now, we need to focus on getting you out of here."

And for the first time, you didn't argue.

The hallway was eerily silent as he guided you through the winding maze of corridors. His hand hovered near your arm, not quite touching, as though even the smallest contact might betray too much. You followed in reluctant steps, each one heavier than the last as the realisation sank in: he wasn't leading you to the fake room they'd assigned you for appearances. No, this route was different. Familiar.

Your heart clenched when you recognised it—this was the way to your actual room. Or cell, as it truly was. The sterile walls, the reinforced door, the cold, suffocating solitude that awaited you there. He really did know everything.

Your thoughts spiralled as you walked. Did he also know how you ended up here? Did he also know the pieces of you that had been stripped away, piece by agonising piece, until nothing but a shell remained? Did he also know about the dreams you used to have—the kind of dreams the old you had cherished? The ones where you imagined falling in love with someone kind, someone who could see the best in you? Someone like him.

But he wasn't supposed to be here, warming the frozen corners of your heart, making it ache in ways you'd long forgotten. He wasn't supposed to make you hope.

"We're here," his voice broke through your thoughts, soft yet steady. You stopped, realising you'd reached the corridor just outside your cell. He'd led you to a blind spot—where no cameras could see—but this was as far as he could go.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You stared at the path ahead, the one that led to your isolation, and swallowed the lump in your throat. "We are," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"Seonghwa," you started, your gaze dropping to his hand. Your fingers twitched, hesitant, unsure whether to reach out. The war between your heart and your mind raged louder than ever. Before you could decide, he closed the distance, his larger, warmer hand enveloping yours.

Your breath caught as his touch sent a jolt through you. His grip was firm yet gentle, grounding you in a way nothing else ever had. You looked up, finding his eyes already on you—deep, searching, and unguarded in a way that made your chest tighten.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice a soft murmur that carried so much weight it made you dizzy. He didn't know it, but your world shifted with the way he looked at you, as though you were the only thing that mattered.

You opened your mouth to speak, only to falter as the emotions welled up, threatening to spill over. Gratitude. Guilt. Longing. Words felt inadequate. Instead, you squeezed his hand, a small, fragile gesture that felt monumental in the space between you. "I…" You swallowed hard, summoning the courage to continue. "I just want to thank you for trying so hard. For… caring."

His brow furrowed slightly, but he stayed silent, letting you finish. "I need you to know," you continued, your voice trembling. "It doesn't matter if I get out of here. I'm just… glad to have met you."

Your heart ached with the weight of the truth behind your words. You knew what you were saying wasn't fair to him, that it sounded like a goodbye. Slowly, you began to pull your hand away, but he held on, his touch firm yet tender, as though he couldn't bear to let go.

And then he did something that made your breath hitch—something you didn't expect.

Leaning in, Seonghwa pressed his lips to your forehead. The gesture was soft, deliberate, and filled with more emotion than any words could ever convey.

Your eyes closed instinctively, your breath catching as his warmth lingered. When he pulled back, his gaze burned with a fierce determination that left no room for argument.

"No," he said, his voice low but resolute. "Don't say that. Don't act like this is the end. I already have a plan, and rest assured…" His hand tightened around yours, his determination radiating through his touch. "I will get out of here tomorrow—with you."

The certainty in his voice left you stunned, your chest tightening as tears brimmed at the corners of your eyes. For a fleeting moment, the silence between you spoke louder than any words could. How...? you wanted to ask, but the question stayed lodged in your throat. You were exhausted—exhausted from fighting, from merely surviving. For once, you wanted to let someone else carry the weight for you. So, you didn't question him.

You simply nodded, unable to summon your voice. Turning to walk the final stretch alone, your steps felt heavier with every inch that separated you. Still, an inexplicable pull made you glance back one last time. His eyes were on you, unwavering, filled with a promise that neither of you dared put into words.

The moment stretched, unspoken yet profound, and though nothing was said, everything was understood.

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"How has he been?" Madame Scarlet asked, her tone sharp and expectant as she gazed at your trainer.

The woman lowered her head respectfully before responding, "He's… unexpectedly cooperative and professional, ma'am. He's provided us with some excellent ideas for enhancement and has never once intervened in any of Subject 01's training—the sessions he was permitted to supervise, at least."

The founder raised a brow, a self-satisfied grin curling her lips. "Hm. Perhaps the Gentleman truly does admire our ways," she mused, leaning back in her chair. "I suppose his extended stay would only be beneficial to us. After all, we'd be foolish not to recognise his value as an influential figure within his group. His prolonged presence serves as leverage. Keep him close—subtly manipulate his loyalty and extract information. The Black Pirates wouldn't even realise we're gaining the upper hand in the alliance."

A low chuckle sounded from the doorway, smooth and familiar. "How smart," Seonghwa drawled, stepping into the room with deliberate confidence, "but not nearly smart enough."

The founder's grin froze, her eyes snapping to the intruder with disbelief. You followed closely behind him, your heart hammering as you caught the flash of unease in her expression—a crack in the armour of control she always wore.

"G-Gentleman Park," she stammered, rising from her seat. Her composure wavered, but she quickly tried to mask it with a welcoming smile. "You're surprisingly early today. And you, my darling," she said, her gaze shifting to you with forced sweetness. "Aren't you supposed to be—"

"At her daily isolation chamber session?" the gang member interrupted smoothly, his lips curling into a sardonic smirk. "Ah, Madame, do you take me for a fool?"

The trainer stiffened, her hand twitching toward her hidden pistol. Madame Scarlet's smile faltered as her eyes flicked to the briefcase in his hand. Her mind raced, trying to assess the situation.

Seonghwa stepped closer, placing the briefcase on her desk with a measured grace. "I believe I've overstayed my welcome," he said casually. "On behalf of my Captain, I declare it's time to finalise our alliance and take my leave—on one condition."

The lady narrowed her eyes, her voice cold and sharp. "Name it."

"I'm taking her with me," he said, gesturing to you without hesitation.

The founder's face darkened, her calm slipping further. "Over my dead body," she hissed.

He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "That can be arranged."

The trainer moved, but he raised a hand in mock surrender, laughing lightly. "Relax. I'm only kidding. How would our alliance flourish if you were dead, Madame?" He tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes, though his tone carried a weight that silenced the room.

"You're playing a dangerous game," Madame Scarlet warned, but her voice lacked its usual confidence.

"Oh, I never play without knowing I'll win," he countered, his smirk sharpening as he opened the briefcase. Inside lay meticulously organised files, a hard drive, and a stack of DVDs. He slid a folder across the desk toward her.

"In here," he began, his voice dropping to a measured calm, "you'll find all the proof you need of your inhumane operations. Experiment logs, surveillance footage, and even testimonies from staff who've grown tired of being complicit. What do you think would happen if a third party were to get their hands on this?"

The lady's hand trembled as she opened the folder. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes scanning the damning contents.

"You wouldn't," she said, her voice low and dangerous.

"Oh, I would," Seonghwa replied, leaning forward slightly. "And I'll make sure your rivals and the authorities receive copies if you refuse my terms. Imagine the chaos that would bring to your empire."

Her composure shattered for a moment, her nails digging into the desk as she glared at him. "You underestimate me."

"No," he said, his voice soft but firm, "I don't. I know exactly who you are, Madame Scarlet. That's why I'm giving you a choice: agree to let her leave with me, or watch your empire crumble under scrutiny."

Her fury was almost tangible, her chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. But she was cornered, and they both knew it.

Madame Scarlet's nails dug into her palm, her usual composure shattered as she took a step closer to him. Her voice, laced with venom, quivered just slightly. "You realise what you're risking, don't you? My network reaches farther than you can imagine. The Black Pirates may be formidable, but do you truly believe your Captain will protect you once I make you a liability?"

Seonghwa didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Oh, Madame, threats only work when they hold weight. Do you think I'd walk in here unarmed? The Captain knows everything. This"—he gestured to the briefcase—"was sent with his blessing. Your reach ends where my ship begins."

The elderly woman's jaw clenched, her desperation now thinly veiled. "If you expose me, you'll bring chaos to yourself as well! The Black Pirates thrive on secrecy and reputation. Do you want to be the man who compromises that for some… experiment?" Her gaze flickered to you, cold and calculating.

"Nice try," he said, his tone turning colder. "But let's not pretend this is about me. The difference between you and me is simple: I protect the people I care about. You exploit them."

She growled in frustration, turning her attention to you. "And you?" she demanded, her voice suddenly softening as she changed tactics. "You're really going to leave with him? After all we've done for you?" Her words dripped with artificial kindness, a mask of sympathy stretched over her true intentions.

"I saved you from a life of obscurity," she continued, taking a step closer to you. "You'd still be a nobody if not for me. I gave you a purpose, a reason to exist. Is this how you repay me? By abandoning everything I built for you?"

You hesitated, her words striking a nerve. But the warmth of Seonghwa's hand slipping into yours steadied you, his unwavering presence a reminder of what truly mattered. Taking a deep breath, you turned to face her fully, your voice trembling at first but growing stronger with every word.

"You didn't save me," you said, your eyes locked on hers. "You broke me. You took everything I was—everything I could have been—and turned it into a weapon. You didn't give me a purpose; you stole it from me."

Her face darkened, but you pressed on, the weight of your emotions spilling over. "And now, you want me to feel sorry for you? To believe that what you did was for my own good? No, ma'am. The only thing you ever gave me was pain. And I refuse to let you keep me in chains any longer."

Her façade cracked completely, her expression twisting with rage and disbelief. "You ungrateful—"

The Gentleman's voice cut through her outburst, sharp and final. "Enough." He stepped between you and the founder, his presence a wall of protection. "You've lost, Madame. Accept it with what little dignity you have left."

Her hands shook, her gaze darting between the two of you. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. The power she had wielded so effortlessly for years was gone, slipping through her fingers like sand.

As the gang member led you out of the room, you cast one final glance over your shoulder. Madame Scarlet stood frozen, her empire teetering on the brink of collapse. The desperation in her eyes was a silent scream, her ironclad control shattered. For the first time, you felt no fear, no guilt—only a liberating wave of freedom as the door began to close behind you.

But then, in a heartbeat, that freedom threatened to slip away. Your blood ran cold as you spotted your trainer's hand darting to her concealed weapon as she muttered one last, "You're not going anywhere." The barrel of her gun gleamed, aimed directly at your saviour's back.

"Seonghwa—" you started, your voice catching in your throat.

He didn't need the warning. As though he had anticipated every move, he spun around with fluid precision. The room seemed to freeze, the air electric with tension. Before she could even pull the trigger, a single gunshot cracked through the silence.

The trainer's body crumpled to the floor, her lifeless eyes wide in shock. A gaping wound marred her forehead, blood pooling beneath her as her weapon clattered uselessly from her grasp.

You stood rooted in place, your breath caught in your chest. The woman who had tormented you for so long was gone—forever silenced, her cruelty ended in an instant. A part of you felt the weight of her death, but a stronger, quieter part of you reveled in the knowledge: she could never hurt you again.

Seonghwa lowered his gun with practised ease, his expression unreadable as he turned to the elderly woman. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted his head, mock apology dripping from his voice. "Oops," he drawled, his tone light but laced with menace. "I warned you there'd be consequences."

He took a deliberate step toward her, the dominance in his presence impossible to ignore. "This alliance between us is hereby solidified, by order of the Black Pirates. I trust the terms and conditions are now clear, Madame Scarlet?"

Her gaze flickered from the corpse of her loyal trainer to his unyielding stare. Fury bubbled beneath her trembling exterior, but she nodded sharply, biting back the venom she longed to unleash.

As Seonghwa turned back to you, his hand steady and reassuring on the small of your back, you caught the flicker of regret in the founder's expression. She had underestimated him, underestimated you. Letting your paths cross was her greatest mistake—a mistake she would carry for the rest of her life.

With every step you took away from that room, you felt the weight of your chains fall further behind. This time, freedom was not just a fleeting thought—it was real. And nothing could take it from you now.

The tension in Seonghwa's shoulders finally eased as he guided you into the sleek black car waiting outside—a vehicle Hongjoong had discreetly arranged to ensure your safe departure. The weight of what had just transpired lingered heavily in the air, but for the first time in what felt like forever, the Gentleman allowed himself a quiet moment of relief.

The engine purred to life, and as the car rolled away from the Red Room's shadowed compound, he turned to you. His smile was soft, almost hesitant, as his dark eyes met yours. There was no victory in his expression, only a quiet resolve.

"You're safe now," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "With me."

But even as he said it, his mind remained sharp, calculating. He knew the cost of what he'd done. The alliance between the Black Pirates and the Red Room is now balanced on a precarious thread of necessity rather than trust. Madame Scarlet's eyes would always be watching, her reach always extending, waiting for an opportunity to regain the upper hand.

And then, there was home. The gang wouldn't welcome you without question. The members' wrath would be swift and fierce—his brothers would demand an explanation for his actions, for the risks taken, for the unknown you now represented. What would they do with you? The uncertainty gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, but he pushed it aside for now.

The road ahead would be anything but easy, but Seonghwa had made his choice. He couldn't promise to bring you back to the life you once had, couldn't undo the scars left behind. But what he could do—what he would do—was protect you. No matter what it took, he vowed to keep you safe.

As the car disappeared into the night, leaving the hellhole behind, he leaned his head back against the seat. His fingers brushed yours, a silent reassurance. Whatever came next, you would face it together.

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"Huh, so he actually managed to threaten the Red Room and come out on top?" the figure mused, his lips curving into an impressed pout. "Looks like the rumours about him weren't exaggerated after all. The Gentleman really isn't someone to be underestimated."

With a smirk, he snapped the file shut and tossed it carelessly onto the pile beside the Captain's already-closed dossier. "Too bad he's gained a weakness in the process. Watching the Firestarter's reaction to this is going to be... entertaining."

His subordinate stepped forward, handing him another file. "Indeed, sir. But for now, the Enforcer appears to be making some interesting moves at the Prestige Asylum."

"Oh, is he now?" The figure's grin widened. "How charming."

So, uhh... if I said I wasn't at all feeling pressured while writing this after the amazing reviews Hongjoong's chapter received, I'd be lying. I'm worried it might be slightly disappointing since this contained a lot less of the 'romance' aspect compared to the Captain's story - but I wanted it to be realistic, and realistically speaking, I don't think the danger would leave them much space for romance.

Anyway, I still hope you enjoyed this! I'm super excited to hear what you all think about the concept and whether or not you've noticed the subtle details relating to the ATEEZ lore.

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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All Rights Reserved © edenesth // DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR REPURPOSE.

[7s3ven]

Guys, I’m going feral over thinking about deer hybrid! Reader x Philip Graves. Might make this into a series if I’m bothered LOL. I like the idea.

Imagine in this au, hybrids are rare. Especially you who looks entirely human save for the white and brown freckles adorning your skin and the gentle doe ears that flick occasionally.

You were a tagged hybrid, slang for a hybrid in danger of becoming nothing more than a test subject. You were prized for your unique blend of both human and animal characteristics. However, the company holding you captive forgot one thing. You were still part animal and it was in your instincts to run.

You met Graves after you collapsed on the road while sprinting away from the laboratory, your keen ears picking up the shouts coming from the guards.

You thought yourself as lucky that a car had been passing through the area when you fell. “What is it?” Someone exited the vehicle followed by another.

“It’s a hybrid… a deer one. I think. Can’t really tell.”

“It’s clearly a deer. What else would it be? A bird?”

They bickered amongst themselves before one had the initiative to pull out a walkie talkie. “Boss, we’ve encountered a hybrid on the road. Not sure how old she is, maybe late twenties? She’s a deer hybrid, has a few wounds, and she’s tagged. Your orders? Over.”

The pair waited half a beat before there was a response.

“Why would I want a hybrid?”

“She’s one of the valuable ones, sir. Maybe she can be useful. She was running quite fast before she blacked out. Doubt she’s been fed so to run at that speed on an empty stomach is impressive.”

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “Fine, bring her in.”

You didn’t officially meet Graves until a week later when he finally paid you a visit.

He watched in concealed awe at the way you gracefully moved, even when you were confined to a bed. You stared up at him, your soft doe eyes burning holes. He found you strangely captivating and it was in that moment he realized you could be useful after all.

Your aim with a gun was surprisingly good. If Graves was going to keep you, he needed you to be capable of protecting yourself. He spent at least a few hours each day just watching you fire a round of shots. His presence was no longer required but you seemed to enjoy his company.

Apart from Graves and the two Shadows who picked you up off the road, you didn’t speak to anyone else. You were shy to the point where sometimes, you didn’t even utter a word to Graves.

Within months, it became apparent as to where your loyalties lay. You answered to Graves and him alone. To you, his words was the law. If a command did not come from Graves, you did not follow it.

Some people found it annoying… but Graves adored it.

You followed Philip Graves everywhere he went, which also meant you tagged along on his shared mission with the Mexican Special Forces Operator and Task Force 141.

BONUS

You were his personal sniper, a gun gifted by Graves strapped to your back.

“Who’s the pretty lass?” A Scottish man asked as you trailed behind Graves. He gazed at you curiously, tilting his head.

Graves barely spared him a look. “My sniper.” He cockily answered, an undeniable smugness to his sharp words. “You don’t need to know her name.”

There were questioning looks exchanged between the teammates before Graves clicked his fingers, effortlessly gaining your attention. He leaned down, fully aware of the eyes following his every move.

“Doe.” He uttered the pet name you were accustomed to. Then he spoke in a foreign language, one only you could understand. Then he pointed at a tree nearby. You didn’t need any further instructions as you stepped forward, grasping your rifle. The others watched with raised brows, patiently waiting for something to happen.

There was a loud bang as you pressed the sensitive trigger of your gun. The bullet flew through the air, hitting the tree with pinpoint accuracy. You fired three more shots, hitting the exact same spot and drilling a hole into the trunk.

With practised ease, you lowered the gun. You heard Graves chuckle before he spoke. “Trained her myself.” He beckoned you back to his side and you obeyed without another thought.

He wrapped an arm around your waist as an act of dominance to the others. “She listens to my commands and mine only so don’t think for a second that her loyalties will change.”

Graves reached out to grasp your necklace, showing it to the whole group. It was a heart with his name engraved on it. “She belongs to me and if any of you muppets even look at her funny, it won’t end well for you.”

[yeet-me-lol]

Oc Homicipher

🎩MR. GRIN 🎩

Mr. Grin is a tall ((370 cm)), shadowy entity with an unsettling permanent smile and pupil-less white eyes. Dressed in an old-fashioned suit and hat, his very presence terrifies humans and ghosts alike. He doesn’t need to speak or threaten, his eerie silence and looming figure are enough to make anyone freeze in fear.

He can phase through walls, ceilings, and floors, often appearing suddenly and without warning. When needed, black arms with unnaturally long fingers emerge from his form, reaching for anything,or anyone, he sets his focus on.

Despite his terrifying appearance, Mr. Grin is neutral by nature. He neither seeks to harm nor help others directly. However, if anyone dares threaten his hidden life source, a flickering flame hidden somewhere only he knows, they will meet a swift and merciless end.

Whether friend or foe, Mr. Grin exists as a being of shadows and silence, trapped between light and darkness, forever smiling.

🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻

Mr. Grin’s Personality:-

1. Eloquent and Intelligent

Mr. Grin is highly intelligent, speaking with a calm and refined tone in flawless English. His speech carries an air of sophistication, making him stand out from the other ghosts.When interacting with less articulate entities, he adapts, deliberately simplifying his language or speaking in “broken” English to ensure they understand.

2. Neutral and Observant

He doesn’t show strong emotions, instead observing situations with quiet curiosity. His permanent smile and unreadable demeanor make it hard to tell what he’s thinking.Mr. Grin rarely takes sides unless his own safety or hidden life source is involved.

3. Darkly Witty

Despite his unnerving presence, Mr. Grin has a dry, dark sense of humor. He often makes unsettling but clever remarks, leaving others unsure if he’s joking or serious.

4. Mysterious and Reserved

Mr. Grin doesn’t reveal much about himself. He answers questions vaguely, often changing the subject or replying with riddles.His reserved nature keeps everyone guessing, adding to his enigmatic aura.

5. Unpredictable Yet Polite

He’s polite, even when terrifying someone. For example, he might say “Pardon my intrusion” as he phases through a wall or ceiling.While he usually remains neutral, his actions can shift unexpectedly, leaving others uncertain of his true intentions.

6. Protective When Necessary

Though he doesn’t form attachments easily, Mr. Grin can be fiercely protective of those he chooses to care for, showing glimpses of loyalty beneath his eerie exterior. However, his methods of protection can be chilling—he won’t hesitate to use his black arms or towering presence to eliminate threats.

7. Pragmatic and Strategic

He approaches problems with logic and strategy, often outsmarting others rather than relying on brute force. His intelligence makes him a valuable ally—or a formidable enemy.

🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻

His dialogue:-

He can actually speak fluent English but chooses to use bad English to blend in with the other ghosts. However, when he notices the Protagonist struggling to speak bad English to communicate with him, he finds it amusing and eventually switches to proper English. He even laughs at the Protagonist’s silly attempts at broken speech.

~Examples of his dialogue~

🎩-Talking About Himself:

“No. I. Am. Not. Here.”

“Me. Grin. You. Scared.”

“Walk. Walls. I. Do.”

“Quiet. Always. Quiet.”

🎩-Talking About Others:

“He. Fool. Always. Loud.”

“Ghosts. Dumb. Talk. Too. Much.”

“They. Fear. Me. Why? Look.”

“You. Weak. Run. Now.”

🎩-Reacting to the Protagonist:

“You. Not. Scared? Odd.”

“Stay. Here. You. Safe. Maybe.”

“Why. You. Talk. Me?”

“Run. Now. He. Comes.”

🎩-Warning or Threatening Others:

“Leave. Room. Now.”

“No. Fight. Me. Bad. Choice.”

“You. Gone. If. Try.”

“Light. I. Keep. Always.”

Okk. I think that's all. Have some this does i made, spoiler btw-

[that-weird-thing-in-the-woods]

I have a soft spot for the Ares and Aphrodite one, sucker for mixing in mythology! I was wondering if at some point you'll write about one of them being summoned or something? I'd imagine Phantom wouldn't be thrilled if Danny just gets yoinked out of nowhere-

~{ I’m so glad that people like the things I make ☺️! And I hope you like this }~

•That One Time The Cult summoning Worked•

-•••••••••••••••••••••••-

Danny was in one of his gardens, one of Danny favorites (besides the Teal, Purple, Orange garden) This garden has many tress and rose bushes all around with a somewhat large stream going through it.

Danny was siting underneath one of the larger tress on top of blankets on the ground with Phantom’s head on his lap sleeping or well the best a ghost can get to sleep, he had a flower crown beside them head (Given to him by Eros and Harmonia) with the phantom always wears helmet was next to it

The sound of children playing tag or a similar game running through a mostly clear area in the garden that is easily seen from where Danny and phantom are and well the sound of Deimos and Phobos playing tag and Eros and Harmonia picking flowers to make more flower crowns for whatever they do with them

So Danny was pretty content at the moment as he just sits under the tree with his husband and the sound of his children play

That is until Danny felt a tug, a tug he was told about by Papa it’s when a cult actually made a working portal which are very rare when it comes to Ancients instead of demons which are much easier to summon and than Danny was pulled through the portal to the human realm but he told phantom about summonings so it will be fine

He told phantom…..right

-•••••••••••••••••••••••-

In a old warehouse on the outskirts of a large city is a group wearing black hooded robes in a circle with a person a child really tied up on a chair in the circle with the people around the circle chanting something in a old tongue and it gos quite for a few minutes that feel like hours.

And suddenly a large wind comes from the circle pushing a few of the cultists down to the cold hard floor of the warehouse and knocking back the others and knocking the child out ~{I repeat the child is out for the count}~

And in the circle is a flouting figure with long black hair that acts like it is in water, they wear a white dress like outfit with pearls and jewelry with some roses in their hair and a very uninterested look at the cultists

And the cultists who didn’t get the wind knocked out of them bows down and starts on their…whatever they were trying to do

“Your Greatness! We have called you to unleash war and chaos on this world and give us the power to make us the new leaders of this mortal plain and for this power we offer you this child for a new world to allow us to mold this world to our wishes!!” The probably head cultist as they were wearing a red robe and as they say this they move their arms in a way to bring the child to his attention

And now Danny understands what happens and it just makes him laughs after a few minutes Danny says in the way to make it sound more echoey “Oh you mortal who do you think I am?”

But before the cultists can answer a portal is ripped through the air and his husband comes through in his full war armor on and phantom immediately starts to cut down the cultists and with them out Danny flouts down to him and phantom immediately wraps his arms around Danny body holds him close for a few minutes

“My Love, Never do that again” phantom says out of breath “Darling” Danny says as he runs a hand through phantoms hair to calm him down and it works after a minute and as he calms down phantom starts to pull Danny to the portal but that’s when Danny remembers the child

Danny pulls himself off of phantom (who makes a very unhappy noise at the action) as floats over to the child and holds his face in his hands and it gives Danny a good view of the cuts and bruises on the child and with the way his arm is positioned it most definitely is dislocated and Danny gives the child a kiss on the fore head and waits until the most pronounced cut heals and let’s go of the child and back to his husband and lets himself be pulled into the portal with his husband

And they leave just in time to miss a man wearing a yellow bat on his chest

-•••••••••••••••••••••••-

~{ That was a long one! How dare you give me the brain cell and I hope you gremlins like this! And remember I love it when you guys ask me questions or anything really! Byeeee }~

And for what the characters are wearing in this!

•Danny•

•Phantom•

•Harmonia•

•Eros•

•Phobos & Deimos•

[mxtantrights]

ordinary human

a/n: I can't believe this is my third fic for this fandom. I can't believe it. But I figured I would put my words down and get it all out. I don't think I'll make a part two to this, but we'll see...and with that, I hope you enjoy.

Eris x fem!reader, Azriel x fem!reader

Tiny sharp nails and needles all over your body. That's what it felt like every time Beron questioned you in your cell. It was hardly even that. more like a corner of a room with a rusty and eroded gate.

But you didn't know the reason why. And you couldn't tell Beron that because he didn't take no for an answer. He never takes no for an answer.

You don't know how long it's been now. But a while ago you managed to appear into the fae lands. Not on purpose either. One night you were working a late shift at the tavern. You finished and took the trash out into the alley and then everything went black.

The next time you opened your eyes, you were someplace different. The air felt different against your skin, it felt different in your lungs. You knew you weren't home, but you didn't know exactly where you were.

Until you were captured by the autumn court guards. They took you to the high lord, Beron, and asked what he wanted to be done to you. And he smiled and said he'd think about it.

It's been hell since then.

Every few days have been a new type of torture. Mind games, where he'd leave the cell door open and lure you out. Or he would crowd you in the cell and force you to answer questions. Or he would only offer you fae wine over water, which you couldn't drink without it altering your mind.

Today, though, is new. The guards took you out of your cell today a bit gentler then usual. And then they threw you into a room. A room with a bed and a bathroom, things you haven't seen in a while.

The guard told you to clean yourself up. You wasted no time following orders. One because you felt filthy, and two because you didn't want to defy them and earn new bumps and bruises to your body.

The only way you know time passes is because when you were thrown into the room, the sun was still up. The barred windows told you as much. And by the time you finished cleaning yourself up and waiting for the guards to return the sun set and the sky was turning dark already.

After you cleaned yourself, you looked around the room for anything to help you escape this nightmare. The window wasn't an option. But in between rummaging through the drawers of the bathroom you found a sharp blade. You tucked it into the sleeve of the plain and sheer white dress you were given.

You were laying on the bed when you heard the door open. Your flinch and crawl up further on the bed, pleading and begging the guards to just let you stay inside the room. But they don't speak to you at all.

They grab you by the arms and drag you out of the room. Seeing as you haven't eaten in a long time, you have no energy to fight back. You try screaming but your voice dies out in your throat. And your body lulls as they drag you down a hallway and then another, and then another. You drop your heavy head as they do.

Faintly you can hear a door opening. And there is a plethora of voices. But you can't pick your head up to look. You're tired. So tired. You wish you had lied to Beron and said something, anything, to get him to just end it in your cell.

-

"And now I present to you, my newest experiment." Beron's voice fills the dinning hall.

The doors open and in comes two guards and a woman. She's being dragged in by her arms. Her feet not walking on their own, and her head bobbing with every motion the guards make.

Rhysand looks at Beron in fury. A human in Prythian was rare, until Feyre that is. But this is different. Feyre agreed to a deal to save her family. This woman doesn't look like she came here on her own.

"You've taken a human captive?" Rhysand asks.

Azriel looks your form over twice. You look pale and weak. Like if the guard were to let go of you, you would fall to the floor. And you wouldn't be able to get back up. He knew Beron to be cruel but this is something wicked.

Beron grins and stands from his seat. He takes his chalice with him and walks over to the woman.

"Hardly. She appeared here out of thin air it seems. Can't recall how she crossed the border. A foolish lie, I surmise." Beron says.

Beron snaps his fingers and the guards lets your arms go. You don't have enough energy to catch yourself. You land on your knees and fall flat on your stomach. Unmoving.

"You should have sent her back." Feyre says.

She couldn't stand the sight of it. Your body was so still. And your heartbeat so slow. She was human once. It's hard to not see you and think of how she could have been in the same predicament. She's in a position of power now, and she wants tot help you desperately.

"Well I've just about exhausted my patience with her. That brings us here," Beron begins and drinks the rest of the wine from his chalice, "I figured you'd have a soft spot, soft belly."

Rhysand slams his hand on the table. "You will not talk to her like that!"

Beron hands his chalice to one of the guards who takes it without another word. He uses his foot to roll your body over. You slump to the ground again, eyes closed.

He leans in closer to get a look at you.

Feyre can hear it now. How your heartbeat is beating. Adrenaline.

-

When he turned your body over, you slide the blade down your arm. You could fake it for a while, but this was your shot. If you couldn't escape, then he would surely execute you for attacking him. Beron doesn't strike you as the type to forgive and forget.

The moment you feel his breath on you is when you do it.

You launch up and swipe his face with the blade. He goes flying back, his hands covering his face. You can't see the damage you've done but the blood seeping through his palms is enough to know there is damage.

It's like all the fear is rushing out of you. You get on your feet after a few stumbles, with the blade pointing out in front of you. You turn this way and that, not daring to trust anyone in the room.

"Either you let me go or you kill me!" you shout.

Beron looks at you in pure rage. His hand juts out from his side. And you know what the means. It means he's going to use his powers against you.

The first time he did it, he just lightly burned you. But after what you've done now? There is no way you don't turn into ash. You take a staggering breath.

"That's enough!" Another voice shouts.

You whirl around to them. A male fae. Dark hair. Purple eyes. Purple eyes, you think to yourself. You were very far from home. That much is clear.

"She'll come with us." The female fae next to him says.

You start to shake your head. You don't want to go anywhere but home. You weren't going with another fae. You can't trust any of them.

"That little whore just attacked me, I'll kill her!" Beron shouts.

All of a sudden darkness clouds your vision. But you know it's not your head this time. This is a tangible darkness, shadows. In front of you materialized is a man with wings. Your eyes go wide at him. A different type of fae.

He holds out his hand, "You'll come with us if you want to live."

You don't waste any time. You put your hand in his. For the first time since you got here, the touch is friendly. You can feel the adrenaline coursing trough you start to slow.

Without another second the scenery around you changes. You go from one room you didn't know to another. You feel sick too. In the pit of your belly. It feels like bile.

"You're gonna feel-" the male in front of you says.

But he doesn't get to finish. How could he when you bend over and let out the bile you felt in your belly. The feeling is exhausting. But it doesn't last long.

You pick yourself back up and look at the male. It's then you realize that he's still holding into your hand. You should let go, you really should. But with how weak you're feeling, you cannot. You might fall to the floor if you do.

"We have rooms here, if you want to lay down for a moment." he speaks.

You shake your head over and over. Your eyes beginning to water up. You slowly hold out the blade.

"I want to go home. Take me home." you say, voice cracking.

There's an uneasy silence between the two of you. He doesn't say anything for a few moments. And you feel like you might have to attack him too in order to be taken seriously.

But then a gust of wind is felt across your cheek. You look in the direction of where it came from. There standing a few feet away are the two other fae you saw besides Beron in that other room.

The female takes a step closer to you and you take a step back.

She raises her hands up in defense, "We're not gonna hurt you."

"Please let me go home. Please." you whisper.

"We will, we will. I promise. But you should eat something, and get some rest." she offers.

Eating sounds good. Sleeping too. But how could you trust any of them. How do you know they aren't working with Beron. Maybe this is just some elaborate trick? Fae are tricksters.

Tricksters.

But you can't live like this anymore. You can't live if you don't eat. You can't live if you don't sleep. You can't make it home if you don't live.

You lower the blade and nod you head, "I could eat."

The woman smiles at you. Then she introduces herself as Feyre. The male beside her is Rhysand, her husband. And the other male with the wings is Azriel.

-

After you ate the first plate of food you were taken to a nice room, with a bed. Feyre told you that you could sleep there for a few hours while they worked on getting you home.

Well, a few hours turned into a full day. No one bothered you. You went a full twenty four hours of sleeping. It felt good, it felt like stillness.

You didn't really dream that whole time. Or if you did, you can't remember what you saw. If you had nightmares you can't remember that either.

All you remember as you wake up to dimly lit room is that you need to get home. That is what gets you out of bed and out of the room. Luckily not without your blade.

When you walk down the hallway you notice noise coming from further in the house. You walk towards it and keep your blade tucked inside of your sleeve.

At the door you realize there are more people inside than you anticipated. But before you can even try to turn back the noise stops. Fae have good hearing. They can hear you from inside.

"Come join us." a voice says.

It's speaking to you. There is no other person it could possibly be speaking to. You wearily move in close to the door. You peek your head inside.

There at the table are faces your recognize. Feyre, Rhysand and Azriel. And a few that you don't recognize. You gulp down the fear in your throat and take a few cautious steps into the room.

"There's no need to be scared. This is my family" Feyre speaks to you.

You look at her, "I don't mean to offend you but I would really like to go home now."

"That's easy." Rhysand answers.

He snaps his fingers and the space on the table in front of him is cleared. Then a scroll of paper lands on the wooden table. You watch as he rolls it out.

"Show us where your home is and we'll take you there." Rhysand says.

You quickly walk over to where he is seated at the table. Your eyes glance over the food, once and then twice, and you can feel you stomach begging you to eat. But you would really want to go home over eating another meal here.

On the map you don't really recognize the lands. You have only seen a map when you were younger. And you weren't really paying attention.

You look the map over again. Nothing looks familiar to you.

"Do you have another map? I don't think I see it on here." you speak quietly.

Rhysand nods his head, "Of course."

All of a sudden five scrolls of paper appear in front of you. Rhysand unfurls one of them and shows it to you. Your eyes scan and scan but you can't find anything that reminds you of home. You shake our head.

This process repeats four more times. Four more maps. Four more pieces of paper that don't tell you where home is. You begin to grow weary each time you open a map.

"Hey, it's okay. Maybe you could just tell us where in the mortal lands you call home." Feyre speaks up.

You let out a strangled breath. "The Canary Isles."

The room is silent. You feel it then and there. You feel it as you look around the table and their faces don't change. They all look at you like you've grown another head.

"No worry, I can ask the priestesses for a map from the library. Surely there will be something there." Rhysand says.

You swallow the lump in your throat. Your home isn't on any of their maps. They won't find it. Maybe, because it doesn't exist here. You're not sure how you got here, but you know it was a power beyond you.

"It doesn't exist." a voice says.

You look around the table, and sure enough the only woman looking right back at you is a small one. Black hair. Pretty. But you can sense right off the bat that she isn't like the others. She seems like...more.

"Amren!" another voice says.

"You're willing to string her along? I'm telling you you'll find nothing in any of the maps." Amren, the voice from before, says.

"Why?" you ask, voice shaky and unconfident.

You don't want to hear the words. You don't want her to say what you're thinking. But you need to know the truth. You need to understand your place here. You couldn't do that in the cell with Beron. And it seems like if you left it up to Rhysand you wouldn't do that here either.

"The Canary Isles are no longer." she answers.

You shake your head, "No, no that can't be. I just came from there. I was brought here! It exists!"

"Not for a long time. The Isles were overcome by powerful tremors that sunk the land into the ocean. Then that land reemmerged as the court of nightmares." Amren explains.

You can't help the feeling of bile in your stomach. Or the fear that is catching your breath. You take out the blade and back yourself up. At your action everyone in the room stands up.

Feyre takes a step closer to you but you raise the blade in her direction. You see Rhysand wrap his arm around her waist.

And that's about all you see before your eyes get wet, and you realize that you've started crying.

"I told you I wanted to go home. And now you're telling me it doesn't exist." you shout.

"I know, I know, but if you give us some time-" Feyre starts.

"You promised!" you cut her off with a yell.

"Stop lying to her, you can't promise something that doesn't exist." Amren keeps going.

"I need you to put that blade down." Azriel says.

You shake your head and try to wipe away the tears in your eyes. With a rough swipe of your palm over your face you do as much as you can.

"I just want to go home. Please let me go home. Please, I'm begging you, just let me go." you sob.

You don't even know what you're asking at this point. If home didn't exist how could they let you go there? No matter how hard you beg they could not bring you to a place that no longer existed.

You don't notice the feeling of something snaking up your legs. You don't notice until it's too late and it binds your wrists together. The blade clatters to the floor loudly.

"I got her," Azriel's voice sounds.

You fall to your knees all at once. The hunger and desperation getting to you. You can hear all of them walking away, almost all of them. You lift your head up to see them. Azriel and Rhysand.

"I am so sorry." Azriel says.

You don't quite understand what he's apologizing for. You look over to Rhysand who looks just as remorseful. You can't understand why, you were a human. Nothing to them.

As you stare into Rhysand's eyes your vision becomes spotty, until it becomes dark all together. The last thing you remember feeling is falling to your side.

-

Azriel and Rhysand watch your unmoving form on the floor. Rhysand didn't want to put you to sleep but he had to. It was the only way to get the situation under control without hurting you physically.

Azriel's shadow lets go of your wrist and they fall apart.

"This doesn't make sense brother." Azriel says.

"I know, but she's been through a lot since her arrival." Rhysand admits.

"An ordinary human girl from a place that no longer exists? We've never delt with this situation before."

Rhysand hums, "Agreed. Maybe we should talk to someone who knows more than us."

"Beron?" Azriel asks.

Rhysand shakes head head. "The other Vanserra."

Azriel sighs, "Mor's not gonna like it. Neither will Cassian."

"Right now he might be the only chance she has. I'll send for him."

-

For the first time you feel at ease. You can picture your dreams so clearly. Your house, filled with your family. Your job filled with your friends and the nice customers. Real. All of it is real.

So why did something feel off?

You can't remember what you were doing before this. Were you sleeping at your house or were you at the tavern? You don't think you were at either one of those places. But if you weren't, where were you?

This is a dream, but the question is, are you going to wake up and like what you find?

-

Eris takes in your sleeping form. He couldn't believe when Rhysand had the nerve to ask him to come over. Of course he know him to be smart and quick, coming up with an excuse to appease Beron.

Officially he is in the night court to negotiate some gifts his father is to recieve on behalf of being attacked. By you.

You.

Unofficially, he is here because of you. For many reasons, and Rhysand seems to only know of one. That's his problem.

Eris knew the moment he saw you, you were someone special. He couldn't show it, lest he have you killed right then and there. But over the course of your stay in his court, he grew quite fond of you. Even if you never knew it.

The way you stood your ground when Beron played and tested you was remarkable. It reminded him of himself and the ever-going game he's been playing with his father. And it renewed his patience. If you could do it, so could he.

Now here you were.

"What did she call it again?" he asks.

Rhysand and Azriel share a look between each other. Then Azriel clears his throat.

"The Canary Isles." he answers.

"Otherwise known as the court of nightmares." Eris finishes off.

"How did you know that?" Rhysand asks.

Eris passes a smirk over his lips, "My father can be quite banal about things. As you know."

"Okay but do you know anything that can help her?" Azriel asks this time.

Eris looks at them now. If his father caught wind of this, Eris doesn't even know how to complete that sentence. Surely he'd be beaten by his own father's hand. Maybe exiled.

"I cannot turn back time, shadow singer." Eris answers carefully.

"We're talking about how she got here." Rhysand clarifies.

"She doesn't know that information, nor do I."

"This was a waste." Azriel says suddenly.

"I agree. Eris you're free to go." Rhysand adds.

Eris sighs, "Wait."

Both of the males look at him. A couple of choice words on their minds. They don't speak them just yet, in hopes of what he might offer them and you.

Eris looks at you once more.

"Beron thought she appeared a couple of weeks ago. But that isn't true." Eris admits.

"Go on..." Rhysand trails off.

Eris cross his arms against his chest. With his brows settled and his face neutral, he schools his shoulders back.

"I found her almost two months ago. When she first appeared in our court. She was laying there on the ground, unconscious. I helped her." Eris confesses.

The room is silent between the three males. Rhysand can't believe the words coming out of his mouth at first. Eris? Helping someone? Surely he is lying and working an angle.

Bur Azriel, he believes him. There is no reason for Eris to play hero. Not for anyone in the night court, and not while you were knocked out. This doesn't benefit him.

And then there is the looks he has on his face. When he looks at you. For the first time in forever Azriel sees this look and thinks that Eris might be capable of emotion behind the mask he wears.

"And if I wake her up, she'll remember that?" Rhysand asks.

Eris shakes his head, "No. I subdued those memories deep in her mind, once she got caught."

Rhysand scoffs.

"So you left her to Beron to fend for herself?" Azriel asks.

"It was the only way she would make it out of there alive. Or at least until I could come up with a plan to get her out of the autumn court." Eris replies.

"Eris, the hero." Rhysand comments.

"You don't understand." Eris quips.

"Enlighten us." Azriel says.

Eris is still for a moment. Uncharacteristically still, even for his own standards. Rhysand doesn't like it one bit, but he'll allow it if he can get some answers from him. This visit has yielded much of them so far.

Then he does something that shocks both males. Instead of answering with words, he lets his shields down. Invites Rhysand into his mind. And enter he does.

But there is only one thing for him to see.

Eris, stood over your body, in the woods. The leaves of autumn beneath you. In this memory, he took a step back. He took several steps back and placed a hand over his chest. A gasp.

Eris puts his shield back up. Rhysand looks at him now.

"She's your mate." Rhysand states.

The three words hung heavy in the air as the three males weighed their options then and there. All the while you lay in a deep slumber none the wiser.

-

You wake up to the feeling of someone touching you. At first you don't quite understand. Who could be touching you right now? Why would someone be touching you?

Then your mind fills in the gaps. You weren't at home. This wasn't your bed. You were in a fae court. Stranded. Being held against your will. Not by the cruel high lord of the autumn court. But of the high lord of the night court.

You lurch out of your sleep. Your eyes fly open.

"Calm down, you're safe. It's okay."

You take him in. Ginger hair. Freckles. Beautiful by your standards and probably fae standards. No. He probably exceeds all of them. You ask yourself who this male is. But you know you don't have the answer to that question.

"Who are you?" you ask quietly.

He smiles for just a sliver of a second. You know you're not imagining it. Or maybe you are. After all you've eaten fae food, you can't trust anything right now.

"A friend." he says.

He takes his hand way from your cheek. You miss the warmth that was there. But you don't dare ask for him to return it.

"I don't have friends here." you reply.

"Maybe we can be friends then. If you'll have me." he says.

You look at him for a moment. His face looks passive. Like he doesn't want to have this conversation. But his words and the way his voice sounds, tell you a different story.

"Can you take me home?" you ask a bit louder this time.

He clears his throat, "I'm working on figuring that out. It's no easy task."

"Impossible things are hardly ever easy." you answer.

He cracks a smile, "I agree."

"You look familiar." you say suddenly.

His eyes widen a bit. He tries to school his face back to neutral but it's too late. You've seen it already. And if he looks familiar, maybe he does know a way to bring you back home. Or it's something more sinister.

"My name is Eris." he greets you formally.

After stroking your face in your sleep. Fae were weird. He holds out his hand for you to take. You move to sit up on the bed. From underneath the covers you take out a hand and shake his with it.

You give him your name. He nods his head once.

"I hope to be of service." he says.

-

It's been weeks of silence. You don't understand it. The fae say say one thing and mean another entirely. Maybe it was the human part of you that took people at their word.

You're learning that won't work here.

Eris wasn't much of a help. You don't even know how to contact him. Even if you could you doubt he'd be able to do something to help you. If he did, he would be here.

And you weren't going to ask any one here. You couldn't trust any of them. Except for maybe that one who told you the truth. No matter how hard it was or you to hear.

You open the door to the room. Your room, you suppose it is now. Slowly you peek your head out to get a glance down the hallway. There's no one there, not even the other creatures that live here.

With bated breath you take careful steps outside of your room. Not like it would really be of nay use, with their hearing abilities and all. But it would show them that you weren't interested in talking.

Walking down the hallway is the easy part. When you get to the staircase is when you begin to doubt yourself. You take the steps two at a time, being barefooted meant less noise against the marble floors.

When you reach the bottom you look both ways. To the left was the dinning room. You would definitely not go in there. To your right was another room. One you hadn't entered before.

You tiptoe over to the door and press your ear against it. The wood is so thick you can't hear anything but muffled voices. You can't tell who is who.

There's a sound and then another. You move to back up but the door flies open before you can get far enough.

It's her.

She looks you up and down. Sizing up her prey no doubt. You don't flinch or shy away from it.

"For a human you're very brave." she says.

You swallow, hoping it isn't loud enough to be detected.

"I wanted to speak to you." you respond.

She nods her head, "Very well, little human."

She turns on her heel without another word. Meaning you were to follow. You take after her, a couple of steps behind. She walks down the hallway on the first floor and out the balcony doors.

You don't have to keep up for too long because she stops and takes a seat in the chairs placed outside. You take the one beside her.

"What did you wish to speak about?" she asks.

"Out of everyone here, you know the most about the Canary Isles. Can you tell me more about what happened?"

She looks at you. Like really looks at you. Maybe she can't believe that you want to hear more about how your home no longer exists. You shift under her gaze.

"I don't think it'll do you any good to hear about it right now. Not when they are working to get you back." she answers.

You shake your head, "You said that was impossible."

"To my knowledge. But I have been wrong before."

"Do you honestly think you're wrong now?" you ask her.

She is silent for a moment. A moment that is riddled with tension and worry. You want her to be wrong. But you get the feeling that she's rarely ever so.

"For your sake, I hope I am."

"please, tell me what happened." you plead.

"It was recorded a long time ago that an ancient creature created the tremors that sunk the island. And it remained underwater due to a powerful spell that was only broken by the first high lord of the night court." she explains to you.

Ancient creatures. Spells. High Lords. All of this seemed like a fever dream. Yes fae existed where you came from, or you should say when, but they weren't the rulers of courts. They lived amongst humans.

But maybe all of that changed.

"This sounds like a long time ago for you." you comment.

"I was not alive when it happened. And I am older than everyone here, so it was a long time ago." she responds.

She's not about to tell you how old she is. And you're not about to ask.

"You're name is Amren, right?" you ask.

She looks at you softly and nods her head.

"Thank you, for talking with me. I really appreciate it."

-

Later that night you are going back to your room. You stood outside after Amren left. She had things to do, but you didn't. You figured you would just sit and try to understand things. Which turned into you taking a nap on the chairs.

The only reason you woke up was because of the change in weather. The night time hit and you felt the cold breeze against your skin. Your mind was fuzzy as you picked your head up. So fuzzy you thought you saw leaves on the ground.

But when you stood up, barefooted on the ground, you realized there were none.

So you shook it off as exhaustion. And you decided to get to bed.

You were walking up the steps when you heard another pair of footsteps. You halted all at once. Then the footsteps stopped. You looked up to see who it was that you couldn't avoid.

Azriel.

"I was looking for you, your room was empty." he says.

You start to question to yourself why he was looking for you in the first place. It's not like the two of you were friends. Neither could he tell you anything about how to get back home.

"Why?" you ask him.

"I wanted to apologize for binding your hands at dinner. That was wrong. I wanted to make sure you didn't hurt yourself or anyone else. But I should have thought of another way." he explains.

You watch him closely. From here, it seems like he cares about you. And you don't have the faintest idea why. You take an apprehensive step up, and then another. You meet him where he is, at the second to last step at the top.

He watches you as you do.

His wings moving behind him. His shadows unruly.

"Why are all of you so intent on keeping me alive?" you question.

He looks take aback that you would ask such a thing. His jaw clenches and you take that to mean you've upset him.

"We would do this no matter who you were." he answers.

And there it is. Those words, were so specific. No matter who you were? So you were someone of importance to them? How? How long will you be important before they discard you?

You can't help the inquisitive look you give him, "So I am someone important? You need me for something?"

Azriel doesn't spare you another look. He walks right past you. His arm brushing yours as he does. You stay right there on the steps. Unmoving.

You look back just in time to see him disappear into his shadows.

-

a/n: annddd that's all I got! sorry this was sitting in my drafts and I wanted to just get rid of it so bad. idk how I feel about it. send me a message in my inbox if you want me to keep going.

[ohwaitimthewriter]

Would you be open to writing another pota Caesar x human!reader? whatever you’re comfortable with, love your blog! :)

Hi, hi 👋🏻

Thank you so much for asking it and I'm also sorry it took me a hundred of years to answer your request!

But I got a little something and I hope you'll enjoy it! I might write a bit more about it, I don't know yet, but here we go!

Enjoy your reading!

Title: Under one sky

Pairing: (slightly implied) Caesar x human!reader

Warning: the kind of fluff which holds some melancholia.

Summarize: You long for a friend who looks at the same sky above you without knowing it

Words: 596 (a small one!)

Planet of the apes Masterlist.

It was a peaceful night. One of those rare nights when only the ambient sound of fireflies would stroke your ears in a restful lullaby. The little fire you'd lit to warm your body had long since gone out, but your mind had never wanted to sink into the arms of Morpheus. With your gaze glued to the glittering black immensity you could see between the shadows of the highest branches, you silently counted the stars.

It had been perhaps an hour or two since you'd given up trying to sleep, your head full of images of a past you'd been trying hard to reclaim. A past that had been snatched away from you overnight, and which had only collapsed, like a small stone triggering an avalanche.

You'd never been able to forget him, and ever since the day he'd never come to join you in the wooden shack at the back of your garden, he'd left a void embedded in the space where the childlike heart you'd once been was supposed to be. And you'd grown up with this space to be taken and never given to anyone else, yet how could you ever replace him? The only friend who had turned your dreary days into a ray of sunshine and thanks to whom you could now claim to have had a happy childhood.

You kept dragging that damaged heart of yours around with the sole certainty that you were living under the same starry sky as he was. It was perhaps the only thing that kept you looking for him, despite everything, despite the virus, despite the tiny chance of finding him in this forest, sharing the same sky became a warm comfort that stitched the ripples of your torn heart.

And you pictured him, somewhere, perhaps looking up at that same sky, wondering if he ever missed you, as much as you missed him, without knowing that Caesar was looking up at this very same sky, the same question venturing into the meanders of his thoughts. Thoughts preoccupied with the safety of his own people. A security he would have liked to be able to grant you, if only he'd been able to return to that little wooden hut. In that place where you had first found him in his younger days, when all he wanted was to find something to play with and amuse his childish heart.

Caesar wondered what had become of you. Had you survived? Perhaps he'd rather not answer that question, when the answer was surely no, as the virus was taking humanity in its wake. He gazed up at the cloudless black sky, where multitudes of stars shone freely, reminding him that today, apes were also free to build their lives in this part of the forest. The twinkling white stars watched over their brothers and sisters with black and brown fur as they evolved under their distant gazes.

Then, a star, brighter and stronger than the others, caught Caesar's eyes, and in a silent agreement, he wished to see it watch over you, wherever you were, since he could no longer do it himself. Were you thinking of him as much as he was thinking of you? Despite his constant worries, that face of the child you used to be always managed to find its way to him, and in front of that star, he hoped that the version of you he didn't know could see it too. And if you could, he hoped you'd know he was the one who'd sent it to watch over you.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

No Pain, No Gain | Part 2 | PersonalTrainer!Aemond x fem!reader

A/N: thank you for all the love on the first chapter you little horn-dogs, particularly to all my queens I gave love to in the first chapter <3 you modern!aeomond girlies are smth else

Series Masterlist

cheers to @ewanmitchellcrumbs as per, for reading beforehead. luvu

warnings:  EVENTUAL SMUT, 18+, sexual tension, binge eating, mentions of breakup, cursing, dickhead Aemond, reader is horny af, English slang (soz), warnings will be added when needed

As much as you’d hate to admit it. Baela was once again right. Working out did make you feel a bit better. Getting your arse out of bed, with the constant ache of your legs and arms and forcing yourself out of the flat was a nice change of pace. Even more so when you thought about the fact you were doing something good for yourself.

 The two workouts you did after meeting Aemond for the first time were admittedly difficult. He’d sent you some workouts to do, each alternating depending on the day you would go to the gym. Legs, arms, mid-section. His sense of organisation was almost impressive, if it weren’t for the one word answers he would give he might actually be tolerable.

 You pull on your black sports bra. It’s Friday, exactly one week after you’d met up with him for the first time and to your distaste, you’d have to see him again. You’re about to pull it over your head, watching Baela fanny about gathering her stuff so she can stay with her sister for the weekend. It’s funny to watch her when she’s flustered like this, it makes her irritable, which is rare for her.

 “How is it…that my armpits ache?” you ask as you pull it over your chest.

 Baela white curls peer around the door, pursing her lips at the gym outfit.

 “What day is it today?” she asks, packing her makeup bag, a mess of dirty brushes and probably stuff she’s had for going on four years.

 Huffing, you check the schedule on your phone, “Some legs I think, maybe some core if I don’t kick him in the face”

 Baela shoots you a look, “Oh come on, he can’t be that bad”

 You sit on the bed, unlacing your trainers to pull them on, “It’s just his face when he said it to me. Genuinely he makes me just wanna-” your hands clasp together in a strangling motion, imagining his dumb face between your hands, “Ugh!”

 Once you’re laced up, you run your hands through your hair, “I hate men”

 “Same girlie” Baela says from the kitchen, “speaking of which I think your ex is back in town”

 You raise your eyebrows, “remind me, why I should care?” sneaking up behind you she squeezes your thigh playfully, right where the muscle is so tender, “Ah-ah, ow! You bitch”

 “Because you might run into him and I know what you’re like, ice queen” she says, packing every little thing into her overnight bag she can, even going as far as to sit on it, “if you do run into him just don’t give him the time of day”

 She jumps on the bag, trying to zip it up.

 Sigh, “Move, let me” you say, shooing her away.

 You lean your body over the bag, using your chest to sandwich the two parts together and zip the bag up, raising your arms in victory.

 “God that’s so hot” Baela says biting her lip to which you give her a playful swat, “Aemond’ll have you in that position later”

 Gag.

 “Baela! That’s your cousin!”

 She shrugs playfully, “Doesn’t mean you can’t fuck him”

 “I’m not fucking Aemond, Bae” you say sternly

 She scans you, silently judging, “You need a good dicking. I’m not saying it has to my cousin, but something please. You’re annoying when you’re horny”

 You put your hands on your hips, pretending to be offended as she drags her overnight bag to the door.

 “Oh please. I see how often you have to charge your vibrator”

 “Don’t you judge me”

 “I’m not judging, I’m just saying having a human dick might be due at some point” she half-shouts down the hallway, “Off to Rhaena’s, have fun!”

 The door slams shut after that.

 “Oh boy I will” you mutter under your breath, grabbing your car keys.

 Ping.

 And as if right on cue, the annoyance in question has sent you an Instagram DM. You read it already half-annoyed and tap off a reply as soon as you’ve typed it.

As much as you mean for the response to be sarcastic, you have a feeling he won’t get that vibe. And if he does, he won’t care.

 Besides, why doesn’t he use capital letters? Where’s the ‘sorry i’ll be late’? And who the hell signs off every message with their initials?

 This guy.

 He’s going to be the death of your patience for sure.

 Secretly, you appreciate coming to the gym in the middle of the day when it’s not as busy. It at least eases a tiny bit of that anxiety you feel. And you know it’s not true, but when it’s busy you feel like everyone is watching you, knowing that you’re not as fit as them or as good as them. It feels a bit like you’re on show.

 Once locking up your bag and coat, you pull your wireless earphone out and stick one in, pulling yourself onto the stairmaster. Start on Level 5 for 5 minutes and then the rest on 10, he had instructed. At first your legs felt like they were on fire, but it had gotten a bit easier as the week went on.

 As you step again and again, you put on a random playlist. Seeing as you and Baela share a Spotify, you get recommended some right tat and so you distastefully scroll past her music and land on a random one. Some 80’s tunes would have to do. You didn’t have any energy to care anyway.

 As boring as the stairmaster is, it gives you a good view for people-watching and generally being nosy. So as a-ha Take on Me plays in your left ear, you watch the various other gym-goers. Some putting very little effort into their workouts and slinking into the background. Some making way too much effort, banging the weights, grunting and generally acting like they’re cock of the walk.

 You’re so engrossed with people-watching, you almost jump out your fucking skin when someone yanks the airpod out your left ear, almost sending you arse over tit on the machine.

 “Shit” you mutter, hands grappling the handles.

 With a sour expression, Aemond pulls the airpod to his ear, frowning at the music.

 “80’s music. Really?”

 Your expression turns bitter pretty much as this dickhead opens his mouth. Briefly scanning him, he appears to be wearing the same kind of outfit. What fucking cartoon character behaviour is this?

 Yanking the airpod out his hand, you put it back in its case quickly, trying to hide the way your face heats up when you see how his hair is now and around his shoulders. Doubly so when his arms raise above his head to pull it into a bun in the middle of his head to get it off his neck.

 Bonk. Stop it. This guy’s a dick. If I‘m thirsting over my personal trainer, maybe Baela is right and it’s time to get out there and get laid.

 He gets onto the other stairmaster next to you and you try your best to ignore him. That is until he reaches over and adjusts the level on yours to go up to 10, as if you can’t do it yourself. A flash of annoyance passes your face and you swat his hand away.

 “I can do it myself, you know”

 He raises his eyebrows, victorious as if he’d wanted a reaction from you the moment he stepped in.

 “Tetchy” he muses.

 As he starts the same warmup, annoyingly faring better than you and barely out of breath, he doesn’t make another attempt to speak.

 “Busy day then” you say, startling him by speaking.

 He looks at you like he was just expecting you to be weirdly quiet the entire time.

 “What”

 “You were late”

 He raises his eyebrows, taken aback by the sudden conversation. But as swiftly as he looked over he turns away, “Family emergency”

 You furrow your brows, “Should you even be here if it’s a family emergency?”

 Aemond sighs, as if resigned from the conversation already.

 Well fuck me then I guess.

 The silence falls between you for a while and once your time is up, you hit ‘stop’ on the machine and go to the water fountain to fill up your water bottle. God it’s so difficult to even make small talk with the guy. As frustratingly attractive as he is, he’s not making it easy to get on with him.

 You screw the lid on the water bottle, adjusting the sports bra slightly and take a long sip, briefly looking behind you to see if he is still on the stairmaster. And he is. Staring right at you with that indifferent, stoic look. But as soon as your eyes meet, he looks down at his feet, stopping the machine.

 Was he staring at me?

 You can feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment the closer he gets, on the basis of filling up his own water bottle, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious in just your black sports bra and leggings.

 Stretches, first. If you can get through this it’ll be fine.

 They go relatively smoothly.

 You say relatively…

 …you’re staring at him the entire time, stealing glances where you know you shouldn’t. A few times he nearly catches you, so you internally scold yourself for staring too much. But you can’t really help it, especially with the big fuck off mirror in front of you.

 “60 second plank, go” he orders flatly.

 You get into position on your elbows, ignoring the way he’s looking over your form. If you think about it too much you really might have to bonk yourself.

 As he kneels there watching, you freeze, feeling his large hand softly on your lower back, pushing slightly.

 “Don’t arch your back too much”

 He pushes more on your lower back, dangerously close to your ass, which only makes your upper arms shudder even more than they already are.

 His hand smoothes up your spine to your shoulders, resting in between them.

 “Relax your shoulders for me”

 Fucking helllll…

 It’s weirdly intimate and sinful, lustful thoughts are beginning to sneak into your brain.

 Stop, stop, stop.

 Be professional.

 But his hands are so big. Slender long fingers running up your spine which makes you swallow thickly. And the way he said ‘for me’ is not helping at all in the slightest.

 The last thirty seconds feel like fucking years, and even once he’s taken his hand away, pleased at your corrected form, you feel it. The way his hand felt. How it burns hot even now he’s taken it away. You can practically memorise where they were, and wondered how they would feel between your th-

 STOP IT.

 The timer goes off and you’ve never been more relieved that it’s over.

 “Squats next”

 Oh Jesus.

 They’re not much better. You already feel dumb doing squats with someone watching, but he’s watching so intensely, hands on hips that it’s just distracting.

 “Deeper”

 You meet his eyes in the mirror, face betraying the sinful thoughts you’re having.

 “Excuse me?”

 He raises an eyebrow, his eyes flitting over your flushed expression.

 “You need to squat deeper”

 Oh…

 You’re halfway through them when he approaches from behind, extending one foot out between yours to kick your legs further apart. His knee grazes your thigh and you think you might actually die. Because even though he’s just correcting your stance, it felt so intimate the way he just kicked them apart like that without saying anything.

 You look at him in the mirror but he’s still observing your body as you squat and you find your line of sight has diverged to below his waistline (for some reason) searching for something underneath his black sweatpants. That is until his eye flicks up to meet yours in the mirror in front of you, and feeling cornered, you flit your gaze away.

 Is it hot in here?

 “3 more”

 And there it is. The sour way he speaks. It’s amazing how just a few words can dull the spark so quickly.

 His phone buzzes in his pocket and he seems to somehow go even more sour when he sees who’s calling.

“Sorry, just need to take this” he mumbles, already with the phone to his ear as he rounds the corner.

 Once out of sight, you adjust the straps of your sports bra, visibly flustered. What the fuck is wrong with me, get it together. That’s it, as soon as I get home I’m downloading that stupid dating app again.

 You absolutely cannot think of him this way. You’re paying him as your personal trainer, it’s wrong to think of him this way. And on top of that, he’s an all round dick. One word answers, being generally rude and condescending. God, how can a man with looks like that be such an unbelievable twat and manage to keep clients?

 He’s gone for a bit longer than you imagined, so instead you go to the leg press, sitting down and pulling out your phone. Opening your browser was a dangerous one, the last tab you had open was a sex toy website. Luckily nobody is behind you, but it still piques your interest. Maybe you should buy more, for the horny, out of control woman you seem to have become.

 “Looking good, sweetheart”

 Oh lord. You recognise that voice.

 Dread pools in your gut as you look up and click off your phone. Your fucking ex is right there, leaning against the machine with that smug look on his face. You pull the most hateful expression you can muster.

 “What do you want”

 He has the audacity to shrug, “Can’t I say hello?”

 “No”

 “Oh, come on baby”

 “Do not call me that” you warn him, eyes blazing with hatred, “Save it for your girlfriend, whatever her fucking name is”

 “Girlfriend?”

 “Yeah, the one plastered all over my feed” you say sarcastically, pretending to fiddle around with the weights, knowing full well you can only leg press 18kg.

 He smirks victoriously, revelling in the fact you’ve not blocked him yet.

 “We’re not together”

 “Oh, that didn’t take long” you put on a sickly sweet voice, dripping with sarcasm, “so what, you think you can just come crawling back to me?”

 He doesn't answer that, he simply lets his eyes rake over you in the outfit you have one and says, “you look really good”

 “Thanks, now piss off”

 “You won’t even get a drink with me, baby?” he asks, trying to seem sweet.

 “If you call me baby one more ti-”

 “Can I help you?”

 Aemond’s stern voice makes the man jump and he looks behind him, smiling nervously. Aemond stands, hands in pockets, looking down at him like he’s shit at the bottom of his shoe. Briefly, his gaze flits over to you, seeing how annoyed and uncomfortable you are with his presence.

 Your ex gives him a once over and brushes past him, but not before sending you a, “See you around” before disappearing into the furthest side of the gym.

 Gag.

 Aemond looks behind him, making sure he’s out of sight before looking back.

 “Was he bothering you” he asks flatly.

 You scoff, “It was that obvious?” you reply sarcastically.

 Aemond asks no further questions than that, allowing him to surmise the situation for himself. He looks off into the direction your ex went, his tongue poking at his cheek in what looks like annoyance. Tearing your eyes away from his gorgeous profile once again, you adjust the weight to 18kg and get your legs in position. The horizontal leg press was a lot more beginner friendly, so you pull your legs in front of you against the plate.

 Aemond watches for a second, squatting beside you while you adjust in the seat, eyes rolling over your form. If he was being handsy before, that’s nothing compared to what he does now. He clasps his large hands around your leg, pulling them apart slowly so that your feet are shoulder width apart on the plate. But he keeps his hand there for longer than you anticipated, which makes you swallow thickly, face quickly heating up again.

 He looks up at you, “You need to spread your legs a bit more” he instructs lowly, his eyes trained on yours as he says it.

 You feel like you’re staring at his mouth, really analysing what he’s said. The connotations aren’t lost on you, and a familiar flutter blossoms in your belly. Clearing your throat, you start the set, trying your best to not look at him and just focus. Your clothes feel too tight and the air feels too hot. Electrified, as if a current could be passed between you both. Hands grip tightly onto the handles.

 He scoffs, reaching right over you to adjust the weights, “You can do better than that”. Even his voice seems to have changed and he’s so close you can smell whatever detergent he must use for his clothes, it makes you stay frozen in your spot. Now being able to see every little detail of his face, his arm so close to brushing against your sports-bra clad chest. Your brain feels like it’s made of cotton as your breathing shallows.

 He changes the weight to 30kg and watches you as you carry on with the set quietly. The weight isn’t bad in itself, you’re just not used to it, so your legs start to shake and your chest starts to flush with a soft sheen of sweat. Feeling a bit embarrassed about the shaky legs and the fact that he’s so insistently watching you makes you want to disappear into a hole in the ground.

 “Struggling?” he smirks.

 He smirks. The bastard smirks.

 You give him a look, but as much as you try, it’s not as icy as before, betraying how you’re really feeling right now. But if he sees it behind your eyes, he doesn’t let it show on his face.

 The bastard’s doing this on purpose.

 It’s not even the fact he’s doing it that makes you mad. It’s how easy it seems to be.

 He takes his hand away, obviously very pleased at what he’s done.

 You try to work through the last 3 reps.

 “Such a good girl for me”

 Your cheeks burn scarlet, your whole body is hot as you look over at him in shock. But he’s looking at you so casually.

 “What”

 He smirks again, raising his eyebrows, “I said just one more for me’”

 You just do the last one as quickly as possible, brushing past him with lightning speed to gather your belongings. The weights land back with a loud clunk. You are certain you’re going mad, feeling the sweat cool on your skin as you stuff your things in your bag.

 “You ok?” he asks with mirth in his tone. You don’t look back and nod your head quickly, just knowing that he’s right behind you with his stupidly large frame, stupid toned legs, stupid sexy arms, stupid long fingers, stupid stupid smile.

 “Yep, fine” you blabber it out quicker than you can think and try and change the subject, “Hope the family emergency is…okay”

 It comes out more awkwardly than you intended. Aemond only huffs a laugh through his nose. He’s not been this…weirdly friendly since the first time you both met.

 “My Dad’s dead but yeah”

 Your heart freezes instantly, and you break whatever promise you’d made and look at him. He looks very casual about it, hands in pockets, as if it’s just a minor inconvenience. Trying to keep your expression neutral.

 “Oh”

 There’s a bit of a quiet moment between you both as he raises his eyebrows.

 “Impressive” he says, making you send him a quizzical look.

 “What is?”

 He licks his lips, smirking at your confusion, “You didn’t default to ‘Oh, I’m so sorry’”

 He says it jokingly, but you can tell there’s some tension in his voice.

 “Should I?”

 You get the sense that this guy isn’t so often taken off guard, but the question you pose him now seems to and the smirk is wiped off his face, replaced with an unsympathetic expression.

 “No” he answers simply.

 Clearing your throat and throwing your coat on now that the heat of the situation has somewhat dissipated, you inhale deeply, “see you next week”

 His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek again, jaw twitching as his eyes search your face, before scanning you again. That smirk tugs at one side of his lips, making your eyes flit there for a brief moment, admiring their shape as he speaks.

 “See you then”

 You’ve never been more sexually confused in your life you think. So even when the session is over, you just sit in your car, processing it all. Even scrolling through your phone doesn't take your mind off it, reminded by your past search history.

Your flat is weirdly quiet without Baela there, lonely even. For a few hours it makes itself quite useful, as you lay in bed with your current favourite sex toy trying to get these horny thoughts out of your head. But every time you’re close he pops into your head. Jolting you back into the real world.

 He’s a personal trainer, he’s supposed to be hands on. You’re just touch-starved.

 He’s a dick!

 Maybe he’s just cold at first.

 He thinks you’re a weak as fuck, stupid and brainless. Who are you kidding?

 Your brain attempts to make sense of it all.

 After (unintentionally) edging yourself for what feels like hours, your brain and thoughts betray you severely and you orgasm washes over you with a pained and shuddering cry, all while thinking about all the ways he touched you today and what it felt like to have his burning skin on yours for just a moment.

 “Fuck…” you sigh out loud..

 You want to fuck your personal trainer.

 Buzz buzz.

 ‘Hay-Baela’ appears on your phone and you pick up quickly.

 Baela: Evening hoe, how’s things?

Y/n: Fine, just devoured a takeaway.

Baela: Anything nice?

Y/n: Just some Indian food which I’m sure will come back to haunt me.

Baela: Be a shame if it didn’t. How was your session?

Y/n: *sigh* yeah fine, my legs were shaking a bit during leg press though. Had me on 30kg.

Baela: Yeah, Aemond said you did well.

 Wait…what?!

 Y/N: Eh?

Baela: Aemond texted me earlier, said you did good and you were toning up well?

Y/N: Right…

Baela: Anyway, have a good weekend, don’t burn the flat down. Oh, and I’ve got a parcel arriving tomorrow.

Y/N: Wait, Bael-

Baela: Bye!

 The bitch hangs up on you, leaving you in a post-nut haze, confused and somehow more horny than when you started.

The fucker must be doing this on purpose.

“Fuck!”

Taglist (bold couldn’t tag): @mrsgrwy @lovelykhaleesiii @urmomsgirlfriend1 @iiamthehybrid @namelesslosers @chainsawsangel @warmfieldofgrass @mynameisbaby9 @afro-hispwriter​ @tempo-rary-fix @toodlesxcuddles @definitelynotsatans​ @svtansdaddyx​ @tssf-imagines​ @darkenchantress​ @vrtualfairy​ @fan-goddess​ @skikikikiikhhjuuh​ @helaenaluvr​ @sarahkimtae​ @blackxisxmyxcolour​ @castellomargot​ @girlwith-thepearlearring​ @julczimozart​ @amazingdisneyfansblog​ @slutforaemond

[vallification]

rushes: chapter one

tw: verbal abuse

wc: 4.3k

Droplets of brownie batter are splattered atop the marble counter, half-dried, beside the neatly packaged box filled with an assortment of fresh, fragrant, and warm homemade desserts and pastries. A sink full of dishes is left in the wake of the impressive spread, and your kitchen is reminiscent of the aftermath of a cyclone. The mess glares at you, incredulous at the fact that you’d dirty such a luxurious space, but you want to deliver the fruits of your labor before they get cold. You have yet to meet your neighbor across the hall, and if you learned anything from your grandmother, a good first impression is rarely set by empty hands. 

Or messy hair. A halo of frizz stares back at you in the reflection of your microwave. Quickly, you dip into the bathroom to tug your hair tie loose, smoothing down your flyaways and combing through your hair with your fingers. 

“That’s… acceptable,” You mumble, dabbing your face with the remnants of setting powder left on your brush until you’re no longer shining and slathering on some lip gloss. Paint and what you assume is flour stains your worn t-shirt and shorts. You give yourself a once over in the mirror and find the rest of you to be acceptable, too. Balance. 

Before you go, you check your phone for a text from your boyfriend, but no dice. It’s been radio silence since you moved in. You placate yourself with excuses for him, because he might be tired, or busy, or… something like that. Saying that things have been a breeze lately would be a blatant lie, though. To put it lightly, Toji was hot and cold. He was too busy to help you move in, but not too busy to stop by and fuck you before you left; he was fine with you leaving, but his mood soured every time you rambled excitedly about your new place; and like now, he would ignore you for days, but pick a fight if you dared to take more than 10 minutes to answer his texts. 

The unholy lack of notifications stares back at you like a prophecy. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath in, filling every corner of your lungs before exhaling sharply. You pocket your phone and grab the box.

So far, all of your neighbors have either been pretentious financier DINKs or older couples drowning in their bottomless retirement funds. Before this unreal opportunity of an internship, you would have been lucky to even know about this part of town, much less be in the vicinity of this building. Lady Luck has kissed your sweet little head several times this year, so being lonely in the big city is a small price to pay for your newfound fully funded lifestyle. You shove your complaints in the “First World Problems” file cabinet of your mind, but part of you hopes that the neighbors across the hall are at least a little friendly. 

Bracing yourself for another set of snobs, you take a deep breath and knock on the door. Lady Luck spits in your face and cackles. 

Your jaw drops when the door swings open to reveal snow white, cerulean blue, golden tan, six feet and three inches of him. Long, muscular arms frame his smug face as large, strong hands brace his absurdly tall figure at the top of the door frame. A shiny white gold chain hangs around his neck, sitting handsomely against his tight black shirt. Your slack jaw slams shut when you see his infuriating smirk, complemented by his infuriating dimples. 

Satoru Gojo is like a cold sore. He just keeps fucking coming back. 

And even though he’s skimmed through your Instagram annually, he hasn’t seen you in person in almost four years. Your sparkly, girlish energy still decorates your face, but your features are a little more mature now… Not just your features either. Those blue eyes drag up and down your body, simultaneously checking you out, re-familiarizing himself with you, and trying his damndest to fluster you. 

It only works a little bit. 

Disgust paints your features, your lips curling as you squint at the human embodiment of an unchecked ego. But a hand splaying out over Gojo’s ribs prompts him to make room in the doorway for another figure. Next to Gojo stands a man you don’t know, almost as tall, just as broad, all olive skin and dark hair and eyes that seem to swallow you whole. There’s not enough room for two men as tall and broad as Gojo and whoever that is to be comfortable in the doorway, yet they make it work, shoulder to broad, thick, muscular shoulder. You fix your face into the sweet smile you wore previously. 

“What’s that?” Gojo asks, nodding to the box tucked in your arms. Your sweet smile momentarily reverts back into a disgusted snarl as your eyes flick back to him. 

“Not for you,” You quip. Stepping one pace to the side, you plant yourself directly in front of the stranger and fix your face once more. Gojo feigns offense with a gasp, and the other man’s eyebrows fly high on his forehead, lips pressed into a tight line as he poorly conceals his amusement. You shove the box forward. 

“You can have some, though,” You muse, and your new neighbor takes the box with a grin. Sweetly holding your hands behind your back, you introduce yourself and explain that you live directly across the hall, you’re new to the city, and you’re a concept design student at the University of Tokyo. From his peripheral vision, Gojo watches his roommate look you up and down as you talk, and it isn’t lost on him when Geto’s eyes hang onto the most notable parts of you. Eyes, lips, chest, hips, chest, lips, eyes. Gojo stands quietly–for what you assume is the very first time in his life–his eyes flicking back and forth between the two of you. If you cared to pay him any mind, you’d catch the glint of… jealousy? Annoyance? Yeah, annoyance. If you cared to pay him any mind, you’d catch the glint of annoyance swimming in his ocean blue eyes. 

“Suguru Geto. I’m working on my masters there, actually. Computer science,” Suguru, as you now know, explains, holding the box in one arm to gently shake your hand. The beige hoodie he’s wearing smells amazing. Ambery, peppery, heavy… almost sweet but not quite. His voice is the same, rich and smooth and warm. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Suguru Geto’s eyes are violet. And intense. Your phone buzzes one, two, three times in your pocket. Toji. 

“... Anyway.” Gojo breaks his silence and pockets his hands as he leans against the door frame. Your sweet smile remains even though your eyes tell a different story, annoyance clipping your friendly demeanor. In his usual style, Gojo holds your gaze of unabashed dismay with one of unshakable confidence. 

“Glad to see you’re still painting. Is that creature you’ve got on your Instagram funding this?” Gojo snickers, and is rewarded with another eye roll. 

“Is your daddy funding that?” You retort, tiptoeing and batting your eyelashes as you gesture past the two men crowding the doorway. Geto rubs over his face to wipe away the laughter that’s begging to tumble out of his mouth. “Or did that end when he bought you your degree?” 

“Woah, is that… hostility? Are there some lingering feelings you’d like some closure for, sweetheart?” 

“No time, babe. You’ve probably got an appointment for your biweekly penicillin shot.” 

“You wanna call and ask your little boyfriend if he wants to come with me?” 

By the time Gojo finishes that sentence, your phone is ringing in your pocket, and Gojo grins. Annoyance has metamorphosed into daggers in your eyes, glaring at the ever so smug bastard standing so coolly before you with your fists balled at your sides. Turning on your heel, you march across the wide hallway to your door, and before it slams shut behind you Geto calls out one more pleasantry. 

“Knock for anything!” 

—

Gojo forgets about the little white box full of desserts for an impressive eight hours. It definitely helped that the damn thing was hidden in Geto’s room, even then, the box hadn’t crossed his mind since your door slammed shut behind you. Instead, he was thinking about the swish of your hips, the way your stained shirt nearly fell past your tiny denim shorts, the way you totally checked him out before your feigned disgust set in. Sweets don’t have a perfect ass. 

But the sweets were still important. Geto returns from his shower with the box in hand, immediately pulling Gojo from his quickly wandering thoughts. 

“She said it’s not for you,” Geto reminds, smug and faux-snide as he chastises. Delicately, he tugs a loose end of the silky pink ribbon until the bow it's knotted in is freed. He tosses the ribbon to land awry on top of white hair, and in a huff Gojo snatches the silky pink length of ribbon off of his head. As if to taunt him, Geto oh-so-cautiously pries open the tabs that once kept the box closed, careful to keep the sweet contents obscured from Gojo’s eyes. “Ooh…” Gasp!

“Suguru, I wanna see— what’s in— the box!” 

A flurry of hands lurch forward, push away, reach around, until Geto is using his legs to keep Gojo out of the box’s reach. “Oh, wow…” 

“What is it? I wanna see!” 

“Really, wow. That’s so cute. Is that—?” 

“Suguru!”

“Aw, it’s pink! I think it’s strawberry…” 

Another flurry of grappling arms, legs, and hands. Geto’s leaning off the side of the couch now, cackling around a fingerful of frosting. Pink sugar sprinkles litter the corner of his grinning mouth, and Gojo gasps in offense. “You must have really pissed her off, Satoru. I think this frosting is homemade. You’d love it.”

“That’s not fair!” Wriggling to climb the length of Geto’s body, Gojo’s hands almost reach the box before Geto rolls out from under him. The box is unscathed when he lands on the floor with a thud, and he sticks a leg out to keep the pouting Gojo away. They're both huffing from their struggle as Geto takes another smug swipe of frosting. So far defeated, Gojo plops himself back on the couch with crossed arms and watches Geto taunt him with your box of prohibited treats. 

After a heavily surveilled mouthful of a homemade strawberry cupcake, topped with buttercream frosting and pink sugar sprinkles, Geto hums in amusement. “So what’d you do? Is she someone from college?” 

“Nothing. No.” If Gojo pouts any more than he already is, his face might cramp. You used to make those cupcakes all the time, and over half were always devoured in the span of an afternoon by him alone. Not only that, but Gojo knows there’s more than just your strawberry cupcakes in that box. He can smell chocolate. 

Gently setting the cupcake down in the box, Geto moves onto the next little dessert. He breaks a piece off of one of the softest chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had the privilege of eating and pops it into his mouth. Does he have the same sweet tooth as Gojo? Absolutely not, but it’s so fun to watch him throw a tantrum. Plus, it’s all really that good. “You had to have done something. These are amazing. I don’t even like chocolate like that.” 

Gojo lets out a whine, dramatically wilting over the side of the couch like an unwatered flower, back curved along the arm rest as his head and arms hang. “She’s theatricizing. I want a cupcake.” 

“So you did do something? Is she your ex-girlfriend, Satoru?” 

He whines again, louder this time, hyperbolically drawn out and frustrated and ragged. Gojo slides along the armrest until he’s on the floor, flat on his back with his legs propped up over the side of the couch. A man of his stature, sprawled out on luxury, dark wooden floors like a toddler is quite the sight. However, Geto wants the details. He doesn’t laugh. 

“If you stop pouting and tell me I’ll give you the box.” 

“She was a year below me, we dated in my last year of high school and I broke up with her.” Silence. Geto’s waiting for the rest of the story, shoving another piece of soft cookie in his mouth. Gojo throws his hands up in exasperation, but it does nothing to placate his roommate. He pulls his legs down from their position on the couch, propping himself up on one elbow and letting his head rest limply on his shoulder with a huff. 

“I broke up with her a week before her birthday so I could be single for college,” Gojo murmurs, hurried and hushed, leaning over to reach for his reward. His fingertips are just a hair shy. “Gimme the box.” 

As he promised, Geto slides him the box. It doesn’t come without a disapproving tsk, though, which Gojo ignores in favor of finishing off the bitten strawberry cupcake. Casually gathering the excess frosting off the side of his mouth with his fingertip and casually sticking it out, Geto casually takes Gojo’s frosted middle finger into his mouth to casually suck it clean. Which could mean nothing. Neither of them linger on the action very long; sharing is like a second nature to them, and that’s all that was. 

“I mean,” Gojo starts through a mouthful of cupcake. “I don’t think she’s actually upset. It was such a long time ago. If anything,” Another pause for another bite. “It’s a schtick. I let her down pretty gently, if you ask me.” 

All he gets in response to that is a raised eyebrow. If Geto knows anything about the sugar fiend sitting adjacent to him, it’s that he has an extremely skewed view of what it means to let someone down gently. A muffled stream of sounds tears his brain away from the secondhand embarrassment of thinking about a less mature version of Gojo “letting someone down easy.”

Gojo’s not privy to the sass packaged in that single quirked eyebrow, nor the noise, too busy on a spiel about your famous strawberry cupcakes through a mouthful of the second one. “I knew these would be in here. She used to make them, like, every week. Did you know that she uses real strawberries to—“

“Shhh.” In the fleeting, stunned moment of silence his hushing offers, Geto can hear the voices slightly clearer than before. It’s an argument, he can tell that much, but he can’t tell which apartment it’s coming from. 

“… Um, anyway. As I was saying, can you tell that she uses real strawberries to—“

“Satoru, shut up,” Geto emphasizes, waving a dismissive hand in Gojo’s direction and heaving himself up off of the floor. Watching incredulously as Geto slowly saunters towards the front door, Gojo’s slack jaw opens and shuts around a silent exclamation of offense. But just when Gojo finds the words to constitute a thorough chastisement, he freezes, stiff as a board on the floor. He hears it. 

From the living room, it sounds like weird, warbled, distant mumbling, incoherent sounds traveling through thick doors and thicker walls. It’s impossible to decipher even with ears as keen as his own, and for a moment, he allows himself to relax. Whatever it is isn’t his business, and he’s sure Geto is only curious about the hushed sounds because the two of them are the only ones who make such cacophonous noise in such a quiet place. However, the relief he feels is fleeting. He can now distinguish two things about the muffled racket, the first of which being that it’s coming from across the hall—from your apartment— and the second of which being that it’s a man’s raised, agitated voice. 

In an instant, Gojo leaps off of the floor, long legs carrying him in determined strides to the front door until his feet are planted firmly at Geto’s side. With an ear pressed against the door, his violet eyes, usually so composed that they’re unreadable, are held wide open, swimming with uncertainty, discomfort, and concern. For Gojo, who’s already dancing on the edge of entering fight or flight, it’s an alarming sight to see. His shoulders are tense, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips are worried by sharp teeth, obviously disturbed by something Gojo didn’t quite catch from his place in the living room. From Geto’s perspective, things are not much better. Beside him, Gojo’s reminiscent of a guard dog on high alert, all adrenaline and potential energy and paradoxically controlled instability. He’s got a white knuckle grip on the door handle, his blue eyes flicking back and forth and up and down in a way Geto would describe as erratic if he wasn’t so familiar with him.

Neither of them need to say anything. It’s written in olive, and golden tan, and black, and white, and violet, and cerulean. Gojo stares through the peephole in the door, catching the moment your apartment door swings open. 

It’s him. The guy you have littered all over your social media accounts. Not quite as tall as himself or Suguru, but muscular, broad, denotatively handsome in a sharp, steely way. If he didn’t know any better, Gojo might even say that he looks like the dangerous, violent type. That thought doesn’t go away when Gojo watches him lean down, purposefully imposing over your much smaller frame, until he’s eye to eye with you, saying something Gojo can’t make out with either his eyes or his ears but he knows it’s not something good. He hears a mumble, and assumes that’s what prompts the man to scoff and stand up straight again. 

“You’re always fuckin’ complaining about something. Fuck’s sake,” He says with a shake of his head, his body language anything but loving or caring or whatever boyfriends are supposed to be. Geto looks down at the floor once your boyfriend’s words to you register in his head, while Gojo looks straight ahead like a laser sight on a sniper rifle, scarily still. 

“I’m going home. I’m not staying if you’re going to act like a fucking crazy bitch just because I’m too busy to text you. Some of us have real fuckin’ jobs.” Without a second look at you, the man starts down the hall and disappears into the elevator. It’s cruel. It’s hard to watch. 

Your apartment door is left wide open, with you standing pitifully still and shrunken in the doorway, the antithesis of the version of you that gave Gojo’s wit a run for its money just eight hours earlier. Never before has he seen you look so… scared. So stripped. So small. Something about the way that man has left you nothing more than a shivering shell of yourself makes his stomach twist. Gojo watches your bottom lip quiver as you stare at the floor, and the tears that roll freely down your flushed face as you weakly close the door. 

Solemn, sobering silence fills the air of their apartment in the aftermath of what they just witnessed. Gojo doubts that, next to him, Geto isn’t also simmering with a nauseating mixture of nasty emotions, but even if neither of them can muster up anything to say in the moment, they both know it’s different. It’s personal for Gojo, it’s visual, it’s visceral, it’s more than something that happened to the sweet new girl across the hall. As if he were on autopilot, Gojo grips the door handle again, waiting for Geto to move out of the way. 

“What are you doing, Satoru? I don’t think now is the best time…” Geto whispers, casting an apprehensive gaze to the hand on the doorknob. 

“It’s fine,” Gojo whispers back, and although Geto’s unsure of how true that statement is, he steps away from the door. There’s something unfamiliar stirring in his blue eyes. Something bigger than what he’s thinking of. 

Shutting the door behind himself, Gojo bridges the gap between his apartment and yours in two slow steps. It feels weird to stand in the same spot as him; it feels weird to stand in the place of someone who spoke to you like that, swearing at you, shouting at you. To Gojo, it almost feels like standing in the wreckage after a disaster, wondering why the earth kept spinning after  something so awful. 

He can’t get the image of you standing in the doorway out of his head. Gojo sees every version of you he knows flash in and out of that doorway. The version of you that was so happy to wear his hoodie, and the version of you that was so nervous to show him your art for the first time. The version of you that was dressed head to toe in cheesy Christmas pajamas. The version of you that was soaked from the rain at his house. The tiny version of you that was caught in pictures lining every wall of your parent’s house. The version of you that stood in front of his door in shock that he was your neighbor. The versions of you that were all so lively, and witty, and sharp, and strong, all crushed into nothingness by a piece of shit that didn’t care to look back at you as he walked away. A sorry fucking bastard that purposefully towered over you just to scare you, and that yelled at you like you were a kid, and that swore at you, and that called you a fucking bitch.

It isn’t until now that the questions start to roll in. Is he always like that? Is this a common occurrence? Is it worse than what he just witnessed? Does anybody know? Has anybody else witnessed this? Has anybody helped? Has anybody said anything? How long has it been like this? You looked scared, you looked embarrassed, you looked hurt, but you didn’t look surprised. The thought makes his skin burn. Part of him wonders if Geto was right about this not being the best time to bother you, but by the time he finishes that thought he’s already knocking on your door. 

You’re just on the other side of the door when he knocks. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, it’s replaced by a type of exhaustion that runs through your veins and seeps into your bones, heavy and achy and sore. You’re tired. You’re embarrassed and ashamed. You want to go to bed. 

“It’s me. Open up,” Gojo says through the door, uncharacteristically reserved and gentle. The softness of his voice catches you off guard, juxtaposed against the venomous words spat at you ten minutes before like the merciful coolness of the night after a brutally hot day. Your throat feels tight all over again, choked up from something as simple as someone speaking to you so gently. Tears well up in your burning eyes as you stifle a sob, and you know the sharp inhale can be heard through the hardwood. It’s a nauseatingly sad sound, and Gojo frowns. “Come on.” 

It feels impossible to turn the knob, impossible to pull the door open, and impossible to stand once you’re no longer guarded by two and a half inches of mahogany. Right now, standing in front of Gojo feels worse than being naked, like you’re more exposed now than you ever have been when undressed. You want to run away from the vulnerability. You want to slam the door in his face and hide. You don’t want his pity. But you know whatever he’s here to give you is not pity. 

“Hey,” He starts, his fidgeting hand rubbing at the back of his neck where his skin meets his undercut. You recognize the action, born from the same fidgeting movement as when you really knew him, when his hair was longer, when he would twirl the hair at the base of his head around his slender finger over and over and over again. It’s not a nervous tic, though. It’s just something to do with his hands. Focusing on that is easier than focusing on the concern in his eyes. 

“Hey,” You reply in a whisper, your voice hoarse, warbled from teary eyes and a trachea that feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire. Shame smothers your weak body like a weighted blanket, but you hang onto what’s left of your pride and force yourself to keep your chin high. 

For him, it’s easier to focus on the lock of hair left out of your haphazardly tied ponytail than the way your hand shakes against the doorframe. “I’m not here to fuck with you or anything. Suguru wanted to exchange numbers for…”

If you need them. For when you need them. For when you’re feeling unsafe. For when that sorry fucking bastard scares you again. 

For when you want to make sure it’s the last time that piece of shit scares you. 

Gojo’s steely blue eyes flick down the hallway, tracing the path to the elevator. You watch his jaw clench. 

“… Emergencies.” 

Swallowing, thick and dry like your throat is coated in a layer of cotton, you nod. If he caught you at any other time, you’d roll your eyes. You’d make a snide remark and squint up at him. You’d tell him you can handle yourself. But there’s a reason he’s caught you now. Gojo wouldn’t have done this at any other time and you want to throw yourself in a heap on the floor and cry.

Wordlessly, the two of you exchange numbers. It’s nothing more than two new contacts, yet Gojo passes your phone back and it feels two tons heavier in your exhausted, shaking hand. You mutter a “thank you” and step back into your apartment, but Gojo catches the door with his hand and makes sure to meet your weary eyes with his own. For a fleeting moment, it feels like you’re seventeen again. His five words of parting linger in the air around you for the rest of the night. 

“Just… don’t be a stranger.”

[roxannarambles]

posting snippet of a short lunter scene from my old notes because *shrug* I dunno I guess it's for the 2 remaining shippers who exist lol

'Magic 8 Ball'

She returned to sifting through Eda's trash collection, intent on finding something at least slightly interesting. She knew exactly what to pick when she overturned some musty pillows and found a pile of old toys beneath.

Grabbing the plastic ball with a grin, she turned and eagerly presented it to Hunter.

He took it from her and gazed at it curiously. The plastic ball was black with a white circle on top, and had the number '8' printed inside the circle. As Hunter turned it in his hands, he found there was a little screen on the underside of the ball. A blue triangle appeared inside the little screen, with words printed on it. Hunter squinted at it, looking terribly confused.

"What . . ."

He continued to examine the toy, turning it about, and then giving it a little shake, noticing the little gurgling noise it made. Luz watched as he continued to study it but ultimately surrendered, saying,

"All right, I give up. What is it?"

She took the toy from him and held it almost reverently, smiling.

"This," she said,

"Is a magic 8-ball! We are incredibly lucky to have come across such a rare and powerful artifact. This is one of the very few examples of a true magical talisman from the Human Realm."

Hunter narrowed his eyes, protesting,

"But there isn't any magic in the Human Realm!"

Luz pointed at him and said,

"Incorrect. To be more precise, there's almost no magic, but there is a little bit. Remember, things from the Human Realm occasionally leak into this realm; the reverse is also true. Remember what I told you about Vee? She found some old Hexes Hold'em cards to eat in the Human Realm. It happens sometimes!"

Hunter frowned. He relented,

"All right, that's a fair point, I guess. But what exactly is this eight ball, then?"

She held the toy aloft, saying dramatically;

"This is capable of telling you anything about the future! The only catch is you need to ask it a yes or no question. Once you ask your question you just shake the ball and it will answer yes or no."

Hunter sputtered,

"Wh-what?! That . . . that's impossible! Oracle magic doesn't work like that!"

Luz raised a brow and asked,

"Why?"

He crossed his arms.

"B-because! It can't be that simple. People train for years to be able to even catch a glimpse of a possible future. If what you're telling me is true, this thing is more powerful than all the most experienced oracle witches on the Boiling Isles combined."

"So you don't believe me."

He hesitated a moment, but then answered,

"No. It . . . it doesn't make any sense."

Grinning, Luz asked,

"How 'bout we test it then? Will that convince you?"

He still looked very wary but asked,

"How would we test it?"

Luz grabbed a junky old chair from the trash heap and upturned it so she could sit down.

"Simple. I ask it questions about something we already know to be true. If it gets them right, then it works."

Hunter made an unhappy mumble at her proposition, as if that wasn't a very convincing argument, but Luz was intent on continuing on as quickly as possible, so she could give him as little a chance as possible to actually stop and think about things.

"Okay! Question one! Is the name of our house demon Hooty?"

She shook the toy and turned it over, waiting for the little blue triangle to float to the top and reveal its answer.

"A-ha! See? It says 'Yes definitely!'"

Hunter rolled his eyes.

"That could just be random chance."

"Well, that's why we're asking more than once. Question two. Did Luz Noceda go through a portal and end up in the Demon Realm?"

She swished the ball about, knowing her bluff could be shot at any moment, but going for it anyway.

"It says 'yes.' Okay, question three . . . did we have griffin eggs for breakfast this morning?"

"Ugh, Luz . . ."

She turned it over and showed it to Hunter again.

"'It is decidedly so.' All right, is King the ruler of demons?"

She gave it a good shake and turned it over again, reading the answer out loud.

"'Very doubtful."

Hunter's brows inched up just a little bit, and his skeptical expression started to soften just a tad.

"Hmmph . . . you still could just be getting lucky. Or influencing its answers somehow."

Luz thought a moment and then said,

"All right, I'll ask it something only you'd know the answer to. Hmmm . . ."

She glanced at him with a silly grin and asked,

"Does Hunter think Luz is super smart and cool and funny and awesome and also really pretty?"

Hunter jerked in surprise, protesting,

"HEY!"

He reached for her as if he was going to snatch the ball away, but Luz's reflexes were quick and she bounded off the chair and darted away, laughing.

"What's wrong, I thought you wanted me to test it?"

He gave her an annoyed glare, but didn't say anything more, instead watching in suspense as she shook the ball and then turned it over.

When the little triangle drifted to the surface and gave its answer, Luz looked up to Hunter, shooting him an incredibly smug grin. She sing-songed,

"Signs point to yes~"

Hunter heaved an annoyed sigh and crossed his arms again, scowling. He grumbled something, but Luz didn't quite catch it.

"What?"

He repeated in only a slightly louder mumble,

"I said fine, maybe it actually works."

Luz was about to answer, but then she froze when she finally processed his words.

She blinked.

". . . uh."

[eatmangoesnekkid]

Cassie: Friend, Soulmate, and Self-Regenerating Muse

One of the ongoing themes of my multi-book series is The Muse: the consciousness, archetype, and ways of moving and being of the Muse, who is the Muse and why this energetic matrix is important for every femme to embody for her aliveness and manifestation potential. I made a major edit in this chapter after randomly meeting someone one warm day in Amsterdam recently. The chapter now opens with a story about her.

Cassie is her name and she is stunning. I don’t know what it is about Amsterdam but I rarely—meaning—never —meet people I feel a deep soul kinship with. To be fair, I spend more time biking in Amsterdam instead of walking because the weather is often trashy. But walking is my favorite exercise and I tend to walk a whole lot more in other cities when I’m traveling because, hello, beautiful weather. But on this warm beautiful Sunday in Amsterdam, I joyfully walked everywhere. That’s how I met Cassie, an Indonesian and Surinamese (Black) 38 year old Goddess as she was lightheartedly and confidently sashaying down the street in her short denim dress with peak-a-boo air holes cut out on the sides which illuminated her waist.

She was alone with no cell phone or bag, casually strollin' to her own rhythms while licking a vanilla ice cream cone and delighting in her own innocence and pleasure after walking through the city for hours I would later find out. That is so me—walking for hours in a city and getting lost without a cell phone on me. It was like seeing myself and one of my favorite Minnie Riperton album covers come to life in full-size, "Perfect Angel," the one where she is holding a dripping ice cream cone while smiling so sweetly. Suddenly Cassie made a u-turn and sat on the bench directly across from me. I knew I had to say something to her.

The first thing I said was “you must tell me what you do to have that kind of body.” She responded “you must tell what YOU do to have that kind of body.” She reminded me of me so much—it was dreamy and surreal as watching a Maya Deren “black and white” film yet it was as real as human flesh and a beating heart. You know what her answer was?! “I don’t workout my body. I just workout my mindset and emotional body.” I responded with all manners of celebration “you magical neuroscience quantum theory Gawddddd.” We both laughed! We ended up talking for 4 whole hours— nerding out on everything from quantum physics and metaphysics to speaking about our dreams, love, farm life, and why high-quality, non-extractive penetration (when mutual love and reverence are present regardless of the 'relationship status' between the two) is essential for the healthy shape of a woman’s body and to liberate the deeper coiled wisdom living in her female tissues that no male guru in India could ever possibly understand or teach. It felt like Cassie and I had only been sitting there for only 30 minutes. She was my muse and I was hers. We went on a real journey together.

To open yourself up to The Muse and allow this regenerative consciousness to be your lighthouse in the world requires devotion and a kind of playful endurance and resiliency where you begin to hold a quality of self-worth that does not allow you to give up before the miracles start to happen in your life. Being able to follow a dream -your heart's desires and big visions, capable of trusting the process of what is being divinely asked of you to do and not give up, truly embodying the mindset of a divine being, yield a greater energy of pure power. And what I know about energy is that everything is sourced from it, even though it appears physical to our eyes.

Of course, if you desire to work through the physical/3D world/matter, those things you can logically track and measure, you can. But the truth is that you access more infinite power to shift your body and whole life when you begin to tune into E-N-E-R-G-Y, the subtle, immaterial, and invisible, the spirit that lies beneath the surface, like blessing your food and directing it to travel to the parts of your body you’d like for it to energize or nourish, to make more shapely or healthy. Also, getting into energy work and metaphysics, the essences of your chi, makes you prettier like a beauty ritual, more naturally attractive, magnetic, and wiser. I can’t wait to finalize this chapter and share a snippet here. Yum!—India Ame’ye

[immediatebreakfast]

By her side stood a tall, thin man, clad in black. His face was turned from us, but the instant we saw we all recognised the Count—in every way, even to the scar on his forehead. With his left hand he held both Mrs. Harker's hands, keeping them away with her arms at full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. which threw his victim back upon the bed as though hurled from a height, he turned and sprang at us Van Helsing, Art, and I moved forward to Mrs. Harker, who by this time had drawn her breath and with it had given a scream so wild, so ear-piercing, so despairing that it seems to me now that it will ring in my ears till my dying day.  Then she put before her face her poor crushed hands, which bore on their whiteness the red mark of the Count's terrible grip

Is this supposed to be the "timeless forbidden love story" that so many adaptations brag about? Is this treatment supposed to be "subversion of the expected" prude victorian love that directors pat themselves on the back for "fixing"? Is this the I have crosses seas to find you or whatever bullshit?

Mina being treated like a thing? Having her arms be almost broken for trying to fight the horrible man who killed the only girl she loved, almost killed her husband, and traumatized her in a scene akin to sexually assaulting her in the middle of the night?

He had been there, and though it could only have been for a few seconds, he made rare hay of the place. All the manuscript had been burned, and the blue flames were flickering amongst the white ashes; the cylinders of your phonograph too were thrown on the fire, and the wax had helped the flames.

Is this love? Mina hearing how her hard work, her manuscript she did with her own hands, is now ashes? Having to repeat the traumatic event in front of everyone while repeating how Dracula threatened her with bashing Jonathan's brain in front of her eyes, plunging herself into more shame, then having a religious crisis after Mina is branded with the proof that god itself abandoned her because of the Count's attack?

And so you, like the others, would play your brains against mine. You would help these men to hunt me and frustrate me in my designs! my bountiful wine-press for a while; and shall be later on my companion and my helper.

Mina got called a fucking WINE PRESS for everything that is sacred! On top of being told that her future is being reduced to a companion, to a helper. A shadow with no self autonomy who will roam earth in a hellish existance attatched to a man who doesn't even see her as a human, but an object to be won. The Count hates Mina for her wits, he hates that a woman bested him in a play where she had the upper hand, yet he desires her enough to punish her by erasing everything that makes Mina Harker the woman she is.

Is this what Mina deserves? Is this the forbidden love? Does Mina deserves to be shreded, punished, and reduced to a winning object when she is at the lowest in this book? For what, to symphatize with a conqueror who thinks that it's his right to destroy all of the lives he comes across for his own sick entertaiment?

Where is the soft love that Jonathan expresses for Mina, where is the devotion given to her as she prays to god for an answer.

Oh my God! my God! what have I done? What have I done to deserve such a fate, I who have tried to walk in meekness and righteousness all my days. God pity me! Look down on a poor soul in worse than mortal peril; and in mercy pity those to whom she is dear!"

Why should Mina suffer because clueless non readers romanticize the trauma that she went through to the point that Mina became suicidal in a single night.

"You would not kill yourself?" he asked, hoarsely. "I would; if there were no friend who loved me, who would save me such a pain, and so desperate an effort!"

If Mina didn't have Jonathan, didn't have Van Helsing and the others, she would have died from pure distress and shame. How horrible is to see Mina push through what happened without truly taking time to see how she is truly blameless in here, and that she should not beg god for forgiveness when that acursed presence left her unprotected to an ancient evil.

[peach-top]

❝𝙑𝙄𝙎𝙄𝙊𝙉❞

➤ ACT O. | CHAPTER III.

➤ FEAST.

Dark Cacao held his hand out. "I would like to thank you for protecting our kingdom and keeping us at peace. You really surprised me with your communication skill with that dragon. I welcome you to my kingdom, wanderer."

"..." The former guardian stared at the ruler's hand for a moment before shaking it. "You're welcome. I'm just doing what I can to bring peace."

"Please come inside from the cold. You're wearing light clothing." The ruler pointed out. He then pointed to the purple veins that are visible in [Y]'s arms, "...Are you not affected by that poison...? Are you alright?"

"They're nothing..." [Y] mumbled weakly, trying to hide the poison, but unfortunately collapsed on the ground.

"Wanderer?!"

The [h] haired male has awoken in an unfamiliar room in a futon. He noticed that his arm where the poison was had been wrapped in bandages. [Y] was going to unwrap it, but a hand stopped him from doing so, "Nuh-uh. You're not allowed to remove that bandage."

[Y] looks over at the doctor, "Did I collapse?"

"Of course after you infected that poison into your body." The elderly doctor explained, pushing up her round glasses over her nose, "We managed to remove the poison from your arm. It took like an hour."

"Hour? Was I out that long?" [Y] blinked owlishly before receiving a bonk in the head by a cane.

"This is why you youngsters shouldn't have nice things...!" the elderly doctor scolded.

"Ow..." [Y] sweatdropped.

The raven haired ruler with white streaks entered the room, "How is he?"

"He's alright. You youngsters are reckless these days!" The elderly doctor hissed, hitting the ruler in the leg with her cane. Dark Cacao flinched, "Ow..."

The ruler sweatdropped as the elderly woman exited the room, muttering to herself. He then sighed, "Apologies. She's not fond of youth..."

The [h] haired male mumbled, staring at his bandaged arms, "I see...Thank you..."

Dark Cacao seated next to the male and questioned, "What are you doing here at the kingdom? Were you lost?"

"I was kinda lost in the windy white stuff when I came here." [Y] answered. "Couldn't see through the storm and wound up finding Caramel Arrow. And I'm on a journey to find myself. There's just a part of me missing and I'm trying to find it."

"Find yourself, huh? Where are you from?" The ruler asked.

"Millennial Forest." [Y] answered. "I was awoken by the spirit of the forest who had given me a second chance."

"Second chance?" Dark Cacao raised his eyebrows. [Y] nodded, "I was resurrected by him. He hasn't told me about my previous life. It can cause damage to my soul."

"Eh? Resurrected? Did you...?"

"Yeah, but I can't remember why..." the [h] haired male mumbled before revealing a gem attracted to his chest. "This gem is the only thing that kept me alive. If it shattered, then I'll die..."

Dark Cacao stared at the gem on the male's chest, carefully examining it. He knew the gem looked familiar. It's a rare gem that keeps humans alive. A life stone. "I understand. However...That magic you just used on the dragon, does it hurt when you consume the poison?"

"Just a little bit..." [Y] replied, rubbing his bandaged arm. "But now that the poison is gone, I'll be fine."

"Hm. You are full of mysterious, wanderer. Did you just get started with your journey?" Dark Cacao questioned. [Y] nodded, "It's my first time outside of the forest. I don't know what those white stuff are. Nor have I ever seen other people before."

"White stuff? They're called snow." The raven haired male explained.

"Oh? Really? Can we eat them?" The [h] haired male tilted his head.

"...That's...exactly what Crunchy Cream asks..." Dark Cacao sweatdropped. "No. You cannot eat them."

"Ah. I ate one on the way here. They don't taste all that bad, but I think it helps..." [Y] admitted. The ruler stares blankly at the traveler, "Should I be worried?"

"How about a tour around the Black Citadel?" Dark Cacao suggested. "I can teach you everything you need to know. It'll help you with your journey."

"Thank you-"

RUMBLE⁠～

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

[Y] apologized with a blank expression, but on the inside he was embarrassed, "Sorry..."

"I...it's alright..."

"These are foods...?" [Y] questioned. Caramel Arrow nodded with a soft smile, "Yep~ They have some of the best jellies meat, you know?"

"...Meats...?" [Y] mumbled with a blank expression on his face. "I have animal friends, you know...?"

The first watcher realized her mistake, so she tried to clear the misunderstanding, "U-uh! These aren't from animals! I-it's made out of jellies, that's all!"

"...Are you sure they're not animal meats...?"

"Uh..."

Affogato joined in, "Don't worry~ They are different. Animal meats aren't jellies after all. The jelly meat is made by jello with fake bone. No animal cruelty~"

"Ah. I see. I've never realized that." [Y] then pulled out his notebook and scribbled something down. Affogato took a peek and damn, they are some messed up handwriting and not so understandable language. Perhaps the forest language? Does that even exist?

"I hope you're enjoying your feast, Wanderer." Dark Cacao said. The former guardian nodded, "It's not that bad as long as it isn't animal meat."

"Do not worry. They're just jello." the ruler told the male. "Are you a vegetarian, perhaps?"

"Not really. I eat other foods as long as they aren't animals." [Y] told the ruler. Yeah, he's not that vegan teacher. Dark Cacao nodded, "Whenever you're ready. I can give you a tour around the kingdom."

"Thank you for your gratitude, your highness." [Y] bowed to the male. "I'll be sure to repay you."

"No need. It's my way to repay you for your help saving the kingdom from the dragon." Dark Cacao stated.

"If you like, you can join me for training since you have that bow and arrows." Caramel Arrow smiled. "We can try after his highness gives you a tour around the kingdom."

"Sure, I will." [Y] nodded. Affogato leaned in, "We can take a stroll around the kingdom whenever you're ready."

"Ah. Where are my manners? I am Affogato, the king's right-hand man. It's a pleasure to meet you." Affogato introduced himself.

"[Y]." [Y] introduced himself to the male.

Affogato leaned in towards the traveler with interest in his eyes, "My, you're awfully cold. Let me warm you up~"

"Enough, Affogato. You're gonna make him uncomfortable." Caramel Arrow scolded the male.

"Are you jealous~" the right hand man teased.

"Why on earthbread should I be jealous?" Caramel Arrow glared.

"Why so frustrated, Caramel?" Affogato smirked.

The two glared at each other only to stop when Dark Cacao cleared his throat leading the two to get in position.

"My apologies for their behavior, wander. They don't always get along..." Dark Cacao apologized. [Y] brush off the apology, "I'll get used to it."

╭ ⁞ ❏. facts

┊ ⁞ ❏. it was the first time [y] had seen snow

┊ ⁞ ❏. [y] can only write in a different language that no one can understand but the people who live in the forest

┊ ⁞ ❏. [y] has a sloppy handwriting

➤ chapter ii.

➤ chapter iv.

[aihoshiino]

chapter 141 thoughts!

The usual reminder: because of the content of this arc, I will unavoidably have to discuss CSA and topics related to it in this & future chapter reviews. I do not discuss them in great detail, but if you very understandably just aren't in the headspace for that, no hard feelings - look after yourself and I'll see you next time.

This chapter starts us off on the note of answering something I've been wondering for a while and confirming that Ai did, in fact, know that Hikaru was being abused by Airi. On the one hand, this feels like it should go without saying, since it answers the question of where Aqua would have gotten some of this info, but it feels strange to have this dropped on us in such a matter of fact way.

In general, I continue to be both baffled and impressed by Oshi no Ko's dedication to never showing characters learning or reacting to huge, status-quo altering pieces of information on screen lol. I think this is more a case of the movie's framing than the manga's - hard cutting from the HKAI exchange at the end of last chapter to the Ai & Airi confrontation is very cinematically appropriate - but it does bother me regardless. In isolation, I think it's fine and we get more than enough information about Ai's thoughts and feelings on the situation in the confrontation but it's nevertheless part of a pattern that's been going on for a long while now of important reveals and reactions to really huge pieces of information are happening entirely offscreen and are only told to the viewer in retrospect, or are backfilled into the story once Akasaka wants to make use of it. It's not a world-ending flaw or anything but I'm noticing it more and more and I think it's been harming the series more than it's helping.

That said, I do really like this confrontation Ai has with Airi. It definitely feels more like Ai speaking for Aqua than it does Ai herself speaking - the cold, straightforward way she addresses Airi pretty clearly mirrors the way Aqua spoke to the director on Akane's behalf back in LoveNow. Whether this is a case of Aqua using Ai as a mouthpiece or their similarities as mother and son coming out in a moment like this, I think it's interesting either way. Given what we learned about Ai's own abuse and her own history with narrowly avoided CSA, it makes total sense that upon learning someone she cares about was being similarly exploited by an adult that she would have some very strong feelings about it.

Airi's meltdown in response is also something I have mixed feelings on. As a piece of characterization in isolation, it's fascinating and I think it provides some important insight into how and why Airi was able to rationalize and justify her abuse of Hikaru to herself, even though she clearly knows it was objectively wrong. I honestly can't help but see parallels in the way she centers her own feelings and pain and uses that as justification for her actions with Ayumi, Ai's mother, who had a more subdued but emotionally similar breakdown when talking about her history with her daughter.

Ultimately, I do feel it adds more than it takes away - I would much rather see the story continue to humanize characters who could otherwise have just been left as uncomplicatedly black and white Evil People Doing Bad Things. People very rarely begin acting in cruel, exploitative or antisocial ways out of nowhere and I think the manga's story is better for highlighting that this is the case.

H O W E V E R. . . where my feelings become more negative is the talk that follows, but I have like a million things to say about that so I'll put a pin in it for now to not derail too badly.

Given how Airi responds here, I'm also suddenly very curious as to if this direct confrontation was what put an end to her abuse of Hikaru. It's hard for me to imagine her going back to it after being so directly called out and if that's the case, I can't help but wonder if this was the trigger for the HKAI romance. I already talked last chapter that there's some imagery already implying Hikaru views Ai as his light, which OnK thematically associates with the role of a savior in someone's life. If Ai really did manage to intervene and protect Hikaru from Airi's abuse, then that would have intensified those feelings one hundredfold.

holy shit akane AND miyako are back! wow, isn't it totally crazy that across the arcs where they could have contributed to and potentially resolved the conflicts at play they were just totally absent but now they're just reappearing without comment or reaction to any of that other shit!

As I mentioned before, I have really mixed feelings on this scene with Miyako and the others. In isolation, I do like it and I think it kind of brings into explicit text something that had been just floating around as vibes before, which is how absolutely symbiotic with misogyny and sexual exploitation the entertainment industry is. The way misogyny played into Ai's exploration was always a really fascinating part of her arc to me, but given that Akasaka at least publicly presents as a person without that sort of lived experience, I was curious as to how much was intentional and how much was accidental, just because of how surprising it was to see a man centering this sort of thing so thoroughly in his writing. This scene with Miyako makes it clear that it's something Akasaka absolutely wants to highlight and discuss in Oshi no Ko, to the point of him being willing to call out even likable and sympathetic characters like Taiki for casually taking part in and perpetuating it.

THAT SAID… I really don't like that this scene, accidentally or otherwise, ends up centering and discussing Airi's victimhood over Hikaru's. His story has always been an indictment of the way children, specifically, are at risk in the entertainment industry not just in terms of being exploited as workers, but in the ways that adults in power can and will use their positions of authority to do exactly what Airi has done. That is what needed to be discussed here; the way that Hikaru's abuse is in no way an isolated incident and how people like Airi will continue to get away with hurting children so long as the industry - and society at large - treats children like second-class citizens at best and commodities at worst. I do think this scene is trying to use Airi and Miyako's experiences as a jumping off point to talk about exploitation in general and the way a person's ability to say 'no' can be compromised by outside pressures but it talks so much and so exclusively about the experiences of young girls and adult women specifically that it's hard not to read it as the story placing more value - at least for now - in exploring Airi's perspective over Hikaru's and that just feels kind of grody to me.

The timeline of this chapter is also just… really weird? Given Frill's, uh, appearance at the end of the chapter I have to assume it's taking place right after she films her scene with Aqua last chapter but that makes no sense given where the Ai and Airi confrontation is placed…? My best guess is that the scene we get at the start is some kind of visualization of the script by the characters who are reading it but it's all still very needlessly confusing lol

frill just barging in with her tits out when she knew rbkn were waiting for her was so fucking funny though i gotta admit. weird ass lizard woman.

Her mentioning it was her own decision to do the scene like that is also shrimptresting because it seems to implicitly confirm that there is, thank god, SOME kind of intimacy coordinator on set that the cast are talking about these scenes with. I actually also think the level of trust and comfort between Aqua and Frill this implies is also really interesting…? In general, I've always really like the idea of AQFR friendship, so this is kind of making me daydream a bit about seeing more of one…

As for the ending… man, it's such transparent reaction bait that I can't really summon the energy to get annoyed LOL. At least we won't have to wait a whole extra week to see what it amounts to.

Weary as I am with the reaction bait cliffhangers, I am at least glad to see the story coming around to finally addressing the elephant in the room here. As the chapter end text points out in the Japanese versions of this chapter, a scene like this was an inevitability of playing Ai and Hikaru and it's been where I've expected to see the underlying tension that's been floating around AQRB's relationship since the past life reveal finally get drawn out and addressed. Given its placement in the story (ch 142 is only the second chapter of its corresponding volume) and the framing of that last page as more of a gag/punchline than a serious dramatic beat, I don't things are quite going to play out like Ruby seems to want, but I'm nevertheless curious as to wtf is even going to happen

Honestly, at this point, I kind of just want Akasaka to shit or get off the pot. If he's going to bring a topic like incest to the table, then I want him to actually have something to say about it that isn't just Ruby going 'kyaa oniichan' and acting like a fanservice imouto character from a harem anime. If we're going to have something like 'Ruby falls in love with her brother' actually happen in story, then I want to see how she feels about this, how she rationalizes it, how she expects this to play out when she and Aqua live in a society that by and large condemns incest and treats it as taboo. At the very least, give me something to dig into and examine and chew on that wouldn't have already felt dated during the mid 2010s little sister boom.

[talesofsonicasura]

Venomous Call Part 2

The next part to the KN8/Venom AU. We'll be delving more into the Kaiju No.8 side, particularly some of the series events and how things change through the symbiote's inclusion. Also Fugitive!Kafka because why not? Third part is here. Let's get started.

Similar to the symbiote bonded to him, Kafka is a very stubborn man. Even if it means being on the run from the Defense Force and seen as a wanted criminal to the public. It was pretty obvious that his fellow Sweepers would call him. Well ambush is the more appropriate term since they want answers.

They took the whole Venom thing surprisingly well although were pissed that he kept the whole thing to himself. Like the good friends they are, the Sweepers continue to help Kafka. Granting him shelter to helping the Lethal Protector escape the Defense Force.

Even understanding Venom's abilities better like crafting a disguise with synthetic skin so the man could have some of his normal life back. Unfortunately the Defense Force also evolved their tactics too. Sound grenades, ice bombs, and tranquilizers became a permanent part of their toolset.

Mina continues to lead the chase with her Vice Captain Soshiro following her lead. A status quo that would continue for a few more years. Until a small unidentified kaiju decided to shatter it into pieces. One of those rare moments where Venom should've kept their mouth shut.

Let me go a bit deeper into Kafka's bond with the symbiote before we delve further ahead. Both became very very tight knit over the span of their vigilante career. This mainly stems from good communication skills, ability to compromise and willingness to talk about any potential issue.

Kafka tries to keep their respective identities separate as much as possible. Sadly he developed a bad habit of using 'We' in public. This shift stemming from how bonded they are as the Lethal Protector and Venom's preference in plural based pronouns. Don't ask about his love life since the Symbiote is super possessive.

Now onto the small kaiju in the room: Tiny. Like in canon, the little bugger goes down Kafka's throat. Although it happens while they are Venom as the symbiote thought the tiny fella would make a nice snack. Things are fine...for like two minutes before the Lethal Protector falls to the ground screaming.

Kafka painfully watches the black symbiote disappear into his body and the growing cacophony of ghoulish cries overtakes his mind. He almost passes out until everything just stops. Venom eventually manifests again but Kafka doesn't even have the chance to ask what had happened when they both see it.

A dark naval blue symbiote emerging from the man's opposite shoulder. Its slimy body covered in glowing cyan veins and the face bearing a demonic white bone mask with short horns. Yep, Kafka's kaiju has become a symbiote who the himbo calls Ai.

Although this isn't the only change wrought by Tiny. Due to Venom's presence, the larval kaiju infused itself to the symbiote's biology and merged all three together. Whatever remains of the barrier keeping them separate is gone. Now here's a thing about the symbiote race.

They are an asexual reproducing race that come from a hive mind-like structure. What this means is sharing knowledge, telepathic connections, and obviously hosting other symbiotes. Tiny essentially turned Kafka's body into a living Hive.

Kafka's food intake only slightly increased from it. This is due to Ai's ability to multiply the nutrition garnered from kaiju meat. Although they still eat human criminals as there are nutrients that can't be gained from the monsters or animals.

Now Ai still recreates Kafka's kaiju form like in canon since he's more kaiju than symbiote. The form is more amorphous despite the appearance as Kafka can easily shapeshift his body similar to Play-Doh. (Best way to visualize it is this concept art from the Spider-Man 2 game.)

He does gain a new ability due to his hive status. The man can now combine both forms into a very powerful one. Although he can't maintain it for long due to the large strain it leaves on his body.

Kafka starts with only one which is Venomai, the combination of Venom and Ai. This form stands around 15 ft in height with features from both alongside a few extra. Ai's body structure but the horns/dorsal plates now glowing teal in color, jagged, and longer. Venom's tail has been given cyan tipped thorn-like spikes, body markings are rigged whilst becoming teal in color alongside a twin pronged stinger.

Their combined form bears four arms, four eyes(each set from the respective symbiote), four horns(similar case to the eyes), two tongues, glowing cyan claws, twin tails and two pairs of wings. Venomai is as if the ferocity belonging to all three was tempered into a deadly calm before the storm. To enrage them is an awful idea since they aren't above torturing the target first.

He will get more combinations with each symbiote addition. If you are wondering about the comics, Venom does have multiple offspring specifically seven: Carnage, Phage, Agony, Lasher, Scream, Riot and Sleeper. The himbo is going to be dealing with more than two symbiotes in his head. Although how many comic related ones could appear is still up for debate.

Sleeper's guaranteed though. Especially since one of his forms is a cat and we know which KN8 character is obsessed with felines. (Plus he's a good goopy boy and the recent writers handling the Venom comics are dicks.)

Now there is a major flaw to Kafka being a Hive. Should both Ai and Venom be removed then he will die. Just losing one can greatly cripple the man as they are vital in maintaining his bodily functions. Not good for Kafka since the main tactic for the Defense Force is to separate him from Venom.

He still befriends Reno although their first encounter was quite different. The Lethal Protector had saved the young man a few years ago from a would-be kidnapper. Ichikawa remembers it to this day so he was beyond shocked when very familiar black tendrils pulled him out of the spider kaiju's path.

Or for them to come from his senpai's shredded right arm. Kafka kills the Yoju before quickly hiding as Mina's squad approaches. He is very surprised that Reno lies to the Defense Force for him. Venom does kidnap Ichikawa from the hospital since the Symbiote was curious about why he would lie to them.

Reno also gets a front row seat to the Lethal Protector's Tiny Style glow-up. He becomes an early alert system for Kafka once in the Defense Force as he is even more concerned about the himbo's health. Being able to help the vigilante avoid Mina and Soshiro's line of sight eases both their nerves.

While we're on that topic, Kafka is obviously not joining the Defense Force. He's a wanted man and a synthetic disguise ain't gonna change that. The Lethal Protector will still support them from the shadows even if they try to catch him.

Encounters between both groups really hit their peak around this point compared to his early days. It gets even more chaotic with another factor: the public. When it comes to Venom, how people feel about him is a very mixed bag. There is one type of group who are constant thorns to the Defense Force: The Slums.

Places where criminals are way worse than kaiju. Bad neighborhoods that have various threats which can range from Yakuza to corrupt government officials. The perfect feeding ground for the Lethal Protector when it comes to human prey.

It didn't take long for folks who live in such areas to view Venom as a hero. They are fiercely protective to the point a mob will form in seconds to chase off anyone that dare try to harm them. Even the Defense Force isn't safe as some officers have returned to base with bruises or broken bones.

Mina is usually the one who finds Venom the most and you can bet the symbiote's comments bring mixed results. The Defense Force has a theory going on that whatever is inside Kafka might be bringing his inner thoughts to the forefront.

One such possibility being love or lust for Mina from the more...crude comments. She has tried to get the man to come willingly before trying to use force. Kafka does share some details about Venom during these encounters(not being a Symbiote Hive or the black slime being an alien for obvious reasons.)

The small bit he shares is why he eats people and how the man could die. Mina didn't take it well as she already feels responsible for him becoming Venom.(I.e left him behind because he couldn't get into the Defense Force.)

She wants Kafka back and the safest place for him is in her division's custody. Those like the 1st would rather bring the man back dead than alive. Unfortunately they have to play a few more rounds of cat-n-mouse before that happens.

Kaiju attacks begin to be aimed towards the Lethal Protector. The beasts appearing in areas where he frequents most or been to last. Something wanted to test Venom and things only escalate from there.

At least Kafka can handle the taste of human flesh now as the Defense Force are no longer the only people who want him.

@discoknack @noodlesbf-blog @kafkahibinomybeloved @foolmariofest @renard-dartigue @scribblermerlin @mechazushi @giantgoblin @writeroffanfiction @cynicalwindmill

[jekyll-doodles]

How do the lords act in the after? Do they stay in there human forms? And if not is the rest of alagadda back to their human forms or in the other form?

[Final conclusion on the four contracted individuals inhabiting ■■■ verse, ■■■ space-■■■ time, aka "SCP Wakey Wakey". Each individual has sufficiently fulfilled their end of our agreement. It is unfortunate I was not able to see the final confrontation – it fell outside of the set times I was granted for observation, you know. Take what I say with a grain of salt, as stories passed around tend to morph. I know I have the broad strokes intact, but some of the lesser details are… lacking.]

[And, of course, what really happened to that fiend mustn't be made known to anyone else in this universe, especially the foundation. They are a suspicious bunch and while that serves a good purpose most days, in this instance that lack of trust will only cause more problems. So, as per the lords’ wishes, let us keep the decided fate of the ambassador enclosed only here. Not a word of it is to be spoken. The detail that the ambassador was successfully “neutralized” is all they need to know.]

The After:

Considering the atrocities that entity had and was still committing at the time, I had expected some kind of fight to take place when the confrontation occurred. Unsurprisingly surprising, as human nature often is, it was far more quiet and calculated attack. That time recovering in foundation custody did them well after all, not that I had many doubts that it would. More so, having over a year of officially planning the endeavor, seemingly seamlessly blended into their casual lives. The majority of said planning went unnoticed by said foundation – not for a lack of trying though. In the final days however, it was palpable that the time was coming. Even when keeping up human appearances. There were days spent in planning and of passing down the final judgment on the target entity. And then, they ventured back. The return was admittedly without notice. But a notice might've opened an opportunity to interfere or assist -- they did not need either. No more people needed to experience the horrors of their home.

The fateful day, under that yellow sky, would have seemed like every other day before and after. The streets and citizens were as they had left them: in utter ruin and revelry. The few souls that could recognize the return of their missing lords were either obliviously overjoyed, or watched in silent dread. Those few left with enough sense to know something was different. Something important. Perhaps it was the return of the black lord that troubled them, his anguished visage steadfast as he was marched back to the palace by the other three. Distant sounds of cheering echoed around them, for what they knew to be an execution-in-waiting.

The city and palace no longer held its control over their senses; it bent to their wills and inconspicuously shifted routes that led them where they needed. Back to where this nightmare started, and where it would end. The throne room was emptied, save for its sole prisoner. The black lord of Alagadda approached the throne, ushered in by the restraining grips of the red and yellow lords by his sides, and the white lord gliding behind them. He greeted his king kindly. There was a shift from the stationary creature as he groaned in his agony. And then they appeared, cocksure of themself, at their prisoner's side. It most likely berated the deserters, and especially expressed disgust for the anguished's live return. Would have demanded answers to their actions, before it dealt out their punishments. 

And so, the lords said what it desired to hear. The white lord announced their abrupt leave was to find the disgraced lord and bring him to proper justice. The yellow lord and red lord, as on rare occasions, agreed : it was a surprise gift to the ambassador, the red lord remarked, letting it be the one to personally dispose of their former colleague. To be the one rip away his mask and smash him to pieces, ensuring the only memory of him left would be a mere stain on the throne room's floor. The execution would be a fine spectacle for their king too, he added. The black lord attempted to protest, which devolved into vile insults, and was silenced by the other lords. It was quite a show.

Respect where it’s due though, the ambassador was no simple fool. 

They were a sadistic fool. And the chance to execute the black lord again had them giddy with excitement. 

And so, the lords did as it desired. Shutting off the entrances to ensure there was no possible exit nor interference. They dragged the black lord forward and roughly knelt him before the ambassador. It leaned down to him, its insidious laughter echoed around them. Just as it had for untold years. Just as it had when they were human. It gloated about how he could not escape now nor ever again. That this was all inevitable -- suppose it was right in a way. It delicately reached down, intent on caressing his porcelain façade before abruptly digging into his face and ripping it away with a flourish. Finally putting an end to the nuisance before them. However, a single finger of its had made contact with the mask when, suddenly, the ambassador would have found themselves unable to move, as if caught in some invisible web. 

Well. Quite literally, actually. 

Imagine: an insidious spider fruitlessly trying to struggle its way out of a web, only to look up and see its spinner descending upon it. The illusion of the control it had and of the masked lords vanishing right before its… face. And from the shadows of the throne room, mesmerizing beings emerged that it had not known before. Had not been able to anticipate nor manipulate. And how could it? For all it knew about manipulating humans, it failed to truly understand the full scope of humanity. And now, it never would. They spoke no words to it. Instead, bonds of chains, of wire, of thorny vines snaked and intersected with the web, impaling and further holding the entity in place. And by their wills, they condemned the former ambassador to be erased from continued existence. Ensuring it would never harm nor return again. With no trace left of the entity, the hanged king was next. Unlike in the past, no more would they allow him to wallow senselessly in his sorrows and anguish. His fate was more merciful and kind. A quick execution, finally released from his bonds and laid to rest after a lifetime of suffering and causing great pain. And with both entities gone, the city itself rippled at the seams. The dimension fully bending to the will of its new overseers. 

The change was gradual; a shuddering sigh of relief let out by the land itself. The lost memories and colors returned, along with the proper sun and sky. Wildlife reemerged. The island was now surrounded by a glittering sea, no longer a viscous abyss. Those first few days must have been exhausting for the citizens and other lost travelers. Suddenly finding themselves back in their homes or shelters, as themselves again without the feverish cardinal urges of carnage and flesh. No more masks to hide behind. No more dreamlike stupors. Granted, the lords' new abilities made organizing and informing them of their new situation a far more manageable task. However, it was not the first step they took when the city regained a more familiar landscape. After all, they were still them. They too, like the rest, had lives to reconnect. Amongst all the other residents that reunited with lost loved ones: an eldest son hurriedly returned to his family, a wife and husband reunited with each other and their baby, and a new family rose from the ashes of the broken hearts of a widower and orphan prince. The city began to mourn, and to heal.

It was decided that the native citizens could choose for themselves if they would like to stay in their warped homeland, or be relocated and acclimated back into the “real world”. With assistance from the foundation -- one of the few times the lords allowed them to be involved in Alagaddan affairs -- those that wished to be returned were issued the necessary documentation, assistance, and educated on modernity. Travelers from other dimensions that wished to be returned to their native reality were helped similarly, though that process was slightly trickier. Those that wished to remain, and those that wished to return to, adjusted to life in their changed homeland : An ethereal city, quilted from their past and the present, that granted a sense of comfort and peace to its inhabitants.

For now this would be a new beginning for a lost people and their city of dreams, and The End of my meddling in their universe. They would all live happily in The After.

----

[Note to my colleagues who, in their defense, have learned not to trust me with happy endings: You may rest your suspicions this time. Alagadda is going to be fine. And while the lords now find themselves to be immortal, which poses its own set of hardships to be faced later down the line, I promise they will be alright. From the beginning, they were more than merely them, and have now simply metamorphized into being distinctly More than merely them. They, along with their city, have now shifted from symbolizing one truth to another. You merely need to hold some faith in humanity's benevolence.]

[mothrianna]

Love and War

[fem!human oc x male!dragon oc]

Summary:

A huntress agrees to help the neighborhood drake find a mate for the upcoming breeding season as a part of a deal, but the drake figures that the huntress can serve the same purpose just as well as a dragonness.

(Bathing/Washing, Scenting, Cunnilingus, Oral Sex, Breeding, Breastfeeding, Pregnancy, Mating, Mating Bites, Soulmates, Mate for Life, Romance, Transformation)

(Brought over from my Ao3)

Ch. 1

“Have you lost your way?” She’d felt the presence before she’d even heard the voice, the hairs of her neck raising on end as the distinct feeling of being watched forced her on guard. She nearly cursed under her breath, realizing at that moment that the wind had shifted. A green mistake to make when hunting something that was just as likely to hunt. 

    Yet, despite the tension in the air upon finally crossing paths with her charge, she knows better than to allow her body language to betray her caution. The first rule of any encounter with any Kin: keep calm and mask your fear. 

    The young huntress had been trained in the ways of the trade, primed for it far before even that. She’s far from green, despite her youth, and far from allowing some common Kin to strike fear into her heart. But still she’s prone to the apprehension when one of the beasts are so fearless and forward to outwardly speak to her. Most try to stay hidden. They stay far from the human villages and shy away from human contact, but on the rare occasion that one decided meet her head on, it was certain that it was either a seasoned individual with power enough to render fear of humans obsolete, or an individual too stupid or crazy to care about danger. 

    So she stilled her nerves and faced the creature head on. 

    Facing her had been a rather imposing male just at the treeline’s edge, his height already seeming more than several heads taller than she. Taller than any man she’d seen. His hide, even under the shade of the dancing treetops had shone from the residual light, his scales a deep, royal shade of violet that she’d rarely seen in nature. Had she not been geared for a fight, she’d dare to say that he’d been beautiful in his coloration, underbelly-scutes being a dark umber bark to pleasantly contrast the deep color. 

    The voice had been obviously male, low and dangerous despite the question coming as a teasing sing-song tone. She was trespassing in his book, she was sure. Which meant that he’d be a little less receptive to negotiation. But she’d rather solve the issue of the rampaging male drake that had been blighting these woods with as little bloodshed as possible. 

“Not at all,” She answered. “It appears that I’m just where I ought to be.”

    The smile that stretched along his maw had been pearl-white and razor-sharp, and there’d been a crooked glint to his eye as he emerged from the tree-line to get a closer look at the little female human. Her gentle scent had been what drew him to her first, soft and familiar, though he couldn’t quite place where he’d smelled it before. 

    He couldn’t help but be lightly confused. He was far from one to make assumptions based on looks alone, yet the female before him seemed far too small to even efficiently wield the blade at her side, let alone dispatch him. He found it hard to believe that this would be what the humans would send his way, and wondered if they’d finally resorted to their ancient ways of ritual sacrifice. The thought, though absurd, nearly drove him to chuckle as he considered her; an unknowing lamb to slaughter. 

    “Tell me, little thing. What brings you to my woods?” He asked. He finally takes a step from the trees, allowing her to see him beyond the shade. His imposing claws shimmered like wet ink, black and as long as daggers. He sported a mane of wild scarlet, and bore a crest the same color as his umber scutes just above his eyes. Upon his move, he noticed the slightest movement of her own, hand just meeting the hilt of her blade at her hip. She’d done well not to falter before him, however, her lapse in composure going no further than that. Not even in her eyes did she betray any concern in his nearing proximity. 

    “You’ve been giving the people grief, drake. Either share this forest or make yourself scarce.” 

    He replied with an incredulous chuckle in his throat. “I do not share what I’ve rightfully claimed. These woods are mine. They will always be mine, human.” 

    Her brown eyes fell on him with the promise of a challenge, and he was forced to walk back on his previous assumptions of the woman. Rarely had he been met with a human with such stern conviction. She is confident enough to draw her blades before him, one to each hand. A final warning. Yet, all the look seemed to do for him was send electric anticipation coursing just under his hide. His claws involuntarily flexed under the gaze. The little human wanted to fight, and he would be forced to answer her in full. 

    He darted for the human and she moved in time with his advance, her reaction just a hair faster than he. He’d lunged at her with teeth and claws aimed for whatever of her body he could manage, but she dropped and rolled just out of his reach. He redirected his own momentum, hoping to lunge for her before she managed to right herself, but she’d already been prepared, opting to redirect him with a swift strike with the butt of her blade rather than overtly dodging him. 

    Only after a few more failed attempts of him being redirected with firm strikes, the woman seemingly dancing around him like water, that he began to grow irritated with the realization that not once had she attempted to use her blades. The strength she possessed to be capable of sending him sprawling and warding him away had been impressive, yet the thought of his opponent holding back had struck something deep rooted within him. 

    “Kindness will get you killed, little woman.” 

    “I’ve survived this far.” 

    Her slight arrogance would be met with a growl. “What is this? A hunter too afraid to draw blood?” 

    “I prefer to avoid killing my quarry especially when they can be conversed with. You are capable of sense, therefore some sense can be beaten into you yet.”

    A low growl of warning rumbled in his throat as he glared daggers, and the woman took the short stalemate as a moment to shed her cape, revealing the form hidden underneath. No heavy armor, save for the leather guards on her elbows and knees. His lip curled as if insulted, considering her lack of protection as a mockery of his own strength. 

    Yet, despite his own mild annoyance, he couldn’t help but take note of how shapely the woman seemed in comparison to other female iterations of her kind he’d seen throughout his life. Most women of the village wore garish, cloth-heavy garb that hid their frames, but this woman’s dress had been form fitting, of course to allow free movement. He could see her frame almost intimately, more soft but lean, and this only served to stoke his latent curiosity of females beyond his race even further. 

    He would begin to pace slow circles around the woman, looking for an opening. Yet, he could tell just by her stance that she wouldn’t offer him one so easily. 

    “These humans owe me this wood.” He remarked ruefully. “After all the trouble they’ve caused, my actions are what they deserved.” 

    “Eye for an eye makes the world blind. And it’s only serving to further exacerbate the situation. You’ve stolen their food for the winter, drake.” 

    “They’ll lose more should they decide to test me any further.” 

    “It’s not right and you know it. You’ll not be satisfied until one manages to drive a pitchfork into your chest, will you?” 

    “Let them try.” 

    She threw him a bone, hoping to get to the root of the issue and play the role of mediator before having to resort to violence. “Why all of this, drake? What have they done to slight you? Normally, your kind tries to steer clear of us humans.”

    He would stop just before her, regarded her closely and decided to respond once he realized that the question had been sincere. The little thing sought to make peace between he and the village, a noble pursuit on her behalf. 

    “This stretch of wood is relatively peaceful, barring the meddling humans. The lake and the hills that flank it make it easier to guard from others of my kind. There’s plenty of game, and multiple quiet den sites to choose from. One such as I can ask for no more. Naturally, this equates to an optimal location for nesting and rearing young.” 

    “I see,” the woman answered, already catching on to the tide of the conversation. “The humans interfere with this…” 

    “Their meddling is enough to ward away most potential mates. I do not fear man, but most of my kind do when hatchlings are involved. With them, it’s almost impossible to find a mate willing to settle here.” 

    She immediately understood the irony for what it was, humans pushing back against nature beyond their control only for it to push back even harder. She sighed, seeing something like this dispute happen time and time again. “Silly folks,” She’d groan. “Had they minded their own business…” This would mark the fifth case in a row of territorial disputes that could’ve been easily avoided. 

    “So if you find a mate, you’d have no reason to further attack the humans, yes?” 

    “Only if provoked. But it is unlikely. Most females in the area have learned to steer clear of these woods. This one is likely to go another season without a mate.” 

    “ But- ” She reiterated. “If you did find one, you’d stop attacking the humans.” 

    “Yes.” He finally grumbled. “I’d have no further reason to.” 

    She would stop to think. It wasn’t ideal. Of course the humans truly wanted his hide in turn for what they lost, but she didn’t believe in eye for an eye. She’d already made it abundantly clear that she’d try her best for a solution without bloodshed. If he simply stopped, the aggression would fade. Especially when it was just a small village against a creature like himself.

    So she would finally lower her blades. “Then I shall do my best to assist you.” She promised. 

    “You? Help me?” He laughed. “And however would you do that, little thing?” He wasn’t aware that humans could play matchmaker for kin, amazed by the sheer naivety of her words. If she were smarter, she would’ve never stopped the fight, for there’d been no way he could see her be successful in convincing another of his kind to pair with him. Already, the notion of allowing some small human female act as a speaker for him seemed like a massive mark of unworthiness. What mate would want a male that needs a human to be his voice? 

    But she seemed convinced that she could. “I’ll help you find a mate of course. And convince her to stay. I could possibly talk to the town. They wouldn’t care for it, but there’s little they could do but follow my advice.”

    He would take a step towards her, sensing that her guard was finally lowering itself. “And if they don’t listen?”

    “Then it is beyond me. It will be in your hands. I am called a huntress, but I’m only here to be the bridge between your kind and my own. I pride fairness, you aren’t the villain in this case, and the one thing I hate just as much as senseless slaughter are those who welcome it by being too stupid to follow directions.”

    “And if I break my end of the bargain?” He asked out of curiosity.

    “Then my hand would be forced. You’d make yourself the villain and I would be forced to act.” in her eyes had been a flicker beat of violence: a punctuated threat to avoid the circumstance. As if unafraid to hurl the promise at a being several times her size, and her superior many times over. How could she flash eyes like that at him and expect no consequences? How could he resist the urge to conquer her when she challenged him in ways most wouldn’t even dare to? He was so intrigued that he couldn’t hold back as she turned to get her cape. He lunged for her one last time. This time, like before, she dodged right. So he would swipe his tail where her feet would’ve been. The woman didn’t expect it and fell, allowing him just enough of an opening to pin her to the ground. As a precaution, he knocked both swords from her grasp, far from her reach. 

    “Kindness will get you killed.” He reminded her. 

     She didn't  respond, eyes darting around as she searched for her lost blades. But he'd retake her attention in full, mighty paw pressing into her belly as he applied only a mere fraction of pressure with his weight. She immediately balked, feeling the points of his sharp claws press through her thin blouse. He's certain that she wished for heavier armor now, with the wide eyes she gave him then. 

    But under the closer scrutiny, he was allowed to observe her just that more intimately. Not native to these woods, the dissimilarities between her and the women he'd seen in the human villages outnumbered the similarities. From her warm colored skin and shorter stature, down to her ovular face framed by wild dark hair poorly restrained with a tie. And while he found the natives of the wood far from homely, he couldn’t deny that the woman had been beautiful in contrast. 

    Only once he took her face into his claws, angling her gaze for him and only him did he catch a glimpse at where the true root of her allure had been, sweet eyes giving him such a hard glare that almost totally convinced him. 

    He found her to be quite cute. 

    “I can think of an even more productive way you may be able to help, human.” he mused. She could catch the mischief in his eyes, something that curiously managed to bridge species enough for her to understand the implications. Just as if he were a human male, there’d been a sudden hunger in his eyes as he intently scrutinized her, sizing her up as a meal, though the rumble in his growl made it all too obvious that he wouldn’t be devouring her in the conventional way. She wanted to believe that she’d been imagining it, but granted the context and the curious claw just between her breasts, dipping far enough to hook at the neckline of her blouse, she had no choice but to see the advance for what it was. The smug smirk stretching across his maw didn’t bode well for her. 

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