#whose existence and presence hurts others

[simplyraeblue]

Forever Never Yours

You’re married to the king who wears his crown with quiet strength, whose touch is warm and steady. But it’s his oldest friend — the one with silver eyes and a smile too bright to be real — that watches you with a longing that never leaves, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. You look away first, every time. Until, one day, you don’t. King!Geto x f!Queen!Reader x King!Gojo

tags/warnings: medieval au, love triangle, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, emotional manipulation, mutual secret pining, gojo is yearning and suffering at the same time, geto used to be an angel, kenjaku is his own warning, arranged marriage, queen reader, eventual comfort maybe, eventual smut, heavy themes, abortion/miscarriage mentions, no one says “i love you” but it’s there?

-.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅

part four word count: 2,571 previous part ➺ here

The journey is long. Longer than it needs to be. The snow is thick across the roads, the wind biting through the cracks of the carriage walls. You do not sleep much. You read even less. On the third day, just as the pale light of morning spills over the horizon, the spires of the White Crown appear through the trees. 

You sit forward, breath catching in your throat. It’s beautiful here. Stark and sharp like winter itself—towers that glitter under frost, banners that ripple in the wind like silk made from snow. It’s nothing like the heavy gray stone of your own palace. 

This place doesn’t loom. It stands. 

The carriage creaks to a slow stop inside the main courtyard. The doors open, and he’s already there. No guards, no fanfare, and no intermediaries. Just him. 

Standing a few paces away, hands folded behind his back, wind tugging at his white coat and tousling the loose strands of his hair. He doesn’t wear a crown. His eyes find you before your feet even touch the ground. 

You step down slowly, the cold biting at your face, your cloak drawn tight. The air is crisp here—cleaner, brighter. It burns your lungs when you breathe. But he is warmer than the wind. He watches you with that same impossible stillness, like you are something he’s been waiting years to see again but is afraid to reach for too soon. 

“Did you have a good ride?” he asks, voice even but softer than you remember. 

You study him for a breath longer, taking in the quiet tension behind his expression—the faint crease between his brows, the way he doesn’t move toward you, doesn’t smile like he usually would. “I wasn’t expecting you to meet me,” you say finally. 

A small, flickering smirk touches his lips. “They told me not to.” 

You raise a brow. “And when has that ever stopped you?” 

The smirk fades into something gentler. Something more real. “It’s been a long time since you’ve come here,” he says. 

Your voice is steady. “I wasn’t allowed to.” 

He nods once. “You are now.” You don’t speak. You just stand there for a moment, the air between you charged with everything you can’t say here—not yet, not in front of the others watching from the archways, pretending not to. 

Gojo steps closer, careful, deliberate. Not too close. Just enough for you to feel it—that quiet tether that’s always existed between you. 

“I had them prepare your rooms,” he says, almost an afterthought. “They’re just beneath mine. Warmer. Better view.” 

Of course. You nod once, your voice softer now. “Thank you.” 

He holds your gaze. “You’re here to rest. No obligations. Not unless you ask for them.” 

You want to cry. Not because you’re sad—but because this is the first time in months someone has given you a choice. Instead, you nod again. “I understand.” 

He gestures gently. “Come. You should warm up.” 

After your maidens help you settle into your temporary chambers, you wander. The walls of this place don’t press in the way you’ve grown used to. Here, no guards follow you. No soft footsteps echo just behind. No quiet presence waits outside your chamber door to escort you from one carefully chosen room to another. 

The palace of the White Crown breathes differently. The halls are wide, pale with polished marble and soft light filtering in through tall arched windows. Warmth hums through the stone, drawn up from the intricate furnace systems below. Even in winter, there’s no chill here—not like home. 

You walk slowly, taking it in—the towering ceilings etched with constellations, the frost-stained glasswork, the way every corner curves gently, as if this place was never meant for sharp edges. 

It is beautiful. 

But what strikes you most is the quiet. Not heavy, like the silences in Geto’s court. Not strategic, not threatening. Just… quiet. 

You pass through a sunlit corridor and pause by a familiar alcove, a small reading nook tucked between two windows. There’s a cushion on the bench—soft blue velvet, worn slightly at the edges—and beside it, a carved wooden shelf holding a dozen old books. 

Your breath catches. It’s still here. 

This was where he brought you the first time he snuck you out of a lesson. You couldn’t have been older than ten. He said the tutors were boring and that the real stories were hidden in these halls. 

He showed you a book that day—an old tale of a warrior queen who saved her people not with a sword, but with a single, well-placed lie. You’d read it cover to cover in two hours while he sat beside you, pretending not to peek over your shoulder. 

You trace your fingers across the spine of the same book now. The leather is cracked, the title nearly rubbed away. But you remember every word. 

You blink slowly, and another memory blooms.  

A few years later, you’re sixteen. You’re running down this same hallway, cloak flapping behind you, laughter echoing. He’s chasing you barefoot, trying to steal back the polished crown replica you took from his dressing room as a joke. 

You’d darted into the alcove, pulled the curtain closed, and held your breath as he passed—only for him to double back with a grin and say, “You’re terrible at hiding. You always breathe too loud when you lie.” 

He never asked for the crown back. He let you keep it for a week. 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your gloves. The ache in your chest feels rooted deeper here. 

You move on, through a gallery of painted archways and into a small, enclosed garden at the heart of the palace. There’s snow on the hedges, but it’s thin here—half melted, glistening under the sunlight spilling through the glass ceiling. You step onto the stone path, past frozen roses and leafless trees, until you reach the fountain at the center. 

The water still trickles, warmed from below. He brought you here once. You remember. It was early spring, just after a late snowfall, and you’d told him this garden felt forgotten. He told you nothing in this palace is forgotten. 

Not even you. 

- 

The dinner bell chimes softly through the walls as twilight settles in. Elira arrives soon after, eyes flicking over you with a mixture of concern and relief. She’s already prepared your attire—simple, elegant, dark. A midnight blue gown trimmed with pale thread. You let her dress you in silence. 

Outside, the lamps are lit. By the time you enter the dining hall, the room is already set. 

It’s not a formal banquet—no nobles, no ambassadors, no curious courtiers. Just a long table beneath an arched ceiling painted with night skies, candlelight flickering from tall candelabras, and dishes already steaming softly with delicate spices. 

There are only a few others present: your two maidens, seated respectfully a few chairs down the line; two of his guards, posted against the far wall; and a steward in quiet conversation with the cook near the service entrance. 

And him, seated at the far end of the table. The same way you’d dined with Geto for too long now—across a kingdom of polished wood, like two rulers sharing space but never warmth. You stop just inside the threshold. 

You think for a moment he’ll stay there. That he’ll offer you the seat at the other end, pretend this is still a diplomatic visit, pretend you’re still just a guest in a palace built to look like freedom. 

But then, he stands. Not with fanfare. Not to make a statement. 

He pushes his chair back slowly, then picks up his plate and goblet with one hand, balancing them casually. He rounds the table without a word, the soft thud of his boots the only sound in the vast room. 

Everyone watches. Your maidens glance at each other nervously, unsure if they should rise, unsure if this is permitted. The guards shift, eyes flicking to each other in the quiet tension. 

But he doesn't acknowledge them. He stops at the chair beside yours and lowers himself into it—graceful, unbothered. And then, as if nothing in the world is strange, he turns to you and says, “They’ve got citrus-glazed lamb tonight. I requested it.” 

You blink. “For me?” 

He tilts his head, smirking faintly. “For both of us. But mostly for you. I remember you hated that dry salted roast.” He picks up his fork and leans in a little, voice quiet. “Unless you’d rather I move back to the other end. I’m sure the diplomatic distance is what you’re used to.” 

You glance at your maidens. Elira looks positively pale. The younger one stares down at her lap, hands folded so tightly her knuckles are white. You breathe in, slow and deep, then meet his gaze. 

“No,” you say. “Stay.” 

He smiles then—not wide, not cocky, but real. A softened thing that only you see. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Then I will.” 

And he eats. Calmly. Like sitting at your side is the most natural thing in the world. 

And maybe, in another world, it would’ve been. 

He cuts his lamb with slow precision, glancing sideways at you like he’s waiting for you to say something first. When you don’t, he speaks without pressure, voice low and casual. 

“They’ve redecorated the guest wing,” he says, stabbing a bit of glazed carrot. “I told them to keep the view, though. You always liked the western windows.” 

“I remember,” you reply softly. “They face the forest.” 

“And the lake,” he adds. “When the snow melts, you’ll be able to see the light hit it just before dawn.” 

You give a small nod, eyes still on your plate. “You remembered all that?” 

He smiles, a corner of his mouth tugging upward. “I remember everything about you. Most people just pretend I don’t.” 

You look over at him, and for once, he doesn’t try to hide what’s in his eyes—something soft, something old, something aching. You drop your gaze quickly, your fingers tightening slightly around your fork. “That’s dangerous.” 

His chuckle is quiet. “It always has been.” You chew slowly, tasting the citrus glaze, surprised by how tender it is. 

“You weren’t exaggerating about the lamb,” you murmur, trying to shift the weight of the conversation. 

He perks up, visibly pleased. “Told you. My cook’s better than yours.” 

A faint laugh escapes you, unguarded and small. But real. He hears it and doesn’t hide the way his expression softens even more. 

“I missed that,” he says, almost a whisper. You look at him again. Not fully, just enough. He doesn’t press further. Doesn’t ask anything of you. Instead, he lifts his goblet, drinks, then sighs. “Do you remember the first time you stayed for dinner here? You wouldn’t eat anything. Thought I was trying to poison you with pickled radishes.” 

“I was twelve,” you mutter, cheeks flushing. “And they were horrifying.” 

“They were culturally significant!” 

“They were gray.” He laughs at that—really laughs. The sound fills the space between you, light and warm and normal in a way that makes your chest ache. 

The hall is still mostly silent. Your maidens pretend to focus on their food. The guards don’t dare look. But here, at this small stretch of table, it feels like no one else exists. 

He turns his goblet in his hand thoughtfully. “I know you didn’t come just for pickled radishes and lamb.” 

“No,” you say quietly. “I didn’t.” 

“Then while you’re here,” he says, voice gentle, “you should rest. Breathe.” 

You can only try to with him this close. 

The candles begin to burn lower, their flames thin and flickering, and the plates have long been cleared. You lean back slightly in your chair, your cup empty, the weight of dinner—of conversation—settled warmly in your chest, though your limbs are growing heavy with the kind of fatigue that only quiet can bring. 

“I should let you rest,” he says, softly. 

You glance at him. He hasn’t moved far from your side all evening, and even now, he speaks as if the suggestion pains him. His tone is gentle, laced with something tender and difficult. 

“You don’t have to.” 

It slips out before you mean for it to. He pauses, eyes flicking toward you—not surprised, but cautious. Careful. Then he smiles and stands. “At least let me walk you back. No sense letting you get lost in my own palace.” 

You rise with him. Your maidens, still seated far down the table, start to shift to follow, but Gojo turns to them with a polite dip of his head. 

“She’s safe with me.” His tone is easy, but final. They hesitate, then nod, and do not rise. 

— 

The halls of the White Crown are quiet at night—peaceful in a way your own palace never is. There, silence holds weight. Suspicion. Listening ears. Here, the quiet feels like space.  

Your footsteps echo softly against the stone floors as the two of you move through winding corridors and moonlit archways. The torches are dimmed now, and the light of the rising moon pours in through high windows, bathing the marble in a silver glow. 

You don’t speak for the first few minutes. He walks beside you, not ahead, not behind. One hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other hanging loose by his side. His pace matches yours perfectly. 

“How long has it been since you were able to walk a hall without guards?” he asks after a moment, not looking at you. 

You answer honestly. “I don’t remember.” 

He nods, slow. “That’s the part they take first. Freedom of movement. Then your words. Then your wants.” 

You say nothing, but he knows he’s right. 

He glances sideways, more serious now. “And when’s the last time you were asked what you wanted?” 

You turn your head to look at him, expression unreadable. “You just did.” 

He stops. You stop with him. 

For a breath, neither of you speak. 

Then he says, quietly, “Then I’ll keep asking.” 

You hold his gaze. The moonlight softens him—makes him look less like a king, and more like the boy you used to know. The one who always stood too close, who always knew when to speak and when to stay quiet. 

You nod, just once. That’s all you can give him tonight. 

But it’s enough. 

You reach your chamber door a few moments later. The corridor here is quiet, tucked away behind the guest wing, with tall glass windows framing the night sky. 

He stops beside the door and turns toward you, hands still in his pockets. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t touch you. 

He just says, “You’re safe here.” 

You believe him. 

“I know,” you say softly. Then, quieter still, “Thank you for meeting me at the gate.” 

He smiles, soft and small. “I wasn’t going to let you arrive alone.” 

You linger, fingers grazing the door handle. Part of you doesn’t want to go in—not yet. 

But he steps back slowly, giving you space. Giving you time. 

“Sleep well,” he says. “We’ll walk the gardens tomorrow. If you’d like.” 

You don’t say yes. You don’t say no. 

But as you slip into your chambers and close the door behind you, something warm lingers in your chest. 

-.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅

@holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @slvtforhim13 @peqch-pie @heli-inside @emochosoluvr @porcelain-ghost-444 @mangiswig @sorahatake @osohchoso @csolya @aldebrana @ravester @marie-is-in-the-dark @makingtimemine

[cheolaholic]

bound to you; jww

summary; With a subtle fire growing between two vastly different souls, are they doomed to surrender to a bond that binds them together? Or... are they exactly what each other need?

abo universe • mafia au • arranged marriage • fluff, smut, angst • hurt-comfort

pairing; jeon wonwoo x f!reader | wc; 22k | rating; 18+ explicit nsfw

contains; mafia boss! wonwoo, florist! reader, alpha! wonwoo, omega! reader, reader knows how to fight back/stand her ground even though she’s submissive, right hand man! woozi, beta! svt members (cheol, woozi, gyu, vernon & chan), mentions of JxW, wonwoo is unhinge but not too unhinged, woozi encouraging/supporting wonwoo to be more unhinged, wonwoo wears glasses, very subtle “where is my wife!?” trope, not really sure who fell first and who fell harder, unplanned pregnancy, the honeymoon scene is sweet AND nasty

mature/trigger warnings; dom! wonwoo, sub! reader, big dick! wonwoo, knotting, biting/marking kink, size kink, use of sex toys, g-spot stimulation, breeding kink, unprotected sex (wrap it before you do the nasty), mating press, implied sex marathon when reader is in heat, somewhat of an aftercare, reader is extremely horny when in heat, wonwoo doesn’t mind bcs he’s just as horny and has really high stamina, tummy bulge, creampies, squirting, that one business proposal scene, drugs (heat inducers, heat/rut suppressants), forced drugging, weapons (guns, knives, needles etc), abduction, violence (it’s a mafia au so, yea), mentions of miscarriage, etc

petnames; his (Nonu, Alpha), hers (Doll, Babydoll)

a/n; RAHH, new fic !! hope yall enjoy this because i sure as hell stressed over this fic way more than i should’ve- was also sick as i tried to finish this out and get it out (by its very overdued deadline rip) big thanks to rae ( @nerdycheol) and supi ( @supi-wupi) for beta reading and sharing their thoughts on it hehe ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

✨ support me by becoming a patreon (enjoy exclusive perks & content) OR tip me on kofi !! 💜 if you are unable to do so, you can also show support by reblogging your favourite works of mine !!

In this universe, there exists a city called Ashville.

A modern city that’s under the rule of an infamous Mafia family that’s been around for generations.

In this universe, each individual is born into one of three dynamics: Alpha, Beta, and Omega. These roles are usually found out before they become teenagers, typically around the ages ten to twelve. Not only do they dictate one’s instincts, but it also determines their place in the social hierarchy.

Alphas stood at the very top of the hierarchy, their presence commanding and unyielding. Known as protectors and leaders, their strength and resolve made them pillars of stability and order. They exude an air of confidence, their pheromones carrying an unmistakable weight that both enthralls and intimidates. An Alpha’s instinct could be a double-edged sword – their need for dominance paired with their sense of responsibility.

Betas occupy the middle grounds, acting as stabilizers so that the world doesn’t get thrown into a world of instinctual chaos. Neither driven by the dominating urges of an Alpha nor bound by the vulnerabilities of an Omega, they serve as the mediators. The voice of reason, if you will. Their neutrality is what makes them the glue that holds society together, but could also be the cause of its downfall if they were to commit treason.

Finally, the Omegas, whose roles are often misunderstood due to their vulnerabilities. They’re the heart of the societal order, their instincts centered on nurture, connection, and to a few, rebellion. They are similar to Alphas in terms of pheromones, but what set them apart would be that an unclaimed Omega’s pheromones could attract unwanted attention from unclaimed Alphas, drawing them in like moths to a flame.

Claimed Omegas would bear the bonding bite of their Alphas. But, in the event an Omega is without a mate, either by choice or tragic events; they are forced into prostitution. It is a sad reality and possible outcome to many. Hence, many Omegas forged paths of quiet defiance, proving that they too are strong without a mate.

Click.

"Can you, please, get a bit closer?" The photographer asks, practically begging at this point.

Wonwoo heaves out a sigh while your shoulders slump, tired from having spent the entire morning posing for your wedding portrait. While it was true that you were somewhat excited to have finally found your mate, let’s just say of all the possible occupations you’ve come up with, a mafia boss was not on that list.

Hell, not even the Jeon Wonwoo was on your list.

The mob boss takes a step closer, placing both hands on your hips and the photographer beams at the sight. “Yes, yes! Just like that!” he exclaims, pulling out his camera as he continues to snap more portraits. Wonwoo feels your body tense up from the close proximity so he leans in close to your ear. “Relax, doll,” he whispers, “You’re tense and you look terrified. Nobody is going to believe that we’re ‘in love’ if you keep this up.”

Click.

“I-I’m sorry,” you squeaked, the grip you had on the bouquet of flowers tightening slightly, “ ‘M just nervous…” “Oh, I know you are, doll.” Wonwoo turns his head slightly, nuzzling his nose into your hair and you let out a quiet gasp, “I can smell it. Do I scare you that much, hmm? Having second thoughts because your mate is the infamous mob boss?” He lets out a low chuckle when you shake your head profusely, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. “Keep your eyes on the camera, darling. Once this is over, you can go right back home.”

Click.

“Shouldn’t we make preparations for the ceremony?” you asked, “What about the cake? The venue? The–”

“Don’t stress your pretty head, doll,” Wonwoo says, giving your hips a light squeeze, “I’ve settled everything and your preferences have been taken into account, too. I’ll contact you for the cake tasting and venue checking.”

“And, it’s a wrap!” the photographer announces with a wide smile, “Thank you so much Mr and Mrs Jeon! I promise you won’t be disappointed with the results!”

You weren’t sure if the photographer was always this… enthusiastic with his clients. Or if he was holding himself back from pissing himself. ‘I’d be terrified too if the Jeons were my client…’

Not one soul didn’t know who the Jeons were. What started off as a small group of delinquents had eventually grown into one of the largest mobs to run Ashville. The man who started it all, Jeon Wonsoong, was a man who could send even the Devil running with its tail between its legs. While most mobsters were practically built on wealth, the Jeons’ were quite the opposite.

Jeon Wonsoong had built the mob of the Jeon family from scratch – from the literal blood, sweat and tears of his companions and oftentimes, those who had crossed him. The Jeons had their respect earned, not given on a silver platter. Many have mocked Wonsoong when he began building a name for the family – claiming that he was too ambitious, that he’d be better off as an underling.

They were the very same people he’s overthrown.

Just a mention of the Jeon family name was enough to drain anyone’s face of their colour.

Decades later, enter Jeon Wonwoo, the one and only beloved grandson of Jeon Wonsoong. Wonwoo already had the responsibilities of being the next mob boss ever since his mother’s pregnancy was announced. Wonwoo grew up watching how the “family business” worked, seeing his father fire bullets through heads after heads of rivals or anyone and anything that could be a threat to the family.

The poor boy was terrified at first but by the time his teenage years rolled around, he’s pretty much grown numb to the fear and squeamish feeling of seeing piles of bloodied dead bodies.

He’s watched the drug dealings, the smuggling – the most atrocious crimes or businesses known to man would be committed by the Jeons’, yet they would refuse to inflict any form of harm onto women and/or children for pleasure.

Wonwoo remembered bringing it up to his father when he was 16.

“Your grandpa is a family man, son. He’d never harm a child for the wrongdoings their parents have done – that’s why he takes them into the family and raises them to be his men.”

“What about crimes against women?”

“Crimes against women is unfortunately something that cannot be stopped, regardless whether or not the perpetrators are in a mob,” Wonsoong replies as he enters the room, one hand linked with his grandmother’s while the other held onto his walking stick, “We may be mob bosses, crime lords – whatever it is they call us, Wonwoo, but, causing harm to women and children for pleasure is a monstrosity I will not allow this organisation to ever commit. Your grandmother was assaulted for choosing me over some rich bastard – your uncles and I broke their arms, castrated them before making them kneel in front of her family to beg for forgiveness.”

“His heart is in the right place,” Wonwoo’s grandmother added on, “While being a mob boss or part of a mob gang is less than ideal for anyone, at least your grandfather shows some levels of decency as a human being.”

“So… in the scenario one of our members has assaulted, or caused harm to women or children in any way, what happens to them? Do they get their bones broken and then castrated?”

“That was back in the good old days, my dear grandson,” Wonsoong chuckled, “Now, they are battered and bruised, fingers cut, and castrated – before being shot thrice.”

Sure, it’s terrifying to have the entire nation’s economy in the palm of a mafia family.

Yeah, the occasional stumbling upon a body being dumped in certain areas could be traumatising. Hell, it even caused mass panic.

But, citizens soon learnt one saying, “Don’t cause the Jeons trouble, and trouble won’t find you”. A fancy way of saying, “If you don’t want to be the next corpse, don’t fuck with the Jeons”.

Because all the bodies found were individuals who have crossed them.

You stare at the wedding venue, brows furrowed as you take in the sight. You knew the Jeons had a taste for dark aesthetic, but you weren’t expecting the wedding decorations to be all black.

You weren’t exactly a superstitious person, but you did believe in the superstition that the colour black brings misfortune.

“Are the decorations up to your expectations, Mr Jeon?” the receptionist nervously asks, “We’ve followed the reference pictures and instructions you’ve given us.”

“Umm… Could I –” your breath catches in your throat when both men turn their attention to you. Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, “Not to your liking, doll?”

“No! No! The decorations are beautiful and the venue itself is grand,” you began, “But… Could we add a little bit of colour?”

The alpha crosses his arms, ��Colour? You want to add colour?” He gestures to the venue, “You do realise that everything here is decorated with intention, right? Black represents strength, power, control. It’s to show dominance –”

You cut him off, “This is my wedding, too. Don’t I get a say in this?”

Wonwoo’s gaze hardens at your interruption, clearly not used to anyone defying him; much less an Omega that’s his soon-to-be wife. He narrows his eyes, a way to get you to back down without being too dominating so as to not scare off the beta of a receptionist; but you stood your ground. The air thickens, charged with tension.

“A little colour won’t hurt this black theme you have going on, Mr Jeon,” you state, crossing your own arms and taking a step forward, “You can have all the power and control you want, but I also deserve a say in how this day looks because it’s also my day.”

The silence hangs between you both, the weight of your words settling in. The receptionist watches with a bated breath and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve pushed too far. But then Wonwoo shifts, uncrossing his arms and turns to the receptionist, “Accommodate whatever requests the missus has.”

The receptionist visibly relaxes, nodding quickly as he whips out his tablet and moves to stand beside you as you walk around the venue, listing out the changes you wanted done.

“I love the black roses bouquet you’ve lined up down the aisle, but please add in some red roses. Switch out the black ribbons on the vases for white ones; you can barely see anything!”

Approaching the tables, you pick up one of the black napkins that’s been folded into a rose. You turn to the receptionist, “I want all the black napkins gone. Replace them with a burgundy red.” The receptionist jots down every detail, his fingers moving swiftly across the tablet screen as you continue to inspect the venue. Wonwoo watches you silently, impressed as you move with purpose and an air of confidence – something he rarely sees in an Omega.

You stare at the chairs that are draped in black fabric. “Are we welcoming death? I get the whole idea of this wedding to let it be known that you’re a mob boss, but at least have something that shows you have taste.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow at your bluntness before the corners of his mouth twitch into a small smirk. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, but his gaze still holds a steady weight, almost as though he’s studying you.

“Taste…” he echoes, his voice low, as if contemplating your word. “This is a wedding, doll, not some fashion show.”

You gently graze your fingertips over the black fabric, “Exactly, a wedding. I get that this whole… dark and mysterious aesthetic is your thing, Mr Jeon, but at least have a bit of sophistication.”

You turn to face him fully, “I’m not asking for colourful flowers or for them to be placed everywhere or even pink ribbons. Just a little bit of refinement so it doesn’t look like a funeral.”

Wonwoo’s eyes narrow slightly, and he watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He takes a step forward, his hands shoved into his pockets as he peers at the receptionist's tablet. “You’re changing everything, aren’t you?”

You meet his gaze, letting out a shaky breath as you try to maintain your confidence, “Not everything. Just enough for it to… look more like a wedding.”

The air remains thick, but there’s no hostility; just a slow understanding that’s beginning to form. After a few seconds, the Alpha lets out a quiet breath and gives a slight nod. “Alright, doll. I trust your judgement.”

He turns and walks out of the venue, saying he has a business call he needs to answer. The receptionist turns his attention back to you, “What would you like to be done with the chairs, um… Mrs Jeon..?”

You give the receptionist a small smile, “You can call me Miss Park. I’m not yet married to him to be called Mrs Jeon.”

The receptionist chuckles nervously, “Not exactly a chance I would want to take, umm… Missus.”

“Hmm, I’ll accept that term. Back to the chairs – let’s switch the black fabric for a red fabric, similar to the napkins. Have a black sash tied into a bow at the back, is that doable?”

The receptionist nods excitedly, tapping away at the tablet as he realises his commission for this wedding may be enough to seal him a quick vacation. “Yes, of course it is, Missus! Would that be all?”

You take one last look at the venue, glancing up at the chandeliers, “Just soften the lighting and we’re all settled.”

That was approximately six months ago, which means it’s been six months since your marriage to Jeon Wonwoo became official.

Park ___. That's your name, that’s who you are.

A small corner shop florist that was everyone’s go-to for event planning or last minute flowers. Everyone knew you by your flower shop. They knew you by your smile. They knew you as "the flower lady who always got your back!”.

Never in a million years would you think that you’d now be known as Jeon Wonwoo’s wife. Jeon Wonwoo’s Omega. Jeon Wonwoo’s mate.

To be frank, you hated the fact that all your years of hard work were being overlooked now that you were married or bound to Ashville’s most nefarious and powerful mob boss.

Your name, once synonymous with ambition and independence, was now whispered in hushed tones, attached only to his. Your achievements, your sacrifices, all the blood and sweat you had poured into carving your own path no longer mattered. To them, you were nothing more than an Omega claimed by an Alpha who took whatever he wanted.

The weight of your new… identity settles on your shoulders in tons. You imagined several shackles were locked around your limbs, cold and unyielding. It didn’t matter that you had built a name for yourself. Now, you were just his.

And the entire city knew it.

You hated the look people would give you – some with fear, some with pity. Others had a look of cruel amusement, as though they were watching a wild animal realising its cage had no door. That the cage was its new home.

It made your blood boil. You weren’t some weak, whimpering Omega who would roll over and get all submissive at the mere scent of their Alpha. You fought to stand where you were. But damn it all, thanks to the stupid bind fate had planned.

Wonwoo sat beside you in the limousine, both of you having just left a dinner event that was hosted by one of Wonwoo’s allies that was meant to celebrate his wedding. Not both of your weddings, just his. The entire night, you had been paraded around as though you were nothing more than an extension of him – his Omega, his possession, his wife. No one toasted to you, no one acknowledged you beyond hushed whispers and fleeting glances.

You clenched your fists, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress.

“You’re upset,” Wonwoo states, his voice smooth and calculating, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint, amused smirk. “What’s bothering you, doll?”

“Don’t,” your tone came sharper than expected, so you took a deep breath to calm your nerves. Your voice was less hostile when you spoke again, “Don’t call me that, please.”

Wonwoo’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was something in his eyes – amusement mixed with the faintest hint of challenge. He tilts his head, studying you as if you were some artifact or priceless painting that’s been put up for display. “Don’t call you what?” he asked, his voice now softer, but the command in his words can’t be missed.

You swallowed thickly, trying to mask the storm inside you as you held your ground. “Don’t call me doll,” you repeated, this time with more conviction. There was a slight tremble in your voice, betraying the raw emotion you were trying to suppress. “I… I’m not a doll, or some object. I’m a person.”

Wonwoo’s remains unreadable, though the intensity of his gaze and his posture didn’t change. But, there was a subtle shift, a quiet acknowledgment in his eyes. “I see my Omega bites back,” he chuckles, his tone teasing but there was a hint of respect behind it. “I must say, it’s quite… refreshing… Or, entertaining, for lack of a better word.”

You frown, “Entertaining?”

His eyes scanned your face, but there was no mockery in his gaze. Instead, there was something more akin to admiration, though when it comes to Jeon Wonwoo, deciphering any of his words or looks was like trying to get pigs to fly. “Well, it’s not every day you see an Omega go head-to-head with an Alpha. Especially if the Omega is now under the Jeon Family.”

“I can play that pretty little housewife you’re picturing,” you mumble, releasing your clenched fists in favour of crossing your arms, looking out the window, “Just don’t expect me to be all pliant and submissive twenty-four seven.”

Another deep chuckle leaves his lips. Something about his words, about how he says you were the first Omega to not heel to traditions makes you feel oddly proud. It was clear he still had his guard up, but at least in this moment, you could tell he’s trying not to push your boundaries or you too far.

“Relax, babydoll.”

Hmm… Perhaps you could accept that pet name. It’s much better than being called ‘doll’.

His voice is less teasing but there was still that underlying sharpness. “You’re still you, despite what society says. That defiance you have there? There’s power in that. Not many dare to challenge the expectations placed on them. Especially Omegas.”

His words sunk in, not as an insult, but as an observation; a praise. It was one that left you feeling both uncertain yet strangely affirmed. It’s the first time in a while that someone, aside from your parents, recognised your rebellion, your defiance as something more than just a nuisance. Let alone an alpha like Jeon Wonwoo.

He reaches out a hand, finding purchase on your thigh. You tense at his touch, the heat of his hand sending a jolt of electricity through your body. But, you don’t pull away, feeling the warmth of his fingers through the fabric of your dress.

“I see that fire you’ve got in you, ___,” he continues, his fingers slowly tracing the curve of your thigh, “And it’s not just for show, too.”

Your tone came out sharper than you intended when you replied, “You think you can control that?”

A sly smirk tugs at his lips, “Control? It’d be fun to break you, sure, but… I quite like the idea of having a feisty Omega by my side. Believe me, babydoll, I know what it’s like to prove yourself to be seen and acknowledged. I had to do the same to prove it to my father and grandfather. You didn’t think I was handed this position just like that, did you?”

"I don’t doubt you had to fight for it," you say quietly. "But I’m not here for a power struggle. Not with you, not with anyone."

He shifts slightly, giving your thigh a firm squeeze. “Look, babydoll, I don’t expect you to bend over my desk or lap whenever I tell you to. But, I do expect you to listen to me when it comes to your safety or if you’re ever caught in the crossfire of my dealings. Is that understood?”

You meet his gaze, feeling a shiver run down your spine. The grip he had on your thigh had goosebumps rising, but the touch wasn’t just possessive; it was also protective. A silent reminder.

“I know you’re more than capable of handling yourself, babydoll. But being capable doesn’t mean you have to face every danger alone, and in my world, in my life, it’s not kind to the unprepared despite their capabilities to be able to stand up for themselves.”

You bite back the words you want to say, about how you weren’t some fragile porcelain doll. That you didn’t need him to look after you like you’re some helpless Omega –

“I’m not asking you to give up the control you have over your life. I can see as clear as day that you’ve been able to manage just fine without an Alpha.” Oh.

“What I’m asking from you is to trust me when it matters. I know this marriage is out of convenience, for the sake of the mating bond, but you’re not someone I’m willing to let slip through the cracks either. Not without a fight.”

His words pulled your defenses down just a little, but you still held on tight to the edges of your resolve. Perhaps it was because of the many judgemental and snide comments you’ve received from others, especially Alphas, in the past that made you want to argue with him. The way he speaks, so calm and measured, you were itching to fight back.

But, something in his eyes stops you. There was no sign of mockery, no superiority – just a raw honesty you’d never thought you’d see in an Alpha. Much less the one that practically rules over the entire city.

“I didn’t ask for any of this…” You voiced out, sounding quieter than you’d intended. “I didn’t ask for you to be my mate. I didn’t ask for you to try and protect me.”

While he doesn’t flinch at your words, there’s a shift in his posture, a subtle tense in his shoulders that tells you he isn’t completely unaffected by your words.

“I know, babydoll,” his tone now tinged with something that feels like understanding, “But, believe me when I say that I am not asking for your submission. I’m asking for your trust. If I wanted to control you, I would’ve made that clear six months ago.”

“Can’t believe those bastards had to wait six months to do this stupid party…” you mumbled, cheeks heating up as you realised you sound like a girl throwing a little tantrum.

Wonwoo chuckles, “Well, our schedules have been overlapping. I think they expected us to go on a honeymoon for a while.”

“Tch, as if I’d ever want to be on the same bed as you.”

“Moving back to the topic earlier, I’m not asking for a leash, babydoll,” his voice is low, almost soothing. “I’m asking you to let me stand by your side when the world gets too heavy. Because it will. And when that happens... I don’t want you to face it alone. All I ask for is your trust and to let me understand you.”

You’re unsure of what to say next, the weight of his gaze making it difficult to think clearly. You’ve spent almost your entire life resisting the idea of relying on anyone, but here he is, asking for something as simple as your trust.

The sincerity in his words linger, and for the first time, you wonder if you’ve misjudged the Alpha. Maybe he wasn’t like the others that were trying to force their way into an Omega’s life. Maybe he wasn’t looking to bend or break an Omega so they’d be solely dependent on their Alpha.

Maybe he too was looking for something different. Something that goes beyond fated bonds and forced relationships.

You look at him, and for the first time, you allow yourself to wonder if there’s a part of you that could trust him.

He pulls his hand away from your thigh, fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary, as if reluctant to break the contact.

“But, there’s clearly something bothering you, babydoll. C’mon, out with it.”

You hesitate, lips parting, but no words come out. You’re not sure where to start or if you even want to start. Part of you still wants to keep everything bottled up, to keep your walls firmly in place. But then there’s him, sitting beside you with that quiet patience, the intensity in his gaze softened just enough to make you believe he might actually care about what you’re about to say.

You shift slightly in your seat, arms tightening around yourself. “That… That Juyeon guy at the dinner…”

Wonwoo's expression darkens almost instantly, the warmth in his gaze snuffed out like a candle. His jaw tightens, and though he remains still, you can feel the way his entire body tenses at the mention of another Alpha’s name.

“And, what about him, babydoll?” His voice is calm, a little too calm. It’s the kind that you know he won’t like your answer.

You swallow hard, “He… The way he spoke to me…”

You sigh, “Look, I know it’s inevitable that people will start addressing by ‘title’ instead of my name. Wonwoo’s Omega. Wonwoo’s wife. But, I don’t like it being said in a condescending tone. The way he called or referred to me as Wonwoo’s little Omega felt as though I was just another weapon or gun you’ve added to your already large collection.”

You shift a little, the frustration simmering beneath your skin as you try to put your feelings into words. “I don’t want to be reduced to that. To just another thing you own. It’s already hard enough that I had to not cuss him out for trying to feel me up the entire time…”

Wonwoo stills.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

The air between you crackles with something dangerous. His expression doesn’t change, doesn’t twist in anger or morph into something openly furious, but the sheer stillness of him is enough to make the hairs on your arms stand on end.

“Say that again, babydoll” he orders, and though it’s barely above a whisper, it’s the sharpest you’ve ever heard his voice. “What did you just say?”

For a moment, you wonder if you’ve screwed up by making such an accusation or statement about his associate. But, you pushed on, “Juyeon… He kept brushing up against me on the table. Placing his hand on my knee, my thigh. He’d touch my back too when he had the chance.”

Wonwoo doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

But then, he slowly exhales through his nose, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as if trying to keep his composure.

“I see.”

Two simple words. And yet, something about the way he says them sends a cold shiver down your spine.

“Wonwoo–”

“Mingyu,” he calls out to the driver.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Tell Jihoon to pass a message to Juyeon. I’d like to have dinner with him tomorrow night. Just the two of us.”

“You got it, boss.”

“Wonwoo!”

“I told you I’d stand by you when it matters,” Wonwoo repeats his earlier statement, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “And this matters.”

You swallow, finding it harder to resist the pull of his words than you care to admit. The stubborn part of you wants to fight him, wants to tell him you don’t need his help, but you can’t deny how much relief it brings to know he won’t just stand idly as you get disrespected.

For the first time, you allow yourself to believe that he might actually be a good guy.

“You… run a clothing line?”

Wonwoo looks up from his desk, his eyes on you as you stand by one of the many shelves he’s lined up on the walls. In your hands was a photo frame with a photo of him and a blonde man standing side-by-side in front of a building.

“Is that very surprising, babydoll?” he asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Just because my family runs the mafioso doesn’t mean I have to just run that business.”

Behind the pair was a store with the sign J&W. Wonwoo said it’s a combination of their initials, a collaboration of some sorts. When you asked why he can’t just open one under his own name, his reply was simply, “You really think people would dare to set foot into a shop that’s under my name?”

“This man… Is he a business partner? Shareholder?” A shadow looms over you and tilting your head backwards, it sits comfortably against his broad shoulder. Wonwoo hums, “You could say that. He’s… I consider Jeonghan a friend and if you know me well or long enough, I don’t offer my trust easily.”

“I’m guessing that trust also applies to the hiring process of your bodyguards?”

You’ve counted a maximum of… six bodyguards during your stay at his mansion. Well, excluding his right-hand man, Jihoon, that makes five. “Some… unfortunate incidents happened when I was younger that started my trust issues.”

His voice drops just a little, one hand coming up to rest on your waist. You don’t miss the way his jaw clenches briefly before relaxing, as though catching himself before slipping too deep into memory.

“Jihoon and I have known each other since childhood. Family relations all that so it’s natural I came to trust him.”

“The others?”

“They’ve earned their place and my trust.”

You look down at the frame before tilting your head back up, raising it a little, “And Jeonghan?”

Wonwoo takes the item from your hand, as if examining it before handing it back to you. “Ah, Jeonghan…” A quiet chuckle slips past his lips, “Let’s say he’s a different story… I actually met him through Seungcheol, one of the bodyguards. You’ve probably seen him around – buff, kind of gray-ish hair.”

“The one that’s always butting heads with Mingyu?”

A flicker of surprise crosses his features, “So you’ve been paying attention.” Amusement laces his tone, clearly not expecting you to do so. You narrowed your eyes, “Well, if I weren’t aware of my surroundings, I wouldn’t have been able to survive this long until you showed up, can I?”

He gives your waist a firm squeeze, pressing a kiss to your temple, an action that catches you off guard. “I suppose you have a point, babydoll,” he concedes, voice low. “And I suppose it’s hard to ignore the two when they’re at each other’s throat.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, they’re not exactly subtle… Or quiet. It is interesting to see Mingyu surrender or lower his head, though…”

Wonwoo chuckles, taking the frame off your hands and setting it back on the shelf. “They’re both betas, but Seungcheol does have more of a… I guess more dominant nature. We’d suspected him of being an Alpha initially, but tests proved otherwise.” He adjusts the frame slightly before turning his attention back to you. “Still, that doesn’t stop him from acting like one.”

“And Mingyu just… lets him?”

The Alpha shrugs his shoulders. “Mingyu respects strength. He may not always like it, but he knows when to back down.”

You hum in thought. “And Jeonghan? Where does he fit into all of this?”

“He and Seungcheol go way back if I’m not mistaken. I don’t know the full details, but from what I’ve gathered and from what they’ve told me respectively, they used to work together before Seungcheol decided to have a change in career paths.”

Another squeeze to your waist, “Jeonghan… plays by his own rules. Always has.”

You frown slightly, clearly confused by his words. “What do you mean?”

“He’s a businessman,” Wonwoo says simply, though there’s something guarded in the way he says it. “And like all businessmen, he knows how to get what he wants.”

That doesn’t quite answer your question, but you know better than to push too hard.

“Is he dangerous?”

Wonwoo’s lips curl at the question, but it’s anything but a smile. “He’s charming, I’ll give him that.. And that makes him the most dangerous of all.”

A shiver runs down your spine. You don’t know if it’s from his tone or the way his fingers finally slide away from your skin.

The air in the mansion felt… different.

You couldn’t exactly put a finger on it, but it just felt as though there was a shift to your surroundings. Your heart was racing despite it being a calm and quiet day, Wonwoo was out discussing a fashion deal and majority of the staff in his mansion were given specific orders to not bother you unless needed.

Your heart was racing faster than usual, your senses were heightened in a way that made your skin feel alive – and not in a good way. It was in a way that made your head dizzy. It was subtle at first, a warmth curling in your lower belly, an uncomfortable tingle spreading across your limbs that makes your skin far too sensitive to the air around you.

You ignored it at first – or at least, you tried to.

The mansion was eerily quiet. The grand halls, lined with cold marble and towering windows. Despite housing the most dangerous mafioso and his bodyguards, it felt safe. But, it could be because of Wonwoo’s presence and his pheromones.

Now, each step you took felt heavier, every breath felt sharper, and the very air felt charged with something oppressive.

You knew this feeling. You had been trained to recognise it.

But it was too soon. Far too soon.

You’ve kept track of your heat since it was revealed that you were an Omega. You’ve made sure to take your suppressants on time to prevent any mishaps, never missing a single dose. Yet, despite your careful planning and discipline…

Could it be Wonwoo’s pheromones?

It had to be – your cycle wasn’t due for another week, give or take.

You pressed a sweaty palm against the nearest wall, a sudden wave of dizziness washing over you. It started as a slow burn in your veins, a heat that swirled in your stomach and spread outwards.

It was definitely your heat. You could feel it creeping up, threatening to consume you if you didn’t act fast.

“Missus..?”

Mingyu.

“Missus, you don’t look so well,” the Beta points out, taking a step forward.

It was times like these that you were grateful for Wonwoo insisting that his staff were Betas. Before you came into the picture, it was to ensure no crossfires ever happened between him and an Alpha staff. Two or more Alphas under the same roof with some kind of “power imbalance” could lead to a hostile environment, and Wonwoo prefers peace and quiet… despite the field of work he’s in.

After you came into the picture, Wonwoo would answer that he didn’t want any unclaimed or stray Alphas pouncing on his Omega.

Mingyu sniffs the air and his ears perk up as he catches a whiff of sweetness in the air. It was sweet like candy and he instantly knew what was going on. Thankfully, his training somewhat prepared him for scenarios like this, albeit it was catered more towards Alphas.

“Missus, do you have any suppressants?” Mingyu, taking a cautious step forward so as not to agitate you. You shook your head, letting out a small sniffle, “I ran out of them… I-I was planning to get them some time this week because it isn’t due for another–”

“Okay, well, I could text Boss to pick some up for you once he’s done with his meeting,” the giant suggests, reaching out a hand to steady you when he notices the slight wobble in your stance. “In the meantime, you shouldn’t be out and about, Missus… Let’s get you–”

“What’s going on here?” Jihoon, Wonwoo’s right-hand, interrupts Mingyu’s sentence. The tall beta freezes, his hand hovering near your arm but not quite touching. His jaw clenched, glancing over his shoulder, meeting Jihoon’s sharp, assessing gaze.

Unlike Mingyu, who was all warmth and concern, Jihoon carried an air of cold efficiency, his presence cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade. The right-hand man’s eyes flicker to you, his nostrils flaring slightly as he picks up on 

Jihoon’s eyes flicker to you, nostrils flaring slightly as he picks up on what Mingyu already had. His brows furrow, and a barely-there sigh escapes his lips. “Shit,” he muttered, noticing the way you swayed slightly against the wall, trying to regain your balance.

Mingyu lowered his hand, deciding that it was best to keep a respectful distance from you. “Missus is having a bit of a… situation,” he said, his tone careful. “She’s early and ran out of her suppressants. I was gonna text Boss–”

“Call him.” The right-hand man’s voice carried an authority that was impossible to ignore. While his eyes softened just a touch as your discomfort, they still held that calculative gaze.

The tall giant was hesitant, his thumb hovering over the screen of his phone. Every one of Wonwoo’s staff knew that calling him while he’s in any sort of meeting was serious. Texting was discreet, something that could be swept under the rug or dealt with later. But a call meant urgency. It meant that Wonwoo would have to drop everything, no matter what he was doing, to deal with the situation.

But a look from Jihoon has Mingyu cursing under his breath, tapping the call button and pressing the phone to his ear.

“Missus,” Jihoo’s tone while still authoritative, was softer than before. His gaze flickered to your hands that were trembling at your sides and against the wall. “Give me your hand.”

You’re momentarily confused, blinking up at him then lowering your gaze to his outstretched hand. His voice carried a quiet but insistent command, and despite the overwhelming wave of hormones washing over you, you obediently did so.

“You’ll be okay,” Jihoon murmured, though it seems he was reminding you rather than comforting you. “All the staff here are Betas, I’m sure Boss told you that. Your heat won’t affect us so there’s no need to fear us jumping on you.”

His gaze returns to Mingyu who’s speaking on the phone. “Won’t be long before Boss gets back. I’ll take you back to your room.” You nod your head, though you weren’t sure if it was in response to his reassurance or because you knew that your legs couldn’t walk without someone guiding you.

The walk through the halls felt like an endless blur, the air thick with both the scent of your heat and the tension of the situation. Your heart pounded in your ears, your breaths coming in short, uneven pants. The mansion, usually cold, felt suffocating now.

You barely registered when Jihoon pushed open a door, guiding you inside the room. You entered without a second thought, freezing when the scent hit you.

This wasn’t your room.

Your body recognised it before your mind did – the faint traces of musk, crisp cologne, and something that was deeply ingrained in your instincts. Your entire being tenses as you realised exactly where Jihoon had brought you.

Wonwoo’s room.

You let out a whimper, the lingering remnants of the Alpha’s pheromones made your entire body tense. He wasn’t even here yet, and you were already drowning in him. You stared at the king-sized bed, your body wanting to sink into it, to bury yourself in the softness of the sheets that still held the imprint of his presence. But, the rational part of your mind knew better.

Your sluggish thoughts tried to fight through the dizzying fog, “Jihoon, this- this isn't–”

“I know, Missus,” he interrupts cooly, “But, I'm going to assume this is your first heat that's induced by an Alpha’s pheromones. It'd be best to get used to Boss’ pheromones – not just for your heat, but for your well-being too.”

“Well-being?”

With surprising gentleness, he guides you to the edge of Wonwoo’s massive bed, lowering you to sit onto the cool sheets. It was a stark contrast to your fevered skin. Your mind screamed for you to leave, to fight the Beta and make a run for it to your room – but your body betrays you as it reacts to the lingering scent of Wonwoo’s pheromones. 

Before you can do anything, you instinctively crawl onto the bed, your fingers clutching at the sheets beneath you as you’re pulled towards the only source of comfort in your current suffocating haze. You somewhat collapsed onto the mattress, burying your face into it and inhaling deeply, a pathetic whimper slipping past your lips as your thighs clench with need.

Your fingers curled into the fabric, your entire body as the Alpha’s scent wrapped around you like a vice.

You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be reacting like this.

You should be fighting this, clawing your way out of this haze and demanding to be taken back to your own room where you can suffer through this alone. But your instincts don’t care for logic. Instead, you’re in Wonwoo’s room, trembling and desperate, drowning in a need so raw it leaves you gasping.

You hated how easy it was to succumb.

And then it happens.

A shift in the air.

A choked noise left your lips as his scent filled the room completely, no longer just a lingering trace but a full, undeniable presence.

You sit up immediately, turning your head back to the door behind you before you can even think. It was an instinct, your body responding to an unspoken command before your mind can even have time to process anything.

“Nonu…”

Wonwoo definitely broke several speed limits on his way back to base.

The second he saw Mingyu’s name flash across his phone screen – not a text, but a phone call – he knew something was wrong. He brought the device to his ear, nothing more than a clipped ‘Speak’. Once Mingyu announced ‘Missus is early’, he ended the call and left the meeting without a word.

He didn’t care who was speaking. Didn’t care about the confused stares or hushed murmurs as he strode out the boardroom.

The only thing that mattered to him was getting back to you.

He stopped by a pharmacy, picking up several bottles of heat suppressants and a few cooling patches before speeding the rest on his way home.

Wonwoo storms through the halls of the base, his coat thrown onto the couch, his tie loosened and his jaw set tight.

Everyone knew they had to stay the hell out of his way.

His staff, the Betas, moved to the sides, pressing their back against the walls as he passed. Nobody dared to meet his gaze, not even Seungcheol – especially when the Alpha’s scent was laced with irritation – thick and suffocating in the air.

Grabbing a bottle of suppressants and a packet of heat patches from the plastic bag, he tosses the bag to a nearby staff. “Chan, store the suppressants in the missus’ bathroom cabinet. Cooling patches go in the mini fridge for her skincare.”

Chan nodded quickly, following the instructions.

Approaching his room, Jihoon steps aside from the door and slips past him without so much as a glance back. There was nothing that needed to be said. The right-hand man had done his job. Now, it was Wonwoo’s turn.

He entered the room and his expression was unreadable as he took in the scene before him. His nose twitched as your pheromones had practically covered every corner of his room. Sensing his presence, he watches as you sit up on your knees, head turning back and making eye contact with him.

“Nonu…”

He hears your breath hitch as he draws closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate.

“You really are a handful…” His voice was smooth, almost lazy. But, there was something else beneath it, something dark. It caused a shiver to run through you. Whether from arousal or fear, you’re not sure.

He steps closer, footsteps slow and deliberate. With each step he takes, a spike of awareness shot throughout your body. Your body reacts instinctively to his presence, knees pressing together in an attempt to soothe the ache inside your stomach. But, you knew it wouldn’t work.

Nothing did.

Not the cool sheets, not the distance that grew shorter and shorter.

By the time Wonwoo reaches the edge of the bed, your entire frame is trembling. He tilts his head to the side and exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.

“Nonu…”

Fuck. Your voice sounded so wrecked that the Alpha’s breath stuttered for just a second.

It sounded so needy, trembling with something raw that managed to slip through the cracks of Wonwoo’s self-restraint. His fingers twitched at his side before crossing his arms in front of his chest, the black button up straining slightly against his forearms and chest.

Your mind grew foggy as his scent grew thicker, wrapping around you completely. Before your mind could even process it, your body moved on its own – crawling to the edge of the bed to be closer to where he stood.

Wonwoo didn’t understand why Jihoon would bring you to his room (he does, he just doesn’t want to acknowledge it). You should be locked in your room, alone and away from him. Yet, here you were – right in the center of his personal space, clinging to the sheets like they were the only thing anchoring you to your senses.

The worst part of it all?

You looked like you belonged there.

He reaches out, cupping your cheek and tilting your head up. A small, needy whimper slips from your lips before you even realise. He orders you to stay still and you do, opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue. Wonwoo presses the pill to your tongue and the bitter taste barely registers past the haze in your mind.

“Swallow.”

You obey instantly, throat bobbing as you swallow the suppressant without protest. You opened your mouth again, showing him that you had done exactly as he ordered.

Wonwoo’s jaw tightened.

The fact that you took the suppressant without much fight should have relieved him, but it didn’t.

Because your lips trembled.

Because your pupils remain dilated.

You close your mouth, another whimper slipping free as you nuzzle your cheek into the palm of his hand that cupped your cheek. Both of you knew the heat won’t subside immediately, that it would take up to hours for the suppressant to actually kick in.

After a few moments, Wonwoo pulls his hand away and lets out a slow, measured breath.

“Good girl.”

Two words.

Just two simple words.

And yet, your entire body shudders.

His eyes darkened for a brief second before he stood to his full height, pulling his hand away as he took a step back. You whine at the loss of his hand against your kin, blinking up at him and Wonwoo swallows hard.

“Don’t.” His voice came out tighter than he intended, “Don’t look at me like that, babydoll.”

Like he was the only thing you needed.

Like he was the only one that could save you.

“Nonu, please,” you whined, “Make the pain go away.”

Wonwoon’s self-control snapped and before he could even think, he was on you. One hand came up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he tilted your head up.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

It wasn’t soft and gentle.

It was desperate – a clash of heat and hunger, of pent-up frustration.

You gasped into his mouth, fingers fisting into his shirt and his grip tightened. Wonwoo presses his lips harder against yours as he swallows every whimper, every soft plea. Your heat was drowning him, making him forget every single rule he had set for himself.

He knew this was reckless. Knew that this could have dire consequences.

But when you moaned against his lips, the noise soft and needy, every ounce of logic flew out the window. His tongue slid against yours, deepening the kiss as if he was attempting to steal the breath from your lungs. His hands moved, sliding down your thighs and gripping them just enough to make you gasp again.

Wonwoo thinks he could still salvage what little control he had as he presses you deeper into the mattress – at least until he hears you whisper his name. The sound was soft, pleading – ruined, even. And he realises that it was already too late.

He’s gone.

“I’ll only help you this one time,” Wonwoo’s voice was low, dangerously low. He sounded controlled, but the way his hand gripped your thighs; the way his gaze dropped to your lips betrayed the inner turmoil he was facing. “Understood?”

You nodded immediately and he narrowed his eyes. But there was no mistaking the way your body arched towards him like it already knew what it wanted. His hands slid up your sides and under your shirt – his rough, calloused hands running against your smooth skin.

Just this once, he told himself.

Just tonight.

Just until the suppressants kicked in.

“Nonu!”

Fuck. The way you cried out so prettily for him had him curl his fingers deeper inside you. He was supposed to be in control, not let his instincts take over. But, damn it, the way you begged his name in that desperate, pleading tone had him losing focus.

Truth be told, Wonwoo always had a distaste for the heat and rut cycles. They were messy, primal; a reminder of how little control he had when it came to instincts like this. His body screamed for release, for dominance, but discomfort clawed at his mind.

But, God, the way you reacted to him. Every touch, every whine of his name, it ignited something he couldn’t deny.

Your back is pressed against his chest, the fabrics clinging to your skin damp with sweat and fever, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. All you could feel was how good his fingers were working inside you – skillful and relentless.

The fabrics between you only intensified the ache. Your night shorts were thrown somewhere into the corner of his room, the shirt somewhat bunched around your hips while Wonwoo, still fully dressed, sat behind you with his back against the headboard. His chest felt warm against your back, the steady breaths he let out betraying the tension vibrating through his body.

You keened, one arm thrown back to hold the back of his neck in an attempt to ground yourself. “Nonu…” You whimpered, voice cracked and ruined. “N-Need more. Please, I–”

“I know,” he growls against the side of your neck, voice strained. His lips brushed your skin, not quite a kiss, but the warmth made your entire body shudder. “I know, babydoll. Your poor pussy needs more, right? Your heat has you all hot and aching, doesn't it?”

His free hand rests on your waist, anchoring you against him as his fingers curled again – this time slower, as though he’s searching for something. “She’s begging, babydoll. Dripping and sucking my fingers in like she knows who she belongs to.”

A sharp gasp leaves your lips and Wonwoo feels your body tremble. Your legs try to snap shut and he whispers into your ear, “That the spot?”

You nodded, back arching as his fingertips continue to bully your g-spot. You could feel him pulsing hard through his pants, pressed flush against your ass. Every clothes rut of his hips against you has you crying out – needy, frustrated.

Your thighs are trembling violently now, the tension coiling deep in your gut and it was ready to break. Wonwoo continues to stimulate that spongy spot, his fingers working to open you up with expert precision. “You’re close, aren’t you, babydoll?”

You could only nod, not trusting your words as your mouth parts to let out a high pitched moan as your body surged towards the edge. He presses his fingers until they’re knuckle deep inside you, curling up right against that spot as his thumb circles over your swollen clit.

“C’mon,” he rasps into your ear, “Cum for me.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up.

White hot pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your vision blurs and your entire body seizes as you cried out, body jerking against the Alpha behind you as a gush of wetness spilled over his hand and soaking the sheets beneath you.

Wonwoo doesn’t move. Instead he holds you tighter, hands still resting between your legs but his thumb circles your clit in a manner that was meant to ground you. You're gasping and shaking in his arms, hands trying to push at his wrists, desperate but weak. You aren’t sure if it was overstimulation or if you wanted him to give you more.

His voice was low, full of something far too tender for the way his heart was racing – for the way he’d always acted. “Good girl. Did so well for me.”

Wonwoo looks down at you only to be met by you looking up at him, eyes glassy and lips parted in a silent plea. You were flushed and panting in his lap, slick coating his fingers.

Despite his distaste for these cycles, he knew he’d do it again.

He hated how much he realised he loved this, how he could pull those sounds from you.

But, he loved how he was the only one who could pull those noises from you.

Loved how you trusted him through it.

Wonwoo carefully pulls out his fingers, ready to move you back to your room – then you whimper out his name like it was a prayer meant just for him.

“Babydoll,” he growls lowly, voice rough and filled with warning. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Yet you did.

Maybe it was the scent of your heat. Maybe it was the way you clung to him, silently begging him. Maybe it was the way that nickname you called him rolled off your tongue like he was your God.

He’s quick to have you pressed against the mattress, hips flushed against yours as he finally gives in to the carnal pull. You hear him fumbling with his belt and the sound of his zipper coming undone. The sudden shift in the situation knocks the air straight from your lungs.

One moment he’s cradling you in his arms, the next you’re sprawled beneath him; his hands on either side of your head to not just keep himself up, but to keep you right where he wants you.

Where you need to be.

You gasp out his title – not his name or that cute lil nickname you just gave him, but his title. Your eyes fluttered shut as your fingers claw into the bedding, silently begging for him to just fill you up.

And he does.

In one thrust, he buries himself to the hilt and savours the way you cry out to him, body arching as your pussy clamps down on him.

He leans over you, chest pressed against yours, lips brushing over the shell of your ear. “Feel that, babydoll? That’s me shaping your pussy so that it only knows how to take my dick.” He pulls his hips back, just until only his tip remains inside before slamming forward, making sure you feel him in your womb. “Wanted me to fuck you? Well, I’m gonna give it to you.”

A needy sob escapes your lips as he sets a punishing pace; and he chuckles lowly, hot breath against your neck. His lips part and he bites down on your neck, hard, claiming the spot with a bruising mark. You gasp, the sting sending a jolt of pleasure through your core, causing your pussy to squeeze him tighter.

Wonwoo growls, hips stuttering for just a moment before he thrusts even deeper, harder – making sure your walls remember every vein, every inch.

“My sweet Omega,” he grunts against your skin, voice rough and possessive. His tongue darts out to soothe the bite. You mewl, feeling the imprint of his teeth as though he was trying to brand you as his.

Your hands scramble for purchase, settling on his back and your nails dragged down his back as he fucks you through every tremble, every whimper.

“You like that, dontcha babydoll?” he sits up, knees digging into the mattress as his hands grip your hips so tightly you were sure it’d start to bruise. All you could do was nod, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes.

“C’mon, babydoll,” he coos condescendingly, one hand sliding up your body to wrap itself loosely around your throat. He didn’t apply any pressure, just letting it sit there as a reminder of his control, his claim.

And it was like a switch flipped.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips, back arching off the mattress as more slick drips out of your pussy, creating a white ring of cream around the base of the Alpha’s cock.

You didn’t mean to react the way you did, and Wonwoo felt it.

The way your walls clenched around him tighter, the sudden wetness coating where your hips met.

“Oh?” his tone was dark with approval, “You like that?”

“S-So good, Alpha,” you choked out, mind growing hazy from your heat and the pleasure, “Love.. Love it so much! Feels s’good!”

His thrusts grew rougher as something primal took over. He removes his hand from your throat, sliding it down your body to rub tight circles over your clit. Your back arches as a sharp cry tears from your throat, body trembling uncontrollably. Slick gushes out from your pussy as you squirt again, drenching his shirt and milking his cock.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growled, hips stuttering at the milking compression of your cunt. “Shit, I’m close, babydoll. And you're gonna let me fill you, isn’t that right?”

You nodded through the haze, words slurred by pleasure, “A-Alpha!”

That was all it took. With one final thrust, Wonwoo buries himself to the hilt as his cock twitches inside you as he cums deep inside you. 

The room was thick with the scent of your heat and sex, but all Wonwoo could hear was the sound of your soft, uneven breaths – body still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure, barely conscious of anything except for the way he filled you to the brim.

He stayed buried inside you for a moment longer, reluctant to leave the warmth of your creamed pussy. But when he hears your soft whimper, noticing the way your body twitching from oversensitivity, he’s snapped back to reality.

Wonwoo groans as he carefully pulls out, a groan escaping his lips at the sight of his cum spilling out from you – coating the insides of your thighs and dripping onto the sheets beneath you. You whimper at the emptiness, at the sudden cold air on your overheated skin.

He doesn’t say anything, only tucking himself back into his pants and stands up.

For a moment, you thought he’d leave you in his room – maybe even go as far as to sleep in one of the guest rooms.

But then, you hear the faint rustling of the plastic bag before the mattress dips beside you.

Wonwoo leans over, gently brushing away the sweat-damp strands of hair from your forehead. You can barely keep your eyes open, the heat and aftermath pulling you under.

Then, coolness.

A soothing, mental chill spreads over your fevered skin as he places a cooling patch on your forehead. You let out a shaky breath, weakly reaching out for him.

Wonwoo takes them in his.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice no longer holding that sharp or commanding tone. Instead, it sounds softer. “I’ve got you babydoll.”

His other hand adjusts the sheets around your body, tugging the blanket up to your waist after retrieving your night shorts from the floor. He made sure your legs weren’t tangled, made sure you were comfortable.

You blinked up at him sleepily, cheeks still flushed a shade of red and lashes slightly damp. “Please stay, Nonu…”

He freezes.

For a moment, the only sound was his breath, still a little uneven. You could tell he was torn between his old habit of keeping you at arm’s length and giving into his instincts.

Without uttering a word, he eases under the covers beside you, gently pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, strong and warm, as he nuzzles his face in your hair. “Of course, babydoll. You’ll sleep easier if I’m here.”

Wonwoo never stays. Once he’s made sure you’re in good hands, he'd leave.

But, tonight wasn’t like the others.

Tonight, he stayed – not to keep his distance, but to keep you close.

Tonight, he stayed to protect you.

His.

You felt it then– the way he held you. Not like a favour, but like someone claiming what’s his.

Weeks after that incident during your heat, you and Wonwoo went on with your lives as though nothing had happened. The mansion returned to its usual rhythm – quiet mornings, the hum of the electric kettle.

Wonwoo buried himself in work, occasionally checking up on you as per his mother’s command, occasionally picking you up from your flower shop instead of leaving it to Mingyu. They were… small efforts into making the marriage look less of a business arrangement, but you appreciated it nonetheless.

You busied yourself with your own work, too. But, you’d still go grocery shopping and prepare meals for the people of the mansion (which frankly, was a task you overestimated because cooking for 6 people proved to be a difficult task). They’d thank you, of course – you went through all the time and effort – it’d be wrong for them not to appreciate it and clean up after themselves.

However, you were careful to not let yourself brush against the Alpha for too long. Nor would you let your thoughts drift back to the night where tangled limbs and breathless whispers once filled the space.

While you both went on with your lives, acting as though nothing had happened – there was a subtle shift in the air.

Mingyu was the first to notice it.

Being one of the bulkier guards, he had been stationed at the mansion to keep an eye on things during your off days. It was a simple routine he took a liking to – he gets to have a nice conversation with less scarier missus and it was considered low stake.

That morning started out no different than the others. You passed him in the hallway, offering a soft habitual “Morning, Gyu” as you balanced a basket of laundry against your hip. He nodded in return, returning the smile and his eyes followed you until you turned a corner.

His nose twitched as he picked up the smell of something… sweet. Like the first bloom of spring in the middle of winter.

It was far too faint for it to be a heat cycle, but it still lingered in the air.

Mingyu couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. You looked the same, moved the same. But there was something different about your aura.

Wonwoo only noticed the sweetness of your pheromones once Mingyu brought it up.

He’d pause a little longer when he passed you in the hallway, fingers twitching just a little when your scent clung to the couch after sitting on it for hours. His jaw would flex when you leaned over him to grab something from the kitchen shelf.

Yet, he didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

You hear the door open just past midnight.

Muted voices. Heavy boots.

You catch a whiff of the faint, metallic tang of blood and turn your head towards the front door.

Wonwoo was the first to enter, as always. His expression is calm, unreadable. His coat hung open, dark with flecks of something you didn’t need to guess. Jihoon followed close behind, quieter than usual. His shirt was stained too, though he’d slug his jacket over his arm to conceal most of it.

He looked… calmer. The tiredness in his eyes were evident, but he didn’t have that frenzied look he always had. There was no smirk, no offhand remarks about which body part he sliced off, where he left it or if he convinced Wonwoo to break every bone of their rivals.

You stayed curled on the far end of the couch, a soft blanket on your lap with a book in hand. “Hi, boys. Long night?” You asked, tone casual but laced with something warmer

“Hey, Missus,” Jihoon responds, brief but polite. “Kinda.. But, we got it under control.”

He disappears down the hallway without another word, tugging off his bloodied gloves. Wonwoo follows a beat later, slinging his coat over one shoulder, a faint dark red smear on his jaw. “Have you had dinner, babydoll?” His voice was oddly warm.

You nodded your head, “Gyu made some aglio olio with steak. There should be some leftovers in the fridge for you.”

Wonwoo nods in response. He continues to stand there, looking at you like he was still figuring out he’s supposed to get used to coming home to this – to you.

You look back at him, and he notices the subtle way your nose wrinkled at the scent clinging to his nose, how your fingers twitched against the cover of the book you’re holding.

“I’ll go shower,” he mumbles, voice lowering. It almost sounded like an apology in disguise.

He walks up the stairs, halting momentarily to look back at you. That scent of yours still hangs in the air – sweet, distracting. Wonwoo stands there for a few more seconds before disappearing in the halls of the house, leaving silence and a rising heat in your chest.

He reappears moments later, now in a loose shirt and pyjama pants – looking more like a sleep-deprived graduate student than a man capable of unspeakable violence. He heads towards the kitchen and you follow him, feet quiet against the hardwood floor.

The house felt too big at that moment, the silence stretching between the walls like it was listening. The Alpha doesn’t say anything, just moving with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times – opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of chilled wine. It was like he belonged in the silence.

The overhead light pooled golden over him, catching in the soft fall of his hair, the sharp line of his jaw. The loose fabric of his shirt clung to the curve of his shoulder, just barely damp from the shower he just took, and you caught yourself staring – longer than you should have.

“You’re not gonna eat what Gyu made?” you asked, breaking the silence between you both before it could swallow you whole.

Wonwoo didn’t look back at first, popping the cork with one clean motion and pouring himself a glass with a kind of ease that spoke about how often he did this – like he was numbing or avoiding something.

“It’s cold now,” he answers, voice quiet but not dismissive. The wine filled his glass with a smooth swirl of deep red.

Then, without a word, he reached for another glass.

Not for wine.

He filled it with water from the chilled filter on the fridge, the sound soft and steady in the stillness of the kitchen. He sets it down on the counter near you and you blinked. There was no eye contact nor explanation, but the gesture settled somewhere deep in your chest.

You take a step closer, fingers brushing against the cool glass as you pick it up. “Thanks..” You take a sip and set it back down, leaning against the counter with your arms folded loosely. “But, just because the food is cold means it’s bad.”

“I’m not hungry.”

You watch him bring the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip before setting it down with a soft clink. His gaze lingered on the dark liquid, as though he was contemplating something.

“You didn’t even look at the plate,” your voice wasn’t accusatory, it was just gentle – just there.

Wonwoo lets out a breath, not exactly a sigh. “Didn’t need to.”

The silence that followed felt different – it felt tighter.

Then, without thinking, you moved a little closer. Just enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. Just enough for your voice to come out quieter when you asked, “Do you ever let yourself take a break, Nonu?”

Wonwoo’s jaw tensed. He doesn’t look at you when he answers, “I take a break when I sleep.”

“You barely sleep…”

You see a flicker in his eyes – you touched something.

He knew it.

You knew it.

But he didn’t run from it, at least not this time.

“Then I guess I don’t stop,” his reply was low, maybe a little bit more honest than he meant it to be.

You stood there for a beat, the glass cool in your hands – the silence wrapping around you both like a blanket that was too heavy to shake off. Your eyes dropped to the way his fingers held the wine glass, knuckles still faintly pale from tension. The condensation on your own glass trickles down your fingers, as though it was trying to ground you in the moment.

“Are you hurt anywhere, Nonu?” The question came out softer than you meant it to be – it sounded warm and it lingered in the air. You didn’t look at him directly, just watching the condensation slide down the side of his glass.

“No.”

It was clipped. Cold. Dismissive.

The kind of answer that was meant to end the conversation before it could even start. You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. Of course – you weren’t supposed to ask. You weren’t supposed to care – not like that. Not out loud.

He didn’t move at first. Just standing there, knuckles pale against the glass as his eyes locked on some distant point past the kitchen tiles. The silence stretched, heavy and humming, until he sniffs your sweetness in the air again. The sweet scent relaxed his posture, his shoulders dropping just a little and his grip around the glass loosened.

You watched him carefully, heart thudding in your chest and your voice caught before you even knew you were going to speak again.

“Can… Can I sleep with you tonight, Nonu?”

The words hang in the air, delicate and trembling.

It was too soft to take back. Too honest to ignore.

His fingers stilled around the glass, the sound of the fridge humming filled the silence that followed. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it had. Your heart thudded in your chest, loud enough to drown out the quiet.

Wonwoo stares at you, his expression unreadable. His eyes seemed darker tonight, shadowed by something you couldn’t quite place a finger on. He looked tired – not just physically-bone-deep tired, but it was like the world had taken a little more from him than he was willing to admit. Whatever he and Jihoon did out there, it still clung to him like smoke.

“Trouble sleeping lately, babydoll?” His voice was surprisingly soft, low and quiet like he didn’t want to wake the others in the house.

You nodded, looking at the glass in your hand. “The air’s been… weird lately. A-And, it’s hard to sleep without you lately.” Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass, voice barely above a whisper – shaky and raw, “I-I don’t know why but it is… Especially when you’re gone.”

He was still staring, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look up – not when you knew his expression is all it takes to undo you.

Another beat of silence.

One second.

Two.

Then, you hear a quiet breath escape him. His glass clinks on the counter as he sets his drink down.

His voice was soft, “Come on, babydoll.”

His response caught you off guard. When you looked up, he was already turning away, walking toward his room – but his pace was slower than usual. As though he was waiting for you to catch up to him.

Your heart flutters, warmth flooding your chest even as your legs carry you forward. Wonwoo doesn’t say anything when you slipped into his room behind him, the bed dipping under your weight. The mattress sighs softly when you settle in beside him – it wasn’t the first time you shared a bed, but it was the first time you asked to.

You lay on your side, back facing him as you clutched the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing anchoring you. Wonwoo doesn’t move for a while, but you could hear his breathing – steady, though it was a little too measured to be natural. Awake. Thinking.

Maybe regretting this decision.

Your throat tightens, tears brimming in your eyes as you start to overthink.

But then, quietly, just barely there, you feel the blanket shift. The mattress dips again, and your back feels warmer as his body inches close. It doesn’t touch, though it was there.

There was a beat of silence, the tension in the air so thick that you could feel it pressing against your skin.

Then, slowly his arm slips around your waist. It was slow enough to almost break you. Your breath hitches, but you don’t stop him. You don’t move, letting yourself sink into him. His hand rests lightly on your stomach, not in a possessive manner; just there, offering you a grounding presence.

“I don’t sleep well because I worry of the danger you’re in by being my mate,” he murmurs, voice almost buried against the back of your neck. “Not when I come back from that kind of work. Not unless I know you’re safe.”

You close your eyes, something in your chest tightens at the vulnerability in his voice, a kind of raw honesty he rarely ever let slip.

“I am safe, Nonu,” you whispered, “With you.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the way his arms wrapped themselves around your waist, the way his forehead lightly brushes against your shoulder… It was enough.

You didn’t say another word. You didn’t need to.

Sleep came slowly that night, but this time – when it did, it came easier.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, neither of you woke up alone.

Wonwoo stayed late at the office one night. The quiet hum of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows did little to distract him from the glow of his screen or the dull ache that was beginning to form behind his eyes.

Numbers blurred, reports repeated themselves – he was going through the motions, more out of habit than necessity.

His phone buzzed. His mother.

“Mother?”

“Wonwoo,” her voice was soft, but there was a certain sharp edge to it. “You’re working late again?”

“I am,” he said flatly, not annoyed – just a little confused as to why his mother was calling him.

“Go home, Wonwoo. Be with your mate. She needs you.”

The words stung more than it should have.

“She has Mingyu and Chan looking after her–”

“She doesn’t need them, Wonwoo.” Her voice firmer, “She needs you. Her Alpha.”

“What’s this about, Mother?”

“It’s hard for me to explain this over the phone, Wonwoo. Just… Just go home and be with ___, okay?”

The line disconnects before he could respond. Staring at his phone, his thumb hovers over the redial button, demanding answers.

He never got the chance.

His phone rang again – this time, Mingyu’s name flashes across the screen.

It was never a good sign when his men called him.

He picks it up on the first ring. “What?”

“Boss– Wonwoo– fuck,” Mingyu’s voice was shaking, breathless. “Where are you? Missus is gone. The door was busted in, Chan’s unconscious near the stairs and– fuck– there’s blood.”

The words don’t register at first.

“She’s gone.”

Wonwoo froze in his seat, phone pressed to his ear – Mingyu and Seungcheol shouting on the other end. Something about getting Chan medical help for a GSW to his abdomen. The office lights hummed quietly and everything around him felt… wrong. Too still. Too normal.

It was so… eerie.

Blood. Mingyu said there was blood.

“How messy is the place? How’s Chan?”

He finally stands up from the desk, papers fluttering off his desk, forgotten. His grip tightens around the phone until his knuckles whitened.

“It’s bad, Boss. This place is trashed, fuck.” Shuffling can be heard before Mingyu speaks up again, “Chan said she fought. Oh fuck, one of the guy’s face is clawed off.”

“Gyu!” Seungcheol’s voice rings through the background, “We got a survivor! Tell Wonwoo to come back quickly!”

Mingyu didn’t need to relay the message, already hearing Wonwoo starting up his car.

The Alpha’s jaw clenched so tightly that it started to ache. A sound clawed its way up his throat, something raw and ragged. But, he swallowed it down. “How long ago?”

“About an hour. Maybe less. Cheol and I went out to get some groceries and when we got back, we found the place like this.”

“Chan and Vernon?”

“Chan’s wound up pretty bad, but he’ll be okay. Vernon’s helping Cheol prepare the bastard that survived.”

Wonwoo exhales through his nose. He feels sick. His body wants to move, to run, to destroy something – but his mind was spiraling, trapped in the memory of your last interaction. Cold, casual and detached. Like you were just a roommate. Like he hadn’t felt the way you cling to him during that heat. Like he hadn’t felt you snuggle up close to him when you both fell asleep in the same bed weeks after.

He should’ve listened to his mother.

He should’ve come home.

“Make sure that bastard lives until I get there,” he ordered Mingyu, voice now low and lethal. “Tell Jihoon to get his switchblade ready.”

He ended the call and drove through the streets. The engine roars to life like it felt his fury, the sound tearing through the night as he shot out of the compound. Tires screamed against the pavement, and the city blurred past him – buildings, lights, the occasional flash of red as he burned through the intersections without hesitation.

You were his.

And someone had taken you.

He was going to make sure he’d put an end to those bastards.

Your head pounded.

The room swayed as you blinked awake, wrists bound behind your back and there was a coppery tang in your mouth. A single overhead light buzzed above you, like a spotlight focusing on the main lead, and the rest of the space was swallowed in the shadows.

Concrete walls. Damp floor. Industrial. Underground? Maybe.

You shifted, testing the restraints. You could move, but it’d take some effort to break free from them. Then you hear it.

Footsteps.

You stilled, keeping your head low as several men stepped into the room. You didn’t recognise their scents. They weren’t of anyone familiar to you. They weren’t Wonwoo.

One of them circled you, stopping somewhere behind you. “She’s smaller than I thought…”

“Yeah, but she’s feisty,” came another, his voice sharper. “Don’t let her face or size fool you. Bitch fucking bit me when we took her in. Had to knock her out to make things easier.”

One knelt in front of you, just out of kicking distance but you held back. “You’re awake.”

“Such amazing observation skills,” you snorted, blinking the haze from your vision. “What gave it away? My eyes being open or the fact that I’m glaring back at you?”

It was a shame they didn’t laugh.

“If you’re smart and behave, maybe we’ll go easy on you.”

You scoff, “Please, if you were smart, you’d know you made a grave mistake the moment you busted my front door in.”

The figure leans in slightly, expecting fear but all you offered was a tilt your head. “So, what’s the plan? Some kind of ransom? Revenge?”

The masked man tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. “You’re not exactly acting like a scared little Omega.”

“Yeah, funny thing about that – I bark and bite. If you assholes think you can–”

Smack.

A sharp slap landed across your cheek as you were mid-sentence. The sting flared, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, you take a deep breath and straighten your posture, licking the copper from the corner of your mouth. “Oh, my bad…” your voice was low, “But you really should’ve known better than to think I’d be the damsel in distress type.”

There were at least three of them when they returned after leaving you alone for hours. They still wore those black face masks, as if that was supposed to scare you.

One carried a metal case and the other cracked his knuckles, another move that was meant to scare you. But what was scaring you the most was how terrible their intimidation tactics were. You sat upright the best you could, back straight against the wooden chair, chin lifted like you hadn’t been bound for hours. Like you weren’t aching in places you hadn’t known could ache.

They didn’t speak at first, only opening up the case. Silver tools gleamed under the low light.

You arched a brow. “Wow. Dontcha think that’s a little dramatic? What happened to just asking nicely?”

One stepped forward and backhanded you, hard. Your head snapped to the side, cheek screaming from the impact, but you refused to give them the satisfaction of crying out in pain.

“Tell us everything you know about the Jeon clan,” demanded the man that opened the metal case. “Security. Other bases. Codes, if you know any.”

You spit at his face.

They didn’t like that.

The first hit was to your stomach – brutal and deep, knocking the breath from your lungs. Then another to your ribs, then your face again. You lost count after five, maybe six.

Still, you didn’t scream.

“Damn, this bitch can take hits.”

Pain blurred the edges of your vision, but you clung to consciousness with everything you had. You thought of Wonwoo. Of how he looked at you when you didn’t think you were watching. Of how he subtly showed his affection thinking you wouldn’t notice.

You thought about how furious he’d be if he were to see you in the state you were in. Wonwoo’s mother had previously mentioned their stand on crimes against women, how if their own had even a strand of hair plucked, the perpetrators would face dire consequences.

When they paused, panting like they’d been doing real work, one leaned in and grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugging on it hard. “Last chance. Talk.”

The smile you gave had one of them flinching. Not because of how badly beaten up you looked, but because it bordered on the line of a psychotic smile.

“The Jeons don’t break, and neither do I. We fucking burn.”

These bastards sure as hell loved leaving you alone. Though you’d consider it to be a mistake on their end.

Your body was wrecked – ribs aching, lip split and bruises were already to form everywhere. But you were still breathing, still alive and that was enough.

You tilt your head back, blinking up at the ceiling through the haze of the pain. Blood dripped down your chin, but your hands were slick now – whether it was from blood or sweat, you couldn’t tell. You twist your wrists again, angling against the metal cuff just the way Wonwoo had shown you during one of his late-night, paranoid self-defense lessons. “If they bind you with steel, look for tension. Give it slack, then break it where it’s weakest. Everything has a weak point.”

It hurt like hell, but you kept going. The metal bites deeper into your skin before it snapped.

You stifle a gasp as the cuff breaks loose with a sharp clink. Your left wrist was bleeding freely now, but you didn’t waste a second. You made your way to the door, and to your surprise, it was unlocked. Either they didn’t you’d try, or they thought you couldn’t.

You slid out silently, stating low. You hear footsteps and muffled voices somewhere down the hall. Realising you needed a weapon, you decided to find their weapons storage. Your head spun, but you pressed forward and duck into the first door you saw.

Luck must’ve been on your side because it led you exactly where you wanted.

Guns were lined up on the tables, the overhead lighting making it seem more ominous than it already was. Your fingers shook as you picked up a semi-automatic handgun – sleek, back, loaded. Wonwoo’s voice echoed again, “Don’t ever hesitate to shoot. That gives them a room to attack. You pull the trigger the moment they come into view.”

You hear footsteps approaching and pressing your back up against the wall, breathing through your nose, waiting. You hold the gun close to your chest, and when the masked man steps inside, you don't hesitate.

Bang.

He dropped like a sack of potatoes, the sound of the shot echoes through the hallway.

There was no going back now.

Shouts echoed down the hall and you made a run for it. Turning a corner, you came face-to-face with two more men. They hadn’t expected you to be armed, by the time they noticed the gun in your hand and reached for theirs, you had already pulled the trigger.

You ran past their motionless bodies, trying to figure out where you were. The layout and interior – you knew you were in some kind of warehouse. Then you smell it – the night air, you were close to an exit.

You burst through a door, grunting in pain from the sheer force you had put on your shoulder to get the damn thing to open. Your knees almost gave out, the adrenaline making your hands shake.

You kept the gun raised, every shadow looked like another threat.

But you didn’t stop.

Not until you were safe. Not until you got back to Wonwoo.

But you weren’t able to get far.

The alley had opened into a dead-end loading yard and your heart dropped the second you saw the rusted fence, the padlocked gate.

A black van screeched to a halt behind you. You spun, gun raised – but hands grabbed you from both sides before you could even aim. You bit, clawed and kicked, but there were too many. They slammed you face first down onto the ground, a heavy knee to your back following. Your cheek scraped against the pavement and the gun slipped out of your hand.

“Hello, ___.”

You froze, your blood went cold.

Juyeon.

You turned your head enough to see him step into view. His suit was stained, fingers missing from both hands – four gone entirely with pink scars crusted where they’d once been. He flexed what was left, grimacing slightly as if the sight offended him.

Wonwoo had done that. You knew it because Jihoon had told you – how he encouraged your Alpha to cut off the fingers on his left hand so they were more… symmetrical.

“You fucking bastard,” you spat, “I’ll have them dismember you–”

His laugh cuts you off. “Still got some fight in you, I see,” he mused. “That’s what my men meant by you’re no ordinary Omega.” He crouches down, eyes glinting with a dangerous edge. “But you’re more useful to me if you shut the fuck up.”

You snarled, bucking under the weight holding you down. One of his men shoved your head back down as Juyeon took out a syringe from his suit. The liquid was thick, glowing a faint blue under the alley lights.

“You know what this is, little Omega?” he asked conversationally, “The labs call it Phase Nine. It’s new. Not on the market nor the black market.”

You went still.

“It’s a liquid heat inducer that’s designed to have your primal instincts override your rationale. It could even break bonded cycles.”

You thrashed, “Don’t you fucking touch me with that! I swear I’ll–”

“Hold her,” Juyeon ordered.

“No!” You kicked wildly, but the hands clamped down harder.

“I said hold her!”

You screamed when he jabbed the needle into your neck and depressed the plunger.

A cold, burning sensation spreads through your veins like ice catching on fire. Your limbs trembled violently and your lungs burned with every breath you take. You heard Juyeon chuckle as darkness begins to swallow your vision.

“Take a little nap,” he whispers, “And when you wake up, your body won’t resist anymore.”

You wake  to the sound of voices – low, mocking laughter. Your head throbbed, and your body felt… wrong. It felt as though weights were chained to your body and your head felt fuzzy. The heat inducers were still coursing through your veins, but you fought the haze, clinging to the remaining sharpness you had in the chaos of your mind.

You feel the fire burn from inside out, every nerve in your body screaming for release.

The door to the room opened and Juyeon stepped in, his fingers twitching where they were still missing. He wore that sharp, predatory grin on his face and how you wished you could slap it right off of his face. His presence was suffocating and the pheromones he was releasing stank up the room so bad you wanted to throw up.

You gritted your teeth and pushed yourself up from the cool, concrete floor. Your limbs felt like lead, but you couldn’t let him get close.

Only Wonwoo could touch you.

Not this disgusting bastard.

He notices the faint fight in your eyes and pauses, a cruel smile crept onto his face as he observes your struggle. “Shit, you are a tough one to break. Lucky for me I got more of those inducers to break you.”

He takes another step forward and your body tensed. “C’mere, Omega,” Juyeon coaxes, his voice so syrupy that it twists your stomach the wrong way. “Let me help you with that heat of yours, yeah? I’ve got something far better than the inducer you’re desperately fighting. Something real.”

You growl, throwing your body into him. Your actions startled him – he hadn’t expected you to fight, not with the drugs clouding your senses. But you didn’t need to be at your best. You needed to make him understand that you were more than just an Omega.

You got a punch in, a brutal hook to his jaw and knocking him back. Juyeon staggered, but he didn’t fall. His men moved, one lunging towards you; but you managed to catch his wrist, twisting it behind his back with a vicious snap, making him grunt in pain.

Another went for your throat, but you kicked up, shoes hitting him in the stomach that had him doubling over, gasping for air. It’s a shame you weren’t wearing your heels, would’ve left a mark on the bastard.

You moved again, a blur of motion and rage. You weren’t thinking nor did you care, you only had one goal – to survive.

Another man reached for your arm. You spun, elbowing him in the face then slamming your knee into his ribs. He staggers, gasping for breath. You were covered in sweat, heart pounding as your body rebels against the inducers.

One of Juyeon’s man was quick enough to grab you from behind, pinning your arms to your sides. “That’s enough,” Juyeon sneers, wiping the blood from his mouth. He grabs another syringe from the table, the liquid inside glowing a sickly blue. “You want to fucking fight? Fine. Let’s see how long you’ll last.”

You hissed, struggling against the man holding you, but the inducers were still tearing through you. The heat was unbearable, your vision swimming in and out of focus. You were starting to lose control.

“Fight all you want, sweetheart,” his voice was mocking as he approached with the needle. “But you’ll break eventually.”

Your hands were still unrestrained, and in that final moment of desperation, you grabbed an old pipe that lay on the ground. You swung it with all your might, hitting the nearest man across the skull. He collapsed with a sickening thud, and you barely had time to register the victory before Juyeon was on you again.

Your body was trembling, soaked in sweat as blood was smeared across your face and hands. The pipe clattered to the floor beside you, slick with someone else’s blood. Juyeon stood across from you, staggering as his face twists into something monstrous. The second that syringe slipped from his grasp during your scuffle, it shattered across the cement.

“You little bitch,” he spat, pulling out a switchblade from his pockets. “You think you’ve won?”

You didn’t answer, hands scrambling for the gun from one of his men on the floor. Your hands shook, but you raised the weapon anyway. Just like Wonwoo taught you.

Never hesitate when it comes to your life.

Juyeon takes a step forward and you pull the trigger.

Bang.

The scream that tore out of his throat was inhuman.

He dropped to his knees, clutching his crotch as the front of his pants soaked red. He writhed, gasping and cursing through clenched teeth. It wasn’t a clean shot, but you didn't want it to be.

Your hands were still trembling as you kept the gun trained on him. “Never… Never underestimate an Omega. Especially me.”

The door slammed open behind you. Boots thundered in, guns drawn and you hear voices yelling commands.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.

You already know who it was.

“Clear the room!” Seungcheol’s voice echoed like thunder. “Get the Missus to safety and lock up any survivors!”

Vernon was quick to reach you, kneeling beside you as his hands tried to gently guide the gun down. “Hey, Missus…” he said quietly, “You’re okay now. We’ve got you.”

But you couldn’t bring yourself to lower the gun. It was as though you feared that if you did, Juyeon would get up.

Then you smelled him.

Wonwoo appears through the smoke of bodies, his eyes immediately locking on yours. The sight of you, his mate – bloodied, shaking and bruised – had him on his knees by your side in the blink of an eye. Sure, you were alive; but you were hurt.

He doesn’t say a word, only pulling you into his arms and holding you like you were the last thing in the world that mattered. You didn’t even realise how cold you were until Wonwoo wrapped his arms around you.

His warmth crashed into you like a wave, and what very little strength you had left was gone as your body collapsed into his. You could feel the way his body shuddered as he held you, his breath ragged against your hair, like he hadn’t been breathing until that moment. His hand held the back of your head, fingers tangling in your messy hair like if he let go – you’d disappear.

“I’ve got you, babydoll,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ve got you now.”

You dropped the gun.

And finally, your body let go.

Wonwoo carefully knocks on the door, a way to announce his presence before sliding it open. His eyes meet yours and his shoulders slump when you give him a small smile. “Hey…” was all you managed to say before his giant stature envelops you in a tight embrace. The Alpha nuzzles into the crook of your neck, a quiet whine leaving his lips as he takes in your scent. It’s grounding, calming – proof that you’re here, safe, and his.

You melt into his warm embrace, your hands instinctively finding their way to his broad back. His tense muscles slowly relax under your touch, his soft whines turning into soft hums of contentment.

“I… I was so scared,” Wonwoo admits, “Scared I couldn’t find you, couldn’t reach you in time… I –”

“Nonu,” you call out softly, one hand moving up to comb through his dark locks, “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

He nods and pulls away, the crease in his brow not fully gone. “Yeah, but… I can’t help to think of the worst case scenario of what could’ve happened had we gotten there any later… ___, the doctors said you were practically battered. There’s even still traces of that heat inducer in your blood.”

You shudder at the memory of having the liquid injected into you, Wonwoo tightening his hold on you. “They didn’t touch you did they?”

“Well, it depends on what you mean by touch..?” It was more of a question than a statement, “They didn’t put their dicks in me if that’s what you’re wondering. I was drugged up and a little woozy, but I managed to fight them off until you guys showed up.”

“So, they did touch you,” he sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to your template. “I’ll deal with those bastards once I head back.”

He cups your face in his large hands, his eyes scanning your face as if committing every detail to memory. “How are you feeling, babydoll? Feeling any better?”

You manage a faint smile at Wonwoo’s concern, your fingers brushing gently over the back of his hand where it cradles your cheek. “I’m feeling better,” you murmur, though the ache behind your ribs and the lingering exhaustion paints a different story. “Just… Just need to pee real quick…”

Wonwoo looks hesitant, but he nods, reluctantly removing his hand from your face.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and push yourself up, determined to manage the short walk to the bathroom without assistance. But the moment you stand, a sudden jolt of pain rips through your lower abdomen. You let out a strangled gasp that makes Wonwoo instantly alert. Your knees give out before you can even call out to him.

You clutch your stomach as your body crumples to the cold tile floor.

“___!” Wonwoo is quick to drop to his knees beside you, arms wrapping around you before you hit the ground. “Babydoll, hey, what’s the matter?”

“It hurts,” you wheezed, eyes squeezed shut as another wave of pain twists through you. “Nonu, it… My stomach hurts.”

He feels his heart shatter at the sight of you writhing in pain, his arms tightening around your waist as he gently tries to ease you onto his lap. “Fuck, okay. I’m calling the nurse–”

“No, don’t go,” your breath was shallow, hand clutching the fabric of his shirt tightly. “Stay. Please.”

“Shit, shit… I’m here, babydoll. I’m not leaving.” Wonwoo’s voice is firm but trembling, his free hand fumbling for the call above him. He presses it repeatedly, urgency written all over his face. “Nurses! Doctors! We need help in here!”

He cradles you closer, rocking you slightly as if trying to soothe you through the pain. “You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs over and over, lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ve got you, babydoll.”

Moments later, the door bursts open and nurses rush in. Wonwoo doesn’t let you go, not until they gently urge him aside to check your vitals and prepare to move you. Even then, his hand never leaves yours.

And when they wheel you away for tests, his gaze follows you – haunted and fierce – already blaming himself for letting you get off the bed in the first place.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Jeon… It seems you had a miscarriage.”

The words hung in the air. The silence that followed felt suffocating, like a weight pressing down on your chest. Wonwoo’s and your mother wrapped their arms around you in an instant, offering you comfort; but everything felt so… distant. Their voices were muffled and the doctor’s face was blurred as the word ‘miscarriage’ echoed in your mind.

Your hands instinctively moved to your stomach, as though you were trying to hold onto something that was no longer within reach.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo’s tense body stood behind you as if he were a statue that’s freshly carved from stone. His emotions were frozen in place and his silence was louder than anything else in the room.

Suddenly, the pieces began to fit in place.

Why his mother kept nagging him to return home instead of doing overtime in the office.

Why his father kept urging him to look into a bigger home.

Why his mother and mother-in-law kept visiting you while he was away.

Hell, that even explained why Jihoon was more tame.

You were pregnant.

Pregnant with his child.

Your mom and Wonwoo’s mother tried to comfort you with soft reassurances murmured in your ear, but they couldn’t pierce through the thick glass that’s been erected around you. Your mom’s hand stroked your hair, a gesture that was meant to soothe you. But it only reminded you of the ache, of a loss so sudden that it felt as though a piece of you had been ripped away.

Wonwoo’s shaky voice brought you back to reality, “How… How could this have happened? W-When– How long has she been pregnant? She wasn’t displaying any symptoms or even showing!”

The doctor shifts, looking at the clipboard in his hand. “Mrs Jeon was around… seven weeks into the pregnancy. It’s not uncommon for the symptoms to be minimal, especially in the early stages. We suspect that what Mrs Jeon had experienced was a cryptic pregnancy, where the pregnancy goes undetected or unnoticed.”

You feel the Alpha shift his gaze from the doctor to you. “Seven weeks…” His voice was laced with confusion and guilt as he tries to recount every moment he’s spent with you, searching for signs he might have overlooked. He runs a hand down his face, resting it over his mouth as he mutters, “Fuck… No wonder your scent was sweeter…”

“As for what could’ve caused her miscarriage… We can only assume that it was due to the recent… uneventful incident that the Missus has experienced. The emotional, mental and physical distress coupled with the absence of an Alpha must’ve increased her stress levels to a point where it significantly affected her well-being.”

The doctor lowers his head in condolences and exits the room. Both yours and Wonwoo’s parents left soon after, deciding to give you both some privacy.

“Nonu…” you croaked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your broken voice seemed to crack something within him and his rigid frame finally moved. Wonwoo sinks down to his knees in front of you, his hands hesitantly reaching for yours. He held them gently, and despite his warm touch, you could feel the tremble in them.

“Babydoll…” You finally forced yourself to look at him, and the sight added another weight to your already heavy heart. His jaw was clenched as his lips were parted slightly, his lips trembling slightly while his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He’s quick to cup your face when you sniffle out his name again, wiping away the tears that began to spill from your eyes.

“No, no, no…” he murmurs, wiping away your tears. “Don’t cry, babydoll… This isn’t your fault, yeah?”

His tender words only made the tears fall harder. The pain in your chest was unbearable, and the sound of his voice made it harder for you to hold yourself together. You shook your head, “N-No… Nonu, it was my fault. I-I should’ve been more alert or at least aware as to why I was –”

“Hey, hey…” He interrupts gently, “Don’t do this, babydoll, please. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You didn’t know, and even if you did, this is something out of your control.”

His thumb continues to stroke your cheeks, wiping away the endless tears that streamed down. “B-But… I-I should’ve.. hic… told you that I wasn’t feeling… hic… like myself.. M-Maybe i-if you’d known, you could’ve –”

Wonwoo presses a gentle kiss to your lips, leaning his forehead against yours once he pulls away. “Babydoll, please, don’t blame yourself… I… I should’ve been a better husband… I shouldn’t have just left you all alone again after your heat. I shouldn’t have kept my distance from you thinking it’d be a good decision… I should’ve been paying more attention to you, been home with you..”

His confession made your heart ache further. You reached up, your hands trembling as they covered his. “No, Nonu… Please, don’t say that… You've been the perfect husband and –”

“Babydoll, I wasn’t there to realise something was up. Our parents knew it before we did and –”

“We could… We could try again, right..?” Your voice was shaky, filled with uncertainty and carried a weight as though speaking it out loud could shatter what little hope you were clinging to. Wonwoo’s breath hitches, his eyes carrying the same raw, aching vulnerability you felt.

“Oh, babydoll…” he whispers, his lips trembling as he pecks your lips, “Of course we can. We can try as many times as we want, but that’s for when you’re ready – when we’re ready. Right now… Let’s… I… Let me make sure you’re okay.”

You nodded, hands moving from covering his to clutch the fabric of his shirt; as if holding onto him would stop the pieces of your heart from falling apart any further. “We’ll try again,” you echoed, voice trembling but filled with a quiet determination. “When we’re ready.”

Wonwoo hums, tilting his head to the side so he could capture your lips in a tender kiss. His lips moved against yours gently. It was soft, unhurried, and full of unspoken promises. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours once again, and his hands move to cradle your face, thumbs brushing softly against your cheeks.

Snow muffled the world outside the cabin, layering the landscape in a blanket of silence and softness. The fire crackled lowly, casting shadows on the wooden walls and painting flickers of gold across the thick blanket tangled around your legs.

It’s only been days since you left the hospital, body still aching quietly – your ribs would hurt just a little when you breathed in too deeply, you could even feel the stiffness in your limbs when you moved too fast. But here, tucked away in the mountains with no one but Wonwoo, the pressure to be okay all the time faded just like the hush of falling snow.

Wonwoo sits beside you on the edge of the bed, his presence warm and steady. He’d just come back from gathering more firewood, snow melting in his hair and a few flakes clinging stubbornly to his coat. You watched him shrug it off, mouth watering at the way his muscles ripple under the thick sweater as he crossed the room to tend to the fire.

God, he looks so good you just wanna pounce on him.

He returns to the bed, slipping under the covers with you like he belongs there – like he’d always been there. One of his arms snakes around your waist, drawing you against his side with practiced ease, careful to not press too hard against you.

He smells like warm cedar, a touch of pine, and that deep, grounding Alpha musk that seeps into your senses like a balm. He exhaled softly, rubbing slow circles into your hip with his thumb.

“Is it too cold?”

You shake your head, almost purring into him. “Not with you here.”

Wonwoo’s expression softens, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Good. I was worried it’d be… well, something you wouldn’t like. The snow, the isolation…”

“You picked it for a reason,” you whispered back, nuzzling into his chest. “It’s quiet up here. I like that.”

He held you closer, his heart beating steadily beneath your cheek. “I needed us somewhere no one could reach. Just for a little while.”

“Because I’m still healing?” Your voice was smaller than you meant for it to be.

“No.” His answer was immediate. “Because I need time with you. Alone. Not shared. Not interrupted. Just… us.”

You hum, closing your eyes and letting yourself be embraced by the most fearsome man of the city. In this moment, where the world was blanketed in snow, where nothing existed but the steady beat of Wonwoo’s heart and the feel of his body against yours, you were safe.

“Nonu?” 

Wonwoo looks down, still curling against his side beneath the blanket, hand pausing on your waist. “Yeah, babydoll?”

You hesitated, feeling your pulse thudding against your ribs. You feel the warmth of his body pressed against yours and the subtle way his scent thickened the longer you laid together in the quiet cabin. Maybe it was the isolation, or the cold outside – or maybe it’s just him.

The sense of safety he gives.

You swallowed, “What… What do you think about knotting me?”

Wonwoo stills, his hand splaying wider on your waist as a means to ground you in place, as though you’d float off if he didn’t. He leans down slowly, brushing his nose against your cheek. “Are you asking me if I thought about it?” his voice is now laced with some darker, thicker. “Or if I want to?”

Your face burned, and you tried to look away, but his hand caught your chin, gently coaxing you to meet his eyes. His gaze flickers down to your lips, then lower, and back. “You know I’ve thought about it, babydoll. Especially that time during your heat, but I had to stop because we were still getting used to each other.”

“What about now?”

His voice drops, “You’re still healing. Not now, okay?”

You let out a shaky breath, “I feel okay, Nonu. Better. And… I want it. I want you”

His hand tightened slightly at your hip, not enough to hurt, but just enough to let you feel the echo of what he was holding back.

“You sure, babydoll?” he asks quietly, “Because once I do that, there’s no going back to pretending I don’t need you. I’m going to be all over you, y’know?”

You reach for your Alpha, fingers curling into his sweater, voice barely steady. “Then let it.”

For a moment, Wonwoo just stares at you. And then the alpha in him stirred – quiet and hungry – as he shifts to hover above you, mouth grazing yours. “My feisty Omega can’t help but to be all soft for me now, hmm?” his voice was rough with barely checked restraint and it was enough to have you dripping. His breath ghosts over your lips, his nose brushing yours as his eyes darken. “Always biting back, but the second I touch you like this…”

His hand slides down your thigh, his touch possessive and curls it under your knee, spreading you open just a little more before pulling down the pyjama pants you were wearing.

“...you melt.”

Your breath catches, fingers curling into his sweater as heat coils low in your belly. Wonwoo wasn’t just teasing, he was marveling.

“Oh, babydoll,” he continues, enjoying the way your thighs tremble when his cold fingers trail up the skin of your bare thighs. “I’m going to bury myself in you and let my knot swell so deep that you’ll forget where I end and where you begin.”

“You’ll take good care of me, right, Alpha?”

Wonwoo groans softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll take good care of you, my sweet Omega.”

He kisses you slowly, soft at first – the deeper, hungrier, like the dam had cracked and he could finally taste what he’d been starving for. His palms slid down your sides, memorising every curve, every shiver. He doesn't rush, deciding to not strip you out of the sweater you were wearing to keep you warm.

Pulling away just enough, Wonwoo slides off his glasses and settles them aside on the nightstand. His eyes, dark and intense, were focused entirely on you. The familiar weight of his gaze sent a shiver up your spine. It was as though without the barrier of his glasses, he could see straight through you.

“You’re so beautiful, babydoll,” he murmured, breath brushing against your lips before he kissed you again, deeper, like he couldn’t stop himself. He groaned against your mouth, the soft drag of his lips against yours. His fingers traced the line of your jaw., down your neck and over the curves of your body, like he was committing the shape of your body to memory.

You let out a shaky whimper, hands trembling as you reached for him, tugging him closer. His entire being invades your senses, filling the space between your bodies as his kiss grew more intense, more desperate. You can’t help but respond to his hunger with your own, pulling him closer against your body.

You barely registered the way Wonwoo moved, only the warmth of his body that left yours for a moment. You hear the quiet click of the drawer opening beside the bed. Your voice wavered between surprise and something breathless, eyes widening just a little as your Alpha pulls out a slee black toy from it. It gleamed in the firelight, deceptively elegant. It wasn’t flashy, obviously neither you nor Wonwoo liked flashy. It was plain black, smooth, curved, and obviously meant for one purpose.

"You brought a vibrator on our honeymoon?"

Wonwoo shrugged, “More like Jihoon and Mingyu told me to. They’re… invasive to say the least.”

“How did they even know we’d be doing this?”

Wonwoo gives you a dry, amused look, like you’d just asked why the sun rises. “They’re nosy and overconfident. Honestly, since that night of your heat and when you’d ask to sleep with me, Mingyu said he can smell some kind of budding romance.”

You stared back, “That’s… That’s not a real thing, right?”

He shrugs again, “God knows. Jihoon just enables him. I have a feeling they packed it themselves when I wasn’t looking.”

A pause.

“You don’t check your luggages?”

“They probably hid it under my clothes.”

You snort, “I’m surprised it even made pass customs.”

Wonwoo chuckles, “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing they’ve smuggled through airport security.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Do I even want to know?”

He tilts his head like he’s genuinely considering it. “Probably not.”

You stare at the vibrator in his hand, “So… What use is this to us and did you at least sanitise it?”

Wonwoo sits back on his heels, the firelight casting him in gold and shadow as he pushes the sleeves of his sweater up to his forearms. “Of course I sanitised it, babydoll. As for what use, I’m sure you have that figured out.”

You let him part your legs slowly, his eyes instantly dropping to your wet cunt. He caresses your thighs, coaxing them wider and when his scent changed, thickening with quiet arousal, your body responded like it knew what was coming.

“I’d consider my knot to be big,” he said, voice low and even. “It’s gonna take more than just my fingers to open you up.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He eases two fingers into your cunt, tongue darting out to wet his lips when your breath gets stuck somewhere between your ribs and your throat. The drag of his knuckles felt cruel, like he wanted you to know exactly how he’d take you apart.

When he pushes in a third finger, you whimper. The stretch burns at first, before it fades into a more consuming ache. Your hips buck instinctively, his hand on your waist kept you pinned down like you were nothing more than a body to be used.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his lips brushes against your jaw, “You keep clenching like that and I’m going to think you like being stretched out like this.”

His fingers curled again, and you choked on a cry.

“Atta girl,” he praised, smiling against your skin.

The air was heavy with the smell of sweat, arousal, and something more dangerous. You were trembling underneath him, not just from pleasure but from the oppressive weight of his presence, the way he looked at you like you’re something fragile yet can’t help but want to break you at the same time.

Every curl of Wonwoo’s fingers leaves you breathless, the coil in your lower belly growing tighter. “You’re dripping, babydoll,” he says flatly, drawing his hand back just enough to spread your wet folds with two of his fingers before plunging them back inside. “You’re making a mess and I barely touched you.”

With one final curl of his fingers, your back arches involuntarily as his fingertips press hard against your g-spot over and over. “C’mon, babydoll,” he murmurs, voice filled with arousal. “Cum for me.”

Your body obeys, a loud cry of his name tearing through your throat as your body seizes, pussy walls fluttering around his fingers. Your nails dig into his arm, thighs trembling around his wrist, and all you can do is ride it out as he coaxes every last tremble from your body. He doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, breathing hard, and sweat sticking to your skin.

Only then does he ease them out, slowly. He lifts his slick covered fingers to his lips, tongue flicking out to taste you as he keeps his eyes on your ruined expression with a dark glint.

“You taste sweeter than I thought,” he mumbles. Leaning down, he presses a gentle kiss on your lips before spreading your thighs again. “Gimme one more and I’ll knot you, yeah?”

He turns on the vibrator, the black toy humming to life. You watch with wide eyes as he brings the toy to your slick, pulsing entrance. The moment the curved tip presses inside you, your hips jerked. It zeroed in on that spongy spot deep inside you, making your vision blur and your thighs tremble.

One hand keeps your hips still while the other begins to move the toy inside you. Your breath stutters, back arching as the toy presses up and in, vibrating relentlessly against your gspot. Your legs twitch, thighs trembling as you try to squirm away from the intense pleasure, but Wonwoo won’t let you.

He keeps you in place, spread open while he grinds the toy mercilessly against your gspot, your pulsing walls clenching and unclenching around it rhythmically. Slick, wet sounds fill the room, echoing between your moans and the relentless hum of the vibrator. Your knuckles turned white as your hands clutch the sheets, the coil in your lower belly tightening up again.

“Nonu!”

“Gonna cum again?” he asks, voice low and taunting. He pushes the toy deeper and your vision goes black around the edges. A broken sob claws its way out of your throat as the pressure becomes unbearable. “C’mon, babydoll. Show me how greedy this pussy is. I want you soaked for my knot. Wanna feel you gush all over me.”

He twists the vibrator just right, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit and your body convulses around the toy. A loud cry rips from your throat, sharp and raw as your pussy squirts, hips arching off the bed – drenching his wrists, the toy and the sheets beneath you.

Wonwoo groans, eyes dark as they lock on the way your body submits to him so beautifully. “Fuck, babydoll” he breathes, tossing the wet vibrator aside. “You’re ready to take me now. Gonna stretch you around my knot just how you’re meant to.”

He doesn’t even bother to wipe his hand, sliding them under your thighs and guiding them around his waist, lowering himself over you. You can feel the heat of his cock, flushed and heavy, grinding his length against your slick folds. “Gonna knot you so good, babydoll. Fill you so full that everyone who smells you knows you’re taken.”

You lick your lips at the weight of his knot that’s already swelling at the base. You lock your legs around his waist, heels digging into the curve of his back pulling him closer.

That was all the permission he needed.

Wonwoo lines himself up, holding back a growl as the blunt head of his cock bumps against your clit. His jaw clenches, holding back a guttural growl as he pushes in, inch by inch. Your eyes flutter shut as he stretches you, your slick walls sucking him in greedily.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grits out, kissing your jaw. “So fucking wet. Pussy feels so warm that I could die happy right now.”

You whimper, back arching as he bottoms out, his knot pressing against your entrance. He rolls his hips experimentally, letting you feel every vein of his cock, the way his cock drags against your soaked, swollen walls.

His head dips to press his mouth against the curve of your jaw, your throat. “Taking me so well. Fuck, you feel so good.”

His hands tighten on your thighs, pushing them up so your knees are pressed against your chest, angling your hips just right so he can sink even deeper. His leaking cockhead bullies your sweet spot, making you cry out with each thrust.

“Feel how deep I am, babydoll?” He slides a hand between your bodies, pressing down on your lower belly. You moan at the pressure, nails scratching down his clothed back and Wonwoo starts to roughly thrust into your sloppy cunt. The drag of his cock against your walls sends aftershocks through your twitching body.

Wonwoo groans loudly, biting down on your shoulder – not hard enough to break the skin nor the sweater you wore, but enough to have your wet walls squeeze around him. “Shit, babydoll. Your pussy tightens up when I bite you. You like that, huh? Like it when I mark you up?”

You can’t answer. You’re shaking and gasping, all thoughts wiped out by the way his leaking cockhead grinds into your cervix with every thrust, body starting to bounce from the sheer force.

He presses down on your belly again, palm flat and firm. The pressure makes you clench reflexively, his eyes focus on the way your pretty cunt is stuffed snugly around his dick – entranced with the way your puffy lips coat his thick cock with your sweet cream.

“Nonu,” you whine out, feeling a jolt of electricity run up your spine when his abdomen rubs against your clit. “Please! Want your knot!”

Wonwoo growls, forcing his knot past your rim with one brutal thrust and stretching your pussy wide. You cry out in pleasure and pain, nails digging into the fabric of the sweater that he thinks you’d shred it into pieces. You feel it pop past your entrance and lock inside you, your vision going white.

He pulls out halfway only to slam back in, so addicted to how tight and wet you are around him. He loves how your gummy walls are taking his knot, how the lewd sounds of skin slapping and the wet squelching of your pussy fills the cabin. Wonwoo’s thumb finds your clit again, rubbing it hard and fast; grunting in approval when he feels your arousal drip out your stuffed cunt.

“N-Nonu, ‘M gonna cum!” you moan, head thrown back against the pillows as he fucks you harder into the mattress.

“I know, babydoll,” he murmurs, “Can feel your pussy milking my cock.”

Your walls flutter wildly against him. His knot throbs, snug and swollen inside you, ready to fill you up. “Cum for me, my Omega,” he groans into your neck, planting wet kisses as he chases his own climax. “Make a mess on my cock.”

Your orgasm slams into you, white, hot and all-consuming. Your entire body convulses underneath him, pussy creaming his dick. Wonwoo curses under his breath, hips jerking as your pulsing walls trigger his own release.

“Take it,” he pants, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he spills his cum deep inside. Ropes and ropes of hot cum flood your womb, and you mewl as your mind wanders back to the first time he filled you up.

Your Alpha stays buried inside you, knot locked tight as he releases your legs, hanging them over his forearms. One hand has a possessive grip on your hip while the other rubs your overstimulated clit in slow, teasing circles with just enough pressure to make you jolt.

He grinds his hips against you, knot fully lodged inside you. It’s said that Alphas cum more than they usually do when knotting their bonded mates, and sure enough, Wonwoo was indeed filling your pussy with load after load of his hot cum. Not that you were complaining though. You happily take every drop he gives you with a blissful smile.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting the room in a dim amber. You’re still lying beneath Wonwoo, still stretched wide around his knot, both of you soaked in sweat and slick. You could still feel him twitching inside you, some of his cum slipping past the tight sleeve of your cunt around him. 

He releases his hold on your legs so he can bury his face into your neck, pressing soft kisses to the skin, teeth nipping over your scent gland. His voice was soft when he praised you, “My babydoll did such a good job at taking my knot.”

His hands slide under your sweater, caressing your body in gentle touches. You both stay like that until his knot deflates. But, your body hasn’t had enough yet. Your hips shifted without thinking, instinctive, needy.

Wonwoo chuckles when he feels it, pulling back to look at you – his eyes dilated and darker than before. “You still want another round, babydoll?”

You bit your lip, squirming just a little as your walls flutter helplessly around his girth. “Well, you’re still hard, Nonu~”

His grin is wolfish, but there’s a glint of fondness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. He hums, rolling his hips just enough for you to feel the slow drag of his length still nestled inside you. “That’s ‘cause your greedy little pussy won’t let go of me.”

He leans down again, pressing a kiss just below your jaw, tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin. “Keep squeezing me like that and I’ll knot you again, babydoll.”

You purr, bucking your hips up to meet his.

Wonwoo hisses, shifting his weight and hooking his forearms beneath your knees. In one swift motion he folds you in half, sinking his cock deeper into your pussy. He kisses you hard, tongue sliding against yours as he pounds your soaked cunt, thick cockhead repeatedly knocking against your cervix so hard it knocks the breath right out of your lungs too. You gasp into his mouth, body starting to tremble from the stimulation.

“Fuck,” he moans, “Pussy still so fucking tight. Look so fucking hot full of my cock.”

You cry out when you feel his knot start to swell inside you again. You can only moan and cry as he keeps hammering his cock into your sensitive hole. “Bet you’d take every load I give you, huh? Stuff you so full you’ll be dripping for days.”

Your head lolls back against the pillows, lips parting in a breathless moan. You feel everything – the stretch of his knot forcing you wider, locking you in place, the way his cock drags along your swollen walls.

“Nonu–” you whimpered, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. “Full! Too full–”

“But you can’t help but to want me to fill you again,” he groans, gripping your hips with a bruising grip. He shifts the angle of his thrusts, feeling him in your guts as his thick cock pummels into you relentlessly. Wonwoo groans when he feels your pussy constrict around him again. “Ohh, fuck, babydoll. You gonna cum again? Gonna squirt all over my cock like the needy little Omega that you are?”

You can’t answer, the only sounds leaving your lips are your filthy moans. You wail every time he drives his dick in and out of you, grinding his thick knot right against that spongy spot inside you until you reach another climax.

Your whole body seizes as you cum hard, the air being punched out from your lungs. You gush around your Alpha, liquid splashing between your thighs – soaking his sweater and the sheets beneath you. Wonwoo is mesmerised by the sight of you squirting all over his cock, how your eyes screwed shut while your sweet cries filled the room.

“Fucking hell, babydoll,” he growls, throwing his head back as he feels his own climax approaching. “Squeezing my cock so fucking good.”

The milking compression of your walls around him, clenching and unclenching around his knot, like your body was begging for him to creampie you was what drove him right to the edge. With a loud roar of your name, his whole body goes tense. His fat cock twitches and throbs inside you, flooding your already wrecked cunt with spurts of his hot cum. His knot swells further, making sure to keep your soaked pussy filled to the brim.

You cry out, nails digging into his forearms as you feel droplets of his cum drip down your thighs. Wonwoo groans when he feels your walls flutter around his length, grinding his hips slowly to try and push his cum deeper.

When he releases your legs from the mating press he had you in, you let out a moan of relief. Your muscles are barely able to hold up after being held up in that position for so long. Your thighs fall limp on the bed, trembling, and slick with sweat and a mixture of your bodily fluids.

Wonwoo doesn’t move, his cock still buried inside you as he continues to release more ropes of thick cum, coating your walls. He places his palm flat against your belly again, right over the small swell of where his cum is filling you – where his knot is. Then he presses down on it.

You gasp, your entire body jerking.

Your cunt tightens reflexively, milking his cock for more of his cum, and he groans at the squeeze. You whimper, eyes glassy, and droplets of tears cling to your lashes.

Your body goes limp beneath him as Wonwoo hovers above you, back hunched as he tries to come down from the delicious high he had just experienced. He’s still sheathed inside, cock still pulsing, his cum sloshing inside your pussy that he can already feel it dripping down your thighs.

But, fuck, the way you were tightly holding onto him – his pretty Omega all wet and stretched and stuffed to the brim, it had his instincts just snarling beneath the surface.

“Shit, babydoll,” he murmurs, voice thick with pride and affection, “Knotted you twice and you’re still squeezing me like you want a third.”

You let out a shaky chuckle, looping your arms around his neck. “I might,” you whisper, giving him a dazed smile.

Wonwoo shakes his head, “You’re insatiable.”

When he leans down to pepper kisses to your throat, you whimper out his name. “Shh, I got you, babydoll. Let’s wait til my knot deflates before we do anything else.”

You hum, clinging to him as your legs weakly wrap themselves around his waist, body still trembling from pleasure and emotions.

And as the snow continues to fall outside, blanketing the surrounding world in white, you and Wonwoo stay tangled together in the heat of the cabin, arms holding each other like you’d never let each other go.

taglist @livelaughloveseventeen @mrsjohnnysuh @luvjichang @peachytokki @arusio @wooingmandy @scoupsonlycherry

[astrologydray]

Astrology Indicators 2 ✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Astrology Indicators of a Powerful Manifestor ✨🔮

• Pluto in the 1st or 10th house – Strong willpower; can transform their reality through sheer focus.

• Jupiter in the 1st or 8th house – Naturally lucky; attracts abundance effortlessly.

• Neptune in the 10th or 12th house – Visionary energy; dreams often become reality.

• Mercury conjunct Pluto – Words and thoughts have immense power; what they speak manifests.

• Sun or Moon in the 8th house – Deep subconscious connection to energy and transformation.

• Venus in the 9th or 10th house – Attracts opportunities, wealth, or fame with ease.

• North Node in the 2nd or 10th house – Destiny tied to success, wealth, or materializing goals.

Astrology Indicators of Being a Natural Heartbreaker 💔✨

• Venus square/opposite Pluto – Love feels intense and transformative; people become obsessed.

• Lilith in the 7th house – Attracts partners who are deeply drawn to them but may fear their power.

• Pluto in the 1st house – A magnetic presence that makes a lasting impact on people.

• Venus in Scorpio – Love is all or nothing, but when it’s over, it hurts.

• Uranus in the 7th house – Unpredictable love life; people never feel like they fully have them.

• Mars in Pisces – Hard to pin down, dreamy energy that makes people fantasize about them.

• Neptune conjunct Venus – Romanticized and idealized by others, even after the relationship ends.

• South Node in the 7th house – Relationships feel karmic, and past lovers often can’t move on.

Astrology Indicators of a Highly Intuitive Person 🔮✨

• Moon in the 12th house – Absorbs energy from the unseen realm; strong psychic senses.

• Neptune in the 1st or 12th house – Highly sensitive to vibes; can pick up on unspoken emotions.

• Mercury in Pisces or the 12th house – Thinks in symbols and gut feelings rather than logic.

• Pluto aspecting the Moon – Emotionally intense and able to see through people’s facades.

• South Node in the 8th or 12th house – Carries wisdom from past lives; has an innate knowing.

• Water Sign Dominance (Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces) – Deep emotional intelligence and instinctual awareness.

• Chiron in the 1st or 12th house – A natural healer who senses pain in others before it’s spoken.

• Venus or Neptune in the 8th house – Intuition is strongest in love, money, and hidden matters.

Astrology Indicators of Someone Who Changes People’s Lives Just by Existing ✨🔮

• Pluto in the 1st house – A powerful presence that forces people to transform just by being around them.

• Uranus in the 1st house – Disrupts the status quo and inspires others to embrace their individuality.

• Neptune in the 1st house – People project their dreams, emotions, and even healing onto them.

• Lilith conjunct ASC or MC – A rebellious, untamed energy that challenges societal norms.

• Pluto aspecting Sun or Moon – Brings deep, sometimes uncomfortable transformation to those closest to them.

• North Node in the 1st or 10th house – Their life path naturally places them in a role where they influence others.

• Chiron in the 1st or 10th house – A walking healer; people feel changed just by knowing them.

• Venus or Jupiter aspecting Pluto – A rare mix of charm and intensity that makes a lasting impact.

Astrology Indicators of Someone Who’s Meant to Be Famous ⭐️✨

• Venus or Jupiter conjunct the MC – Charismatic, likable, and naturally attracts public admiration.

• Uranus aspecting the MC – Gains fame unexpectedly or for being unique and ahead of their time.

• Sun in the 10th house – A natural-born leader whose identity is tied to public recognition.

• Leo Rising or Sun in the 1st house – Magnetic presence that draws attention effortlessly.

• North Node in the 10th house – Life purpose is tied to public recognition and success.

• Pluto aspecting the MC – Gains power and influence through their career or public persona.

• Midheaven in Leo or Aquarius – Either a star in the traditional sense (Leo) or famous for being unconventional (Aquarius).

• 11th house placements (especially Venus or Jupiter) – Gains popularity through social networks and the internet.

[kandlewick]

continuing off the janitor au from here

the sound of the first bell for lunch was one of your least favorite times of the day. no matter what you were doing or where you were, whenever you heard that chime go off, you knew that the next hour or three would be filled with real hard manual labor. most tasks of being a janitor weren't the worst thing to deal with. they were mindless enough that you could zone out and sing a little tune back from your world to wile away the hours.

Lunch time was different though. putting a bunch of students, boy students, together in one place was hard enough but a bunch of savanaclaw boys was even harder.

you had unceremoniously began ranking each dorm with how their students acted and how they treated you. pomefiore students weren't too bad if you ignored what they were saying. they usually pretended you didn't exist which was preferable and they were usually too aware of what they were wearing and how they looked to make any real messes. their second in command or whatever has stricken up a few conversations with you, nice enough guy that he was. when you heard him speak for the first time, you had practically dropped your cleaning supplies in surprise.

heartslabyul students were also pretty easy to deal with. they use to be a wild card with how they would act but ever since an incident happened (something something over blot? you had no idea, just that you weren't tasked to clean it.) there was a mass exodus of students transferring to other dorms. the few that were left were the studious ones, the ones that didn't mind the structure and rules of the dorm or they were one of the poor sods whose applications for moving had been denied.

octavinelle students at least knew physical labor since most of them have been (forced) tasked to work at their dorms little restaurant thingy. every so often you'd see a student walking around with a ridiculous anemone sprouting out of their head like a pikmin. when it made a little sound, they even all rounded up like the little guys! you would've felt bad for them if you didn't find it as funny as you did.

scarabia students weren't too bad but by the seven they were loud. especially their housewarden. sweet kid, but you had a soft spot for his second in command. he was one of the few students who acknowledged your presence even if it was just a catching of the eye or a subtle nod of his head. judging by how much his friend threw at him, you'd think he at least could sympathize with you.

ignihyde students were an enigma. they were rare to begin with but most of them would just eat and scurry off back to their dorms. they didn't make much of a mess besides the occasional spilled soda or spicy chip dust residue. they were a very clean lot besides. probably needed to be with how much equipment they handle in their dorm.

diasomnia students were Fine. there was a weird hierarchy going on in their dorm. some of the fae and half fae students weren't the most pleasant same aged peers to get along with, particularly the green haired little twerp that hung around your darling friend hornton, but most of them pretending you weren't around. two of them had introduced themselves to you though. their vice housewarden, lilia, and a pretty silver haired boy... named silver. silver in particular was someone you had gotten close, helping him move from classroom to the next when needed because of his injury.

somehow, the exact reason unknown to you, silver had gotten hurt during a spelldrive tournament when a mass stampede of students and pedestrians had all of a sudden fallen in to a state of panic. silver had done his best to calm the crowd and safely get them to disperse but, in the struggle, had broken his arm. diasomnia had to back out last minute due to the injured member and for the first time in several years, savanaclaw had won the spelldrive tournament.

savanaclaw.

Savanaclaw.

they were your least favorite students to deal with. their dorm worked under a strict hierarchy, carnivores on top and herbivores at the bottom and you were the herbivoriest herbivore that had ever existed. they were the ones who would make eye contact with you and poorly throw their lunch in the trash and missing by a wide margin, getting their nasty leftovers all over the floor. they were the ones that actually touched you.

"and what are you going to do about it, janitor?"

you weren't going to do anything. you just glared at the freshman as he tried to make himself look even a smidgen more intimidating. you might've even been a little worried if this little brat wasn't trying to make himself look cooler then he was. this kid was bottom of the barrel, lowest rung on the ladder but he thought you were even lower.

"what? got nothing to say? did that little monster you drag around eat your tongue or something?" he grinned, inching closer and closer to you while flashing his canines at you. he even had the audacity to reach forward and make a grab for your broom as his fellow freshman cheered him on. "come on, little janitor. you don't belong here, you don't even deserve to be licking up our messes. why don't you just go home and—"

you swiftly pulled away, drew back your leg, and slammed your knee in to the boys pelvis. you ignored his sharp gasp of air as he dropped to the ground like he was weightless and against every fiber of your being telling you to run away and hide, your body told you to keep going. you've had enough of this. every single snide remark, icy stare and bullying you've dealt with since arriving in this stupid fucking world just bubbled up in side of you until it burst open.

you hit him with your broom over and over.

"You think I want to stay here cleaning up after some asshole like you?! you think I like having to live here?! you think I don't want to be home?! I hate it here! I hate it here! I hate all of you! I want to go home!!"

you don't know what happened after that. you can only vaguely remember a student pulling you off of him and throwing your broom to the side, far away from either of you.

"breathe." The one holding you commanded, arms wrapped tight around your own. you struggled still, tears now freely flowing but the stranger holding you back pulled even tighter, his grip even stronger "breathe."

"leona—!" the freshman breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his housewarden holding you back but nobody moved to help him up. he looked around for a moment, almost expecting others to come rallying to his defense but scrambled up on to his feet when nobody came.

Leona passed your limp body over to another beastman, a wolf by the looks of it, judging by the ears and fluffy tail and crossed his arms before sliding his gaze back to the one looking up at him expectantly. his eyebrows were furrowed in annoyance, as if this whole thing was a bother, "what made you think it was a smart idea to attack a staff member?"

"huh?"

Leona was obviously not impressed by the boy's confused stare and let out a huge sigh, a hand pressed to his forehead as if he was the only one with any sort of brain in this whole auditorium, "a staff member, idiot."

you didn't stay long enough to hear the rest of the conversation, having been escorted back to your dorm by the wolf beastman but judging by your bully's sheepish expression and leona's growing annoyance, you could at least rest easy knowing he was being verbally smacked down even more.

the wolf beastman looked almost sheepish once you actually thought about acknowledging his presence. he seemed almost embarrassed.

"leona will make sure he's taken care of." he assured you while he brought his hand up and ran it through his hair, "I uh... I also should have been keeping a better eye on him, seeing as we're both freshmen and savanaclaw students. we have a bad enough name after the spelldrive tournament. don't need the other dorms to add to it by hearing we're also harassing staff."

you only sort of nodded, hearing half of what he was saying since your bour body was still thrumming with nerves. "ah.. mm." You opened your front door and chose to ignore the sound of the doorknob rolling out of its socket and falling to the dilapidated wooden floor and kept looking at him.

"anyways, I'll uh," he didn't really know what to say but continued, "I'll see you around?"

"mmm. yeah."

[xazse]

HELLO!!! I saw that your requests are open!! I love sukuna hybrid tiger or lion x a really sensitive bratty reader(fem or gn) smut

Reader is really sensitive and crys if someone says no to something reader wants or just because someone said something mean.

AM REALLY SORRY IF YOU DON'T SMUT OR FEM READER MY INTERNET IS REALLY SLOW.

THANK YOU IF YOU DECIDE TO DO THIS♡

Notes: I hope you enjoy this<33 (sorry if this was a little rushed)

Parings: Sensitive!FemReader x TigerHybrid!Sukuna

Warnings: HeienEra!Sukuna/four arms + crybaby!reader + licking + two cocks + crying + penetration + creampie

TigerHybrid!Sukuna loves his little crybaby!

an effort to get him to get you that jewel you’ve been hearing about from travelers telling their tales, he continues to tell you that such a thing doesn’t exist and to quit being a bother, you stop for a moment and he can already hear the sniffles in your voice, he can see the waterworks decorating your waterline, it’s not long before the fat tears start running down your cheeks.

“Such a crybaby, why do you insist that that jewel actually exists?” He sighs before continuing “that’s just a tale for stupid humans, last time I recalled you’re a human but you aren’t stupid.” He uses two of his four arms to place you in his lap facing him.

He begins using his thick tongue to lick at the tears falling freely, his tongue is rough and hurts a bit as he even licks over your eyes. Your attempt to push him off of you is met with him pulling you into his chest deeper and wrapping his tri-colored tail around your waist, he won’t stop licking till your tears stop.

TigerHybrid!Sukuna who despises having to eat human food but has to appease to you.

It’s so gross as it makes his way down his throat, he feels the need to gag and throw the shit up but in your presence he won’t. He loves the content look on your face as you sit so close to him enjoying your own food, he’ll even let you spoon feed him on rare occasions.

TigerHybrid!Sukuna whose cocks throbs when you have to take both.

You’ll literally whine when he’s using his thick fingers to pry open your hole and your pussy, he says he needs to or it’ll hurt a tenthfold. He takes full advantage though: using his tongue as well to collect all your juices and stretch you out.

He loves the feeling of you clenching around the digits so tight, you’re moaning loudly and lewdly he’s sure the entire estate can hear just how good he’s making you feel, but it’s nothing compared to when he’s fitting his fat cocks inside of you.

He’s finally done prepping you and needs to be balls deep inside. He grabs his 2nd cock and presses it against the entrance of your pussy, the soaked hole is already slurping up his tip fully. He can hear you taking deep breaths of air as he pushes and pushes inside, your cunt is so damn snug and already twitching needy around him. It’s when he takes his other cock and begins pushing it inside of your ass do you start up your crying. He can already picture how ruined you already are.

Sukuna presses his full weight on your back, successfully pining you against the bed. He’s waited all day for this so he starts moving his hips rather fastly, his cocks filling you to the brim just to be snatched out fully and fitted right back in. The mix of your crying and moaning sounds so good. He has to hold you still to contain your shaking twitchy body, you always get like this when both are ruining your small holes.

Sukuna can’t help himself when he begins biting your neck, he tries to keep his sharp teeth under control as to not draw blood like last time, he also soothes you with his soft purring.

He starts grinding his hips down against your ass, angling his hips downward he starts hitting your sweet spot directly, all these years he’s learned your body perfectly like a piano. It has you breathless, and obviously mewing for more through a teary voice, he gives you just that: rubbing your little bud, your folds are slippery but he manages to slide over your clit over and over.

Your cunt and ass flutters around his cock , feels so fucking good you can’t help but slur out.

Sukuna slams against you one last time before filling you with thick ropes of his cum, he sighs and stops for a minute and exactly a minute before holding your body down and moving his hips again, Your TigerHybrid is the type to cum quickly but able to keep shooting round after round inside you. That’s why you find it exhausting to take both of his cocks, he gets too excitable to where you’re going until the sun comes up.

[studioeisa]

LOVE&LETTER REPACKAGE ୨ৎ celebrating 10 years with SVT!

i said it once, i'll say it again: caratblr is populated by some of the most talented individuals you will find. incredibly lucky to be in the presence of these greats, whose writing change and challenge the ways we think and the stories we tell. here are some of my all-timers. ‹𝟹

footnotes: some of these work may contain explicit content. please heed the warnings when checking them out. all headers are from u/seventeenzone.

from the vantage point of death by @heartepub

when the lord of the dead meets the goddess of spring, all his plans are derailed.

there is simply no sugarcoating it: viv is a generational writer on this side of the fandom and beyond. this fic is a bullet point in the long list of reasons why. the tale of hades and persephone is time-worn and sometimes tired; viv makes a version of it that is entirely her own in ftvpod. in a way, this reads like a hozier song—haunting gospel, tender folklore, and understated sensuality. spring has come, and it's because viv has brought it in with ftvpod.

to love and to pound by @pochaccoups

There’s something different about Seungcheol since he got you pregnant.

char's work is never short of genius, but this particular piece strikes a balance between intimacy and smut that you are unlikely to find elsewhere. the time spent exploring the physicality of the couple—while also touching on sentiments that just feel so inherently seungcheol—really reminds you why she deserves to hold a username referencing pochaccoups. it bears repeating: char is one of, if not the, best writers you will ever find if you're wanting to read about choi seungcheol.

jeonghan drabble by @seungcheorry

it started with a "love, can i borrow a towel? i forgot mine" the first time he slept at your place; you gave it to him, a silly smile on your lips when he stepped out of the bathroom with your towel around his neck.

there is romance in the mundane, and cherry reminds us of that every so often. her writing has proven to be love letters to the slow days and the stolen moments; this jeonghan drabble is among her best work. there's sentimentality in this piece that manages to weave jeonghan so seamlessly into the seemingly 'boring' humdrum of daily life—proving, once again, that love can be found somewhere between takeout and shampoo.

‘til god breaks this spell by @joshujin

joshua's devotion to you rivals his devotion to his god.

faith is tricky. faith ebbs like the tide; faith finds itself in the oddest of places. some might say faith exists in good writing such as that of trixie's. 'til god breaks this spell is a heart-wrenching exploration of the religions we grow up with, the convictions we grow out of, and the loves we grow around. this is the kind of story that heals something long since forgotten—so, thank you, trixie, for the absolution.

soul like me by @lovetaroandtaemin

You and Joshua have been friends for most of your life, and you thought that you always would be. Turns out, your feelings for each other are stronger than you thought, but love isn't always enough to keep a relationship strong.

to write humane characters in fiction is a feat that ally never seems to struggle with. soul like me bares intrinsic flaws that i'm sure we would all rather forget. it raises a mirror to the people we become when we are hurting and when we intend to hurt. it begs the question: is love the end all be all? the answer lies somewhere in the fic; as for real life, though, ally continues to chart love in all its forms through her writing.

worth it by @chugging-antiseptic-dye

“But I've left no room in my heart to turn back. So if we're wrong, let's be wrong together.”

give a an inch, and she'll take a mile. worth it is reminiscent of the impactful writing one might find from classics like fanfiction.net. to anticipate the ending does not soften the blow. there are no gut punches in this story. just the quiet beginning and end of it all, and the sting that stays in the heartbeats that follow. helpless, thy name is mine, because a is bound to continue with these deep cuts in her future work.

elevatory by @wqnwoos

You were once deeply and irrevocably in love with Kwon Soonyoung, and it’s incredibly hard to avoid that fact when he works literally two offices down from you. It’s even harder to avoid when you’re stuck in a broken elevator with him for hours, and he seems determined to dissect everything that went wrong three years ago.

hana treats soonyoung with a level of respect so rarely seen in fics where he is at the center. the inventiveness of this story is noteworthy, but i firmly believe it's the emotionality that really makes elevatory shine. anybody who has loved, lost, and gained is bound to find something here—whether it is closure, grace, or nostalgia. i, for one, found one of the brightest writers you might ever find on caratblr.

wings against the wind by @diamonddaze01

The tide pulls in. The stars burn on. Neither of you move.

every time i think tara has reached the pinnacle of her writing, she puts out another piece that shows otherwise. what makes wings against the wind a fic worth coming back to time and time again is the setting of it all. their summers could easily be mine, or yours; all of us were sixteen, and eighteen, and twenty-eight once. there is comfort in writing that reminds you that you are not alone in the grand scheme of things. tara is that extended hand, charting the friendship and romance that we lose to the sea.

on call by @kkaetnipjeon

you'd never sleep in an on-call room, but that doesn't mean you won't find other uses for it.

i feel like a broken record who has ranted and raved about mj's writing way too often, but with works like on call, how could i not? this is a stellar intersection of humor, intimacy, and romance, in a setting that is just so utterly apt for jeon wonwoo. i knew this way back when, but this fic has convinced me i'd read 50k words from mj. or her grocery lists, even, if she is ever so inclined. before i'm properly derailed by fangirling: reading on call is the best thing you could do for yourself today.

maestro's muse by @ppyopulii

It’s HYBEHAX’s 10th year anniversary, and as the hackathon’s newest Design Team Lead, you are determined to make this year its best year yet.

jay's maestro's muse is an ongoing series that i can imagine jihoon being proud of. reinventing the form is a challenge few truly succeed at; jay does it, and will undoubtedly continue to do it. the world-building in this is simply lovely, and i'm among the dozens of people who await updates with bated breath.

chunhyangjeon redux by @shinysobi

If I had time, I would learn to love him in a softer way, perhaps, where my hands are bloodied and bruised from trying to hold on too hard.

as someone who has never been particularly well-versed in historical plots, i was pleasantly surprised to thoroughly enjoy chunhyangjeon redux. it might be easy to say that i come from a place of bias—i know how much work ro put into this piece, from ideation to eventual execution. that would be a disservice to the plain and simple fact that this fic is a brilliant period piece with a strong voice and immense soul.

neurosurgeon wonwoo x reader x neurologist jihoon by @thepixelelf

"He's frozen," you tell Jihoon, eyes set on the operating table and the man at the head of it.

there is no fic i think of as often as this. there's one line here—the ending one, specifically—that has quite literally impacted me so much that i continue to revisit this piece half a year (!) after i first found out. this is not an isolated incident; ursa seems to have a penchant for writing fics that truly stick with you. there's a tenderness to her characterizations that you simply can't replicate, which makes much of her masterlist timeless.

wasteland, baby! by @gotta-winwin

they say love can cure infection.

serena, harbinger of heartbreak, was kind enough to preempt me that this fic would rip my heart out of my chest. that did not make things any easier. wasteland, baby! reads like sand in an hourglass. there's a sense of dread that follows you throughout, but it goes hand in hand with hope. it's that heady cocktail of emotion that should convince you serena is worth reading until the end of the world.

golden promises by @diamonddaze01

And so it began. Minghao, who believed in fate, and you, who didn’t.

golden promises is more than just a crash and burn in slow motion. it's the final notes of your favorite song; it's the quiet beginning and end of it all. if you were to look up 'ache' in the dictionary, this fic would be an apt redirection exemplifying the word. while fate is bastardized in this story, it finds a home somewhere else. perhaps in the reminder that tara is fated to write, because golden promises is a fic that demands to be read.

glimpse of us by @gyubakeries

it's all wrong. when mingyu wakes up, a white ceiling presses down on him, the scent of oranges suffocates him, and skin that is brushing against his isn't warm.

you would expect tragedy to shape the form of a fic entitled glimpse of us, but tiya pulls the rug underneath your feet. this fic has a glaring amount of hope despite its heavy angst tag, and i do believe only a write like tiya could strike that balance without it feeling heavy-handed. narrative switches add to the emotional tug-of-war in this piece; redemption is earned, not simply granted. if this is your first glimpse into tiya's work, i urge you to look at the whole picture—it's a gallery worth visiting.

the subtle art of stirring the pot by @miniseokminnies

The kitchen at Quartz and Serenity in New York City runs like a well oiled machine. Then comes Lee Seokmin, the new sous chef, breezing in with a carefree attitude that disrupts your routine. All you've known for the last few years is studying, sleeping, and this kitchen. You try your best to work with the new addition to the chaos but what happens when the pot gets stirred?

if we're talking about the art of something, then let this be the art of writing lee seokmin. bennie nails the buildup and dynamic necessary to execute the tropes in this fic, and it can only come from a place of somebody who knows how to write seokmin. the tension crackles like a livewire in this body of work; much of bennie's writing, i believe, comes to life—whether in a kitchen, a record store, or during a game of chess.

something in the orange by @heartepub

remembrance is also reconstruction. reconstruction presupposes loss. a meditation on memory, narrative, and grief. and, of course, love.

it would be a lie to claim something in the orange as anything less than my favorite piece of k-pop fanfiction, bar none. this is the kind of story that you think of years down the line, even after you've left a fandom. i don't doubt i will. in sito, viv weaves a pulitzer-worthy story that simply cannot be boxed into the genre of 'apocalypse au'. this is grief. this is memory. this is what it means to be human, captured in 5k words featuring boo seungkwan. i will scream it from the rooftops, i will reconstruct to hell and back—sito is an absolute headliner.

it gets easier by @mercif4l

fingers off the unblock button or you're gonna regret it, girl.

rowan has a writing voice that is so utterly distinct, i could scroll through the vernon x reader tag for hours and find nothing like this. there is catharsis in hurt/no comfort, especially when done well. it gets easier gives you room to wallow, but it also reminds you of necessary evils that await on the other side of self-flagellation.

hello, darling by @sailorsoons

Vernon has been one of your best friends for years. Shy, quiet and calm, he’s always been a steady rock for you. He has no idea you’re in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. After a strange series of events on Halloween night, Vernon seems a little… different, and the new version of him both terrifies and thrills you.

nobody is writing about svt like hali is. her body of work is an outstanding masterlist of alternate universes, spanning genres that touch on the human condition in ways that will leave you breathless. hello, darling is a prime example. the supernatural and thriller aspects of the fic unfold like a jordan peele plot—deliciously tense, intentionally vague, and loaded with suspense.

here, there, and everywhere by @chanranghaeys

This journal belongs to: me. If found, please contact this number. (And please do not read it—unless you want to read the ramblings of a person who fails to deny their feelings for a certain someone.)

here, there, and everywhere is an unashamed love letter to lee chan, from somebody who undoubtedly cares for him. like the song goes, hani knows that love is to share—and there is just so much of it in this fic. in between expressions of devotion and charting of affection through the years, here, there, and everywhere brings us to the very core of what it means to have a bias. overall, a beautiful ode to the man underneath the myth/legend.

not so loud by @daechwitatamic

You've been in love with Lee Chan for almost two years, despite his rejection seven months ago. When you're impossibly coupled up on a friendcation, you're determined not to make it everyone else's problem. Of course, you weren't expecting to have to room with him, and you certainly weren't expecting only one bed…

not so loud is a masterclass in friends to lovers. jo gives all her characters a level of autonomy that makes this fic a living, breathing thing. i remember sending this to four different people the first time i finished it, with a semi-crazed message of you have to read this. that still stands. this piece is gorgeous, not only in how it progresses the relationship, but also in how it resolves it conflicts and brings each scene to life.

MORE & MORE & MORE!

joshujin's we can be all we need (soonyoung)

100vern's while he's gone (soonyoung & vernon)

mylovesstuffs' a song for the ones who leave (vernon)

svtiddiess' the fae in my heart (minghao)

shinwonderful's freedom of choice

vampsol's a cut to remember (vernon)

vampsol's not a bad thing (vernon)

ppyopulii's hoshi + work song by hozier

etherealyoungk's ramen & fate (seungkwan)

shuacore's warm glow (joshua)

miniseokminnies' the boy who lives on the moon (jun)

[itstheghostofmypast]

Loved

Corporate AU Choi Jongho x (F)Reader

Summary: Sometimes you feel sad, sometimes you feel loved, either way, with Jongho, it just made sense.

Genre: Hurt+Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: None

Word Count:1.7K

Est.Read Time: 8 min

Networks: @k-labels

Song Rec: I Feel Loved- Aden, Amin

A/N: I was supposed to post something else, but this had to come out of the system first I guess.

It wasn't odd to find you in Jongho's room; most of the time, if Wooyoung stumbled in, he'd be unfazed, too busy trying to look for something he could “borrow,” greet you with a quick nod, and leave afterwards. Hongjoong had developed a habit of knocking while entering the youngest's room, even if he was aware that Jongho was out for work and could not have been inside. Not that it bothered the two out of the three, it was surprising that Jongho had managed to get a girlfriend before any of them. The youngest, whose life was composed mostly of being cramped in his cubicle during the day, only to grab something to eat on the way back- unless Wooyoung was feeling nice to cook for them- and to pass out on his bed. Hence, the your mysterious presence had scared them, especially once they had discovered your existence in his room, one night, when they had barged in to demand that Choi Bear plays this three player console game they had purchased, only to find him standing in the middle of the room wearing a full suit, holding three different ties, showing them to a woman sitting cross legged on the ergonomic chair, stroking her chin in thought.

Either way, the two flatmates met you that night, learning about your blossoming relationship with Jongho, and how the ever-so-busy corporate slave had somehow managed to get your number in the subway one night when the two of you were standing in the cramped space, when he had moved to give you space next to the wall, protecting you from being pushed or shoved when the next wave of travellers entered- granted the two of you got off at the last station, and had noticed each other before, perhaps that’s why this relationship had flowed smoother than expected. Just like that, you had become an unofficial, official flatmate.

It was however, very odd to find you in his room, curled up on the floor, so much so, that Wooyoung who had barged in to steal- borrow- a shirt had almost jumped out of his socks, as he blinked at the figure on the ground, curled up and asleep, using what he assumed was Jongho’s hoodie as a balled up pillow under your head. That was when he had slowly closed the door and walked to look for the other adult in the flat responsible enough to deal with this situation.

“Maybe she was just sleeping?” Hongjoong mumbled, aimlessly scrolling on his phone.

“Shouldn’t she be sleeping on the bed then?” Wooyoung scoffed in response, about to add a follow-up statement when they heard the door beep and the third flatmate walked in. The two turned to stare at the man, who sighed, neatly placing his shoes in the rack before he stared at them, “What?”

“Well, umm…what's in the bag?” Wooyoung asked, pointing towards the plastic shopper in the suited man’s hand, “She’s in your room, but on the flo-”

“Yeah, I had a feeling.” he mumbled, as he walked into the apartment, placing his coat on the dining table chair and the plastic bag on the table, “I brought icecream.” he mumbled before taking something out of the plastic bag, something that had the other two snickering as they watched their ‘tsundere’ corporate slave walk down the corridor towards his room, holding a box of chocolates and a bouquet.

He opened the door and blinked at the darkness, slowly making his way into the room, tossing the bouquet on the other side of the bed, and placing the box on the nightstand. He walked over to your sleeping form, taking in your huddled-up figure. Shaking his head in disbelief, he loosened his tie, crouching down beside you, “Then she says her back hurts.” With that, he gently lifted you off the ground and walked towards the bed, a small chuckle leaving him when you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer when he helped you lie down, refusing to let him go, “I’ll be back, gotta shower first.”

The way you sniffled, grip tightening around him, had him give up, slowly pushing you to your side as he lay down beside you, sighing in defeat when you curled into him, gripping his shirt as you stifled an upcoming sob, shaking in his hold. Jongho didn't say a thing, nothing about the flowers, nothing about the chocolates, nothing about your day; he just held you close, giving you a gentle squeeze once in a while, listening to the way your cries died down, only for them to crescendo a moment later. His heart clenched at the uncontrollable jitters that ran through your body, gently shaking you as he clicked his tongue, “Yah…is this how an independent girlboss reacts?”

This was something about Jongho that most people didn't understand. To a prying ear, it may seem as if he was insulting you, but you knew more than anyone that if someone cared deeply about your well-being, it was Choi Jongho. The man who would wait for you at the train station every morning with a coffee in hand, the man who would try his level best to get you a seat on your way back, the man who would cover you in the crowded train, almost hugging you like a bear, the man who would wait for you when you'd have to work over time- and then would then nag at you when you two would get a cab, and pay as well. Jongho was someone who could poorly express any form of affection, and as much as you'd berate him for that, you knew he'd show you how he felt about you through his actions. You appreciated how he didn't believe in grand gestures, but instead he'd do these little things- he'd also respect how your objective views and irritable rational approach was something that defined you, so he knew when it came down to consoling you, little “It's going to be okay” or “it's not your fault” - unless it really wasn't- were not what you'd look for. You wanted to hear the truth, no matter how better, Jongho just knew how to give it to you.

He glanced down at your sleeping form, eyes flickering to your tired features, taking in your swollen eyes and pink nose, a pout that matched his. You were out cold. Slowly, he slipped out of your grasp, standing up to stretch, loosening his muscles as he watched you snuggle into his pillow. A thousand questions ran across his mind as he walked over to the place you had been initially sleeping on, picking up his hoodie as he shook his head in amusement, the things you did were….weird, but he knew, he knew when you'd end up using the hard floor for comfort, things had gone from bad to worse.

In the late afternoon, you texted him, telling him how you're heading home early. It was at that moment that he had begun to worry about you, knowing very well that when you meant home, you meant his room, he just didn't know how bad it was. The sight of you there on the floor had confirmed the level of ���bad” it actually was, almost having him wake you up and shake the sadness out of you, but the sight of his hoodie under your head as a pillow pushed that thought away.

By the time he had returned, after his shower and little chat with his flatmates (he had to JUSTIFY and EXPLAIN how this was not HIS fault and you were feeling better), he opened the bedroom door and almost jumped, finding you sitting on his bed in the dark, with the bouquet beside you, the uncapped box of chocolates on your lap, using the upside down lid as a temporary trashcan, filling it up with the foil of the numerous chocolates you had been devouring in your sullen state, waiting for your source of comfort.

“You're awake?”

“Thanks for these…” You mumbled, turning your head to stare at him, eying the dripping tips of his wet hair, “Want me to dry your hair?”

“I'd rather you tell me what happened.” He sighed, climbing the bed, crawling over to you and smacking his wet lips against your cheek, chuckling when you whined, using that as a distraction to sneak a few chocolates out of the box.

“Took one for the team.”

“You mean the team that didn't do their work?”

“Mhmmm…”

He nodded in response, before sitting beside you, back pressed against the headrest, reaching to lace his fingers with yours. “What now?”

“Gonna pretend it's okay and move on.”

“Sensible thing to do.”

He squeezed your hand when you moved closer, resting your head on his shoulder, before tilting your head up to stare at him, only to meet his eyes, he was thinking of something, something vile, something naughty, something-

“You should add laxatives to the coffee next time they send you on a coffee run.”

You shook your head at his statement, “Choi Jongho-HEY!”

He ignored your yelling as he plucked the box out of your lap and tossed it aside, only to tackle you in a bear hug, choosing to lie over you, as you struggled against him, eventually giving up and letting him hug you, the added pressure of weight comforting you. Jongho buried his face in your neck, kissing the warm skin before closing his eyes and mumbling, “Goodnight.”

“Jjong….will you…move?”

“Don't you love me enough to be crushed by my love?”

“Will your love be the same after I pee on your bed-”

He jumped off you and opened the door, bowing politely, “Please, my queen, go relieve yourself.”

“That's what I thought.” You giggled, something that had his smile widening, at the sound, his tired eyes meeting yours, but it was all worth it, as long as he had someone he had to protect, take care of, lean on, he'd bend over backwards no matter how tired he was, as long as his sun let her gravitate around her, let him be her moon.

You stood on your toes and pecked his lips, catching him by surprise before squishing his cheeks, “Thank you, Jjong.”

He watched you go down the hall to the washroom, taking in your form as he sighed to himself in relief, unknown to him you had started to feel better the moment he had carried you to the bed, knowing that you have someone like Jongho made it all worth it, made you believe that you could get up each morning, fight through your day, only to end it in the loving arms of your care bear.

At that very moment the same thought ran through your heads, unknown to either of you,

“I feel loved.”

[onlyforsebastianstan]

"Just a Friend" (Part 2)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: In a rain-soaked Brooklyn, a graphic designer falls for Bucky Barnes, a man haunted by his past as the Winter Soldier. Their connection deepens through bookstore afternoons, jazz bar dances, and candlelit nights, but Bucky’s fear of his own darkness keeps him from defining their relationship. When she overhears him dismiss her as “just a friend” to his teammates, her heart breaks, and she pulls away, seeking solace in the uncomplicated warmth of her coworker Matt. As Bucky watches her slip away, his unspoken love and jealousy drive him to confront her, leading to a raw confession of love and a promise to face their fears together. A story of heartbreak, healing, and the courage to choose love despite the shadows of the past.

📎 Genre: Romance | Drama | Angst

⚠️ Warnings: → Emotional hurt/comfort → Themes of insecurity and fear of commitment → Mild jealousy → Reference to past trauma (implied through Bucky's backstory) → Brief depictions of alcohol consumption.

See >>> Part 1

The hurt festered, a quiet wound that pulsed beneath every smile, every laugh you forced to keep up appearances. You’d made your decision that rain-soaked night, tangled in Bucky’s arms, his breath warm against your skin. It was supposed to be the last time, a final memory to hold onto before you let him go. But letting go was harder than you’d imagined, the ache of his dismissal ‘just a friend’ lingering like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. So you stopped texting him first, stopped inviting him over, stopped waiting for him to define the undefined. Instead, you turned to Matt, a coworker whose easy smile and love for old books felt like a lifeline in the storm of your heartbreak.

Matt was uncomplicated, warm, and safe. His brown eyes crinkled when he laughed, and he had a habit of quoting obscure poetry that made you roll your eyes. You’d always liked his company, the way he could talk about Fitzgerald or Frost without making it feel pretentious, the way he listened when you rambled about your latest design project. 

So when he suggested grabbing coffee one afternoon, you said yes without hesitation. When he proposed hitting the jazz bar another night, you agreed, craving the distraction, the chance to feel something other than the weight of Bucky’s words.

It was a chilly Wednesday when you met Matt at the same Park Slope bookstore you’d once wandered with Bucky. The familiar creak of the wooden floors greeted you as you stepped inside, the scent of old paper and dust wrapping around you like a familiar embrace.

Matt was already there, leaning against a shelf in the fiction section, a battered copy of The Great Gatsby in his hands. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and he grinned when he saw you, his eyes bright with a warmth that felt like a balm to your raw edges.

“You’re late,” he teased, holding up the book. “I was about to start reading this aloud to the whole store.”

You laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in days. “Please, spare them the torture,” you said, nudging his shoulder as you joined him. “What’s with the Gatsby obsession? You’ve been carrying that thing around all week.”

He shrugged, flipping through the worn pages. “I don’t know, there’s something about it. All that longing, chasing something just out of reach. It’s tragic, but… kind of beautiful, don’t you think?”

You nodded, your fingers brushing the spine of a nearby book to avoid his gaze. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Tragic’s the word.” The story hit too close to home, the echo of your own longing for Bucky too sharp to ignore. You pushed the thought away, focusing on Matt’s easy presence. “So, what’s the debate today? Is Gatsby romantic or just a fool?”

Matt leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours, a casual touch that felt deliberate in its warmth. “Fool,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Chasing a dream that doesn’t exist. Daisy was never going to be what he built her up to be. But I get why he tried. I’d kill for a love like that, you know? Something worth burning everything down for.”

The words stung, a quiet jab at the wound you were trying to ignore. You forced a grin, shoving the book back onto the shelf. “You’re such a sap,” you teased, hoping your voice didn’t betray the ache in your chest.

“Gatsby’s a fool, end of story. No one’s worth that kind of ruin.”

Matt laughed, a bright, infectious sound that echoed through the narrow aisle. “You’re probably right,” he said, his eyes lingering on you a moment too long. “But I’m holding out hope for a little romance anyway.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth of his attention was a welcome distraction. You spent the next hour wandering the shelves, trading quips about books and authors, his laughter pulling you out of the fog of your heartbreak, if only for a moment. There were no shadows with Matt, no unspoken rules or guarded silences. He was easy, open, and for the first time in days, you felt like you could breathe.

That Friday, you met Matt at the jazz bar, the same dimly lit spot where you’d once danced with Bucky. The exposed brick walls and the mournful wail of the saxophone felt like a memory you couldn’t shake, but you pushed it down, focusing on Matt’s grin as he handed you a gin and tonic. “To surviving another week,” he said, clinking his glass against yours.

“To surviving,” you echoed, taking a sip, the sharp bite of the gin grounding you. The bar was crowded, the air thick with conversation and cigarette smoke, but Matt’s presence was a steady anchor. When the band started a slow, sultry tune, he set his drink down and held out his hand.

“Dance with me?” he asked, his voice light but his eyes earnest.

You hesitated, the memory of Bucky’s hands on your waist flashing through your mind, but you nodded, letting Matt lead you to the small dance floor. His hand was light on your back, his touch gentle but sure, and you moved together easily, the music wrapping around you like a cocoon. He wasn’t Bucky—his movements lacked the careful precision, the quiet intensity—but that was the point. With Matt, there was no weight, no history, just the moment.

“You’re not bad at this,” you said, grinning up at him as he spun you gently.

“I’ve had practice,” he said, his voice teasing. “My mom made me take ballroom lessons when I was a kid. Said it’d make me a gentleman.”

You laughed, the sound genuine despite the ache in your chest. “Did it work?”

He smirked, pulling you a little closer. “You tell me.”

You shook your head, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. For a few minutes, you let yourself get lost in the music, in the ease of Matt’s company, in the way his hand felt warm and steady against yours. It wasn’t love, not even close, but it was enough to keep the heartbreak at bay.

But then you saw him.

Bucky was in the corner of the bar, half-hidden in the shadows, nursing a whiskey. His eyes were fixed on you, dark and unreadable, his jaw clenched tight. The sight of him hit you like a punch, stealing the air from your lungs. 

He was alone, his leather jacket slung over the back of his chair, his posture rigid with something you couldn’t name, anger, hurt, maybe both. You didn’t look away, letting his gaze burn into you, a silent challenge. Let him see. Let him feel it.

Matt noticed your distraction, following your gaze. “Friend of yours?” he asked, his voice light but curious.

You tore your eyes away from Bucky, forcing a smile. “Just someone I know,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “Come on, let’s get another drink.”

Matt didn’t push, just nodded and led you back to the bar, his hand lingering on your arm. But you could still feel Bucky’s eyes on you, a weight that followed you through the crowd, heavy and inescapable.

You’d seen him before, too, in the days since you’d started pulling away. A glimpse of him across the street as you left the office, his silhouette unmistakable even in the dusk. A flash of his dark hair in the crowd at the bookstore, gone when you looked again. 

Each time, his presence was a reminder of what you were trying to let go of, a pull you couldn’t quite escape. But tonight, at the jazz bar, his gaze was different, sharper, more intense, like he was seeing you for the first time and didn’t know what to make of it.

You didn’t go to him. You stayed with Matt, laughing at his stories, dancing when he asked, letting his easy warmth fill the space where Bucky’s absence ached. But every time you glanced at the corner, Bucky was still there, his eyes never leaving you, a storm brewing in their depths.

By the time you and Matt left the bar, the rain had started again, a light drizzle that misted the air. Matt offered you his jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a grin. “Can’t let you freeze,” he said, his voice warm.

“Thanks,” you said, pulling the jacket tighter, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying Bucky’s clenched jaw, the way his fingers had gripped his glass like he was holding himself back. “Look Matt, you’ve been nothing but great. I appreciate your efforts and time for me, but I hope you understand that I only see you as a friend.” How ironic. “I have feelings for someone else and I don’t wanna lead you on.”

Matt looks at you and smiles, “I know, I can  see it through you everyday. It’s the guy at the bar right?” you didn’t answer. Your silence proved he’s right. “It’s okay Y/N, I’m happy that I got the chance to hang out with you, and I hope this isn’t the last time. Even just as your friend.” 

“Of course, I mean debating with you is one of the highlights of my everyday life.” you chuckle. “See you later, Matt.” You said goodnight to Matt at the corner, promising to meet up again soon, and started walking.

That evening, you found yourself back at the bookstore, alone this time, wandering the aisles to clear your head. The familiar scent of old books was a comfort, but it also brought back memories of Bucky, his teasing grin, the way his shoulder had brushed yours as you debated novels. You were reaching for a copy of The Catcher in the Rye when you felt it again, that prickle on the back of your neck, the sense of being watched.

You turned, and there he was, standing at the end of the aisle. Bucky. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his leather jacket slightly damp from the drizzle outside, his eyes dark and unreadable. Your heart stuttered, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, rough with something you couldn’t name. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, taking a step closer, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor. “Needed a break. Thought I’d… I don’t know, see if you were around.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you? I saw you at the jazz bar. And outside my office.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. “I wasn’t following you,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction. “I was just… checking in. You’ve been distant.”

You laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Distant? Bucky, I’ve been giving you space. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

His eyes flashed, a flicker of hurt crossing his face. “That’s not what I wanted,” he said, his voice low, urgent. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’re pulling away, and I—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair, the metal of his left arm catching the light. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Your heart ached, but you held your ground, the memory of his words at the café keeping you from reaching out. “Maybe there’s nothing to fix,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe this is just… how it’s supposed to be.”

He flinched, like your words had struck something deep. “Don’t say that,” he said, stepping closer, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re not just—You mean more to me than that. You know that.”

“Do I?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your effort to stay steady. “Because I’m not sure what I mean to you, Bucky. Not anymore.”

He stared at you, his eyes searching, desperate. “You’re everything,” he said, the words spilling out like a confession. “I’m just… I’m trying to figure out how to be what you need. I’m not good at this, but I don’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightened, and for a moment, you wanted to believe him, to let his words pull you back into the orbit of his warmth. But the hurt was too raw, the decision you’d made too heavy. You shook your head, stepping back. “I need time,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “I can’t keep doing this, Bucky. Not like this.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, to reach for you, but he stayed where he was, his hands clenched at his sides. “Okay,” he said finally, his voice barely audible. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”

You nodded, turning away before he could see the tears in your eyes. You left the bookstore, the weight of his words and your own decision pressing down on you, the city’s lights blurring into the dusk. You’d keep seeing Matt, keep moving forward, but a part of you would always be here, caught in the shadow of Bucky’s gaze, a love you couldn’t quite let go of, no matter how much it hurt.

After that night at the bookstore, you and Matt still hung out, became close but not romantically. Bucky still lingered, waiting for you to come to him, but you never did.

Until one crisp autumn night wrapped Brooklyn in a chill that seeped through your jacket, the city alive with the hum of distant traffic and the rustle of leaves skittering across the pavement. You were out with Matt again, his easy laughter a welcome distraction from the ache that had settled in your chest since that final night with Bucky. 

You’d been trying to move forward, to fill the void with Matt’s warmth, his uncomplicated company, but every step felt like a betrayal of the love you still carried for Bucky, a love you couldn’t shake no matter how hard you tried.

You and Matt had spent the evening at a small art gallery in Williamsburg, a pop-up exhibit of local artists that he’d been raving about all week. The gallery was crowded, the air thick with the scent of wine and murmured conversations, the walls alive with vibrant canvases and abstract sculptures. Matt was in his element, gesturing animatedly as he explained the symbolism behind a particularly bold painting, his brown eyes bright with enthusiasm.

“You see the way the colors clash here?” he said, pointing to a swirl of red and blue. “It’s chaotic, but there’s a balance to it. Like life, you know? Messy, but beautiful.”

You nodded, sipping your wine, a smile tugging at your lips. “You sound like you should be giving tours,” you teased, nudging his arm. “When did you get so artsy?”

He grinned, leaning closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “I’ve always been artsy,” he said, his voice playful. “You just never noticed because you’re too busy arguing about Gatsby’s tragic flaws.”

You laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks, but it felt hollow, a performance for Matt’s benefit as much as your own. Your mind kept drifting to Bucky, to the way he’d looked at you in the jazz bar, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t name, to the bookstore where he’d stood at the end of the aisle, his words heavy with regret. You’d told him you needed time, but time hadn’t dulled the ache, only sharpened it.

“Let’s get some air,” Matt suggested, noticing your distraction. “It’s getting stuffy in here.”

You nodded, following him outside, the cool night air a relief against your flushed skin. The street was quiet, the gallery’s warm light spilling onto the pavement, casting long shadows. Matt leaned against the brick wall, pulling out his phone to check a message. “I need to run to the bathroom,” he said, flashing you an apologetic smile. “Be right back, okay?”

“Take your time,” you said, waving him off as he disappeared back inside. You stayed where you were, wrapping your arms around yourself, the chill of the night sinking into your bones. The street was empty, save for a few passersby, their footsteps echoing in the quiet. You tilted your head back, staring at the sliver of sky visible between the buildings, the stars faint against the city’s glow.

That’s when you heard him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Bucky’s voice cut through the night, rough and raw, laced with a desperation you’d never heard before. You spun around, your heart lurching at the sight of him. He stood a few feet away, his leather jacket open, his hair slightly damp from the mist that had started to fall. His eyes blazed, a storm of hurt and anger, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitch.

“Bucky,” you said, your voice steady despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

He took a step closer, his hands clenched at his sides. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, his voice low, trembling with barely restrained emotion. “I can’t keep watching you with him, doing all the things we—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair, his eyes darting away before locking onto yours again. “You’re replacing me.”

The accusation hit you like a slap, the hurt from that café conversation flaring anew, sharp and searing. You crossed your arms, stepping back to put distance between you, your voice cold despite the heat in your chest. “Replacing you? I’m not your girlfriend, Bucky. Remember? I’m just a friend. We’re just ‘hanging out.’ Your words, not mine.”

His face fell, the fight draining out of him like air from a punctured tire. His shoulders slumped, and he took a shaky breath, his eyes wide with realization. “You— at the cafe,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?.”

“Tell you what, bucky? What for?” you said, your voice steady despite the ache that threatened to crack it. “Should I have told you then that ‘hey bucky, I heard you calling me a friend and it broke my heart’ is that what you wanna hear? So you could tell me again that I really am just a friend? So you can break my heart more than how it already is?” 

Bucky stepped closer, his boots scuffing against the pavement, his voice low and raw. “I didn’t mean it,” he said, the words tumbling out like a confession. “I was stupid, okay? I got scared. You… you’re everything to me, but I’m a mess. My past, the things I’ve done—I don’t deserve you.”

You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes, but you blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. “That’s not your call to make, Bucky,” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your hurt. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve. You hurt me. I was right there, pouring my heart into this, and you called me just a friend.”

He flinched, his hands clenching, the metal of his left arm catching the faint light from the gallery. “I was trying to protect you,” he said, his voice breaking. “From me. From… this.” He gestured to himself, the weight of his past etched into every line of his face, the scars visible and invisible. “But seeing you with him? It’s killing me. I can’t lose you.”

The vulnerability in his voice cracked something in you, the walls you’d built around your heart trembling under the weight of his words. But you held your ground, the memory of that café conversation too fresh, too painful. “Then why did you push me away?” you demanded, your voice rising despite your effort to keep it steady. “We had something, Bucky. The nights at my apartment, the bookstore, the jazz bar—it wasn’t just ‘hanging out.’ I was falling for you, and you let me believe it was nothing.”

His eyes glistened, and he took another step closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the familiar scent of cedarwood and leather wrapping around you. “I was scared,” he said, his voice raw, almost pleading. “I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever cared about. My family, everyone. And then there’s what I did, what they made me do. I’m a walking nightmare, and you… you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in decades. I didn’t want to ruin you.”

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard, the tears you’d been fighting now blurring your vision. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you said, your voice softer now, but firm. “I’m not some fragile thing you need to protect. I chose you, Bucky. Scars, nightmares, all of it. But you didn’t choose me back. Not really.”

“I did,” he said, his voice urgent, his hands reaching out like he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare. “I do. I just… I didn’t know how to say it. I still don’t. But seeing you with that guy...”

You stared at him, the pain in his eyes mirroring your own, and for a moment, you wanted to reach out, to soothe the hurt you saw there. But you couldn’t, not yet. Not when his words at the café still echoed, not when you’d spent weeks trying to stitch yourself back together.

“Matt’s a friend. He’s kind, he’s easy to be around, but he’s not you. He’ll never be you. But I can’t keep living in this limbo, Bucky. I need more than late-night talks and no promises. I need you to be honest.” You said finally, your voice quiet but steady.

He nodded, his eyes locked on yours, the intensity in them stealing your breath. “I’m in love with you,” he said, the words spilling out like a dam breaking, raw and unfiltered. “I’ve been too damn scared to say it, but I am. I love you, and I want this—us—for real. No more hiding, no more pretending it’s less than it is.”

Your heart stuttered, the words you’d longed to hear hitting you like a wave, threatening to pull you under. You studied him, searching for any sign of hesitation, but there was none, just sincerity, raw and unguarded, his hands trembling slightly as he waited for your response.

“No more ‘just friends,’” you said, your voice firm despite the tears that threatened to spill. “No more pushing me away when you get scared. If we do this, we do it right.”

“I swear,” he said, stepping closer, his voice a promise, steady and sure. “I’m all in. Whatever it takes.”

You took a shaky breath, the weight of his words settling over you, a mix of hope and fear swirling in your chest. “You hurt me, Bucky,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need you to understand that. I can’t just forget it.”

He nodded, his jaw tight, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I know,” he said, his voice rough. “I know I messed up, and I’ll spend every day proving I’m worth another chance, if you’ll let me.”

You stared at him, the city fading into the background, the hum of the gallery distant and irrelevant. The hurt was still there, a quiet wound, but so was the love, stronger than ever, refusing to be ignored. You took a step closer, close enough to feel the warmth of him, and reached for his hand, your fingers brushing his.

“Okay,” you said softly, the word heavy with meaning. “We’ll try. But it’s not going to be easy, Bucky. You have to talk to me, really talk, even when it’s hard.”

“I will,” he said, his fingers closing around yours, his grip warm and steady. “I’m not running anymore.”

You nodded, your throat tight, and he pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. For a moment, you just stood there, breathing in sync, the world narrowing to the space between you. His breath was warm against your lips, and you felt the tension in him, the careful way he held himself, like he was afraid to break the moment.

“I missed you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, raw with emotion. “Every day you pulled away, it felt like I was losing a piece of myself.”

Your heart ached, and you squeezed his hand, your voice trembling. “I missed you too,” you admitted. “But I couldn’t keep waiting for you to decide I was enough.”

“You’re more than enough,” he said, pulling back to look at you, his eyes fierce with conviction. “You’re everything. I was just too stupid to say it.”

You managed a small smile, the first real one in weeks. “You’re not stupid,” you said, your voice soft. “Just… scared. But so am I.”

He nodded, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, his voice steady now, a promise. “Together.”

You leaned into him, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth chasing away the chill of the night. The hurt was still there, but it was softer now, overshadowed by the hope that maybe, just maybe, you could build something real. You stayed like that for a long moment, the mist settling on your skin, the city’s hum a quiet backdrop to the beating of your hearts.

Matt emerged from the gallery then, his steps slowing as he saw you with Bucky, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding. He approached, his hands in his pockets, a small smile on his lips. “Everything okay out here?” he asked, his voice light but cautious.

You pulled back from Bucky, wiping at your eyes, and nodded. “Yeah,” you said, your voice steadier than you expected. “Just… sorting some things out.”

Matt glanced at Bucky, then back at you, his eyes searching. “You sure?” he asked, his tone gentle, like he was giving you an out.

“I’m sure,” you said, offering him a small smile. “Thanks, Matt. For everything.”

He nodded, his smile softening. “Anytime,” he said, then glanced at Bucky again, a flicker of something—respect, maybe—passing between them. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, watching as he turned and walked away, his silhouette fading into the mist. You felt a pang of guilt, knowing Matt deserved more than being a distraction, but you also knew he’d be okay. He was kind, resilient, the kind of person who’d find his own happiness.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours, pulling your attention back to him. “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft, his eyes searching for yours.

You nodded, taking a deep breath. “I will be,” you said, your voice quiet but resolute. “But we need to talk, Bucky. Really talk. About everything—your past, what you’re afraid of, what we are. No more half-truths.”

“I know,” he said, his jaw tight, but his eyes steady. “I’m ready. Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you. No more hiding.”

You studied him, searching for any sign of hesitation, but there was none. Just Bucky, raw and open, willing to try. You squeezed his hand, a small gesture of trust, and started walking, pulling him along with you.

“Come on,” you said, your voice softer now. “Let’s go somewhere warm. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

He nodded, falling into step beside you, his hand warm in yours. The mist clung to your skin, the city’s lights blurring into the night, but for the first time in weeks, you felt a flicker of hope, a sense that maybe you could find your way through the shadows together.

The diner you ended up at was a 24-hour spot a few blocks away, the kind of place with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted like it had been brewing since morning.

You wrapped your hands around your mug, the heat seeping into your palms, and looked at Bucky. He was watching you, his eyes steady but cautious, like he was waiting for you to set the terms of this conversation.

“So,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “Start talking. Why did you say it? Why ‘just a friend’?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, the metal of his left arm catching the light. “I panicked,” he admitted, his voice low, rough with honesty. “Steve and Sam were pushing, joking about us, and I… I froze. I didn’t know how to explain what you are to me, not when I was still trying to figure it out myself. And my past—it’s always there, telling me I’m not good enough, that I’ll ruin anything I touch. So I said something stupid, something safe, because I thought it’d keep you at arm’s length, where I couldn’t hurt you.”

You nodded, the hurt still there but softened by his honesty. “But you did hurt me,” you said, your voice steady. “You made me feel like I was nothing, like all those nights meant nothing.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to happen,” he said, his voice breaking. “but every time I saw you with him, it felt like a knife in my chest. The bookstore, the jazz bar, tonight at the gallery, it was like watching you live the life we had, but with someone else. Someone who didn’t carry the baggage I do, someone who could give you what I was too scared to.”

He paused, his jaw tightening, his eyes distant as he relived the moments. “I kept thinking, what if you’re happier with him? What if he makes you laugh like I did, touches you like I did, loves you the way I—” He broke off, his voice catching, and he looked down, his fingers tightening around his mug. “The thought of you kissing him, of him holding you… it tore me apart. I’d stand there, watching you smile, and all I could think was that I’d lost you because I was too damn afraid to tell you how I felt.”

Your heart ached, the weight of his words settling over you, a mix of pain and understanding. You reached across the table, resting your hand on his, the cool metal of his left hand a stark contrast to the warmth of his right. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” you said, your voice steady but soft. “I was trying to survive. After the café, after hearing you call me ‘just a friend,’ I thought you didn’t want me. I thought I was alone in this.”

He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with yours, his grip tight. “You were never alone,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “I was just too caught up in my own head to show you. Seeing you with Matt—it woke me up. Made me realize I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t love you, couldn’t keep pushing you away to protect you from me. I was losing you, and it was my own damn fault.”

You nodded, the hurt still there but softened by his vulnerability. “What were you afraid of, Bucky?” you asked, your voice gentle but insistent. “What made you think you had to protect me from you?”

He took a shaky breath, his eyes glistening as he looked at you. “My past,” he said, his voice low, halting at first. “It’s not just a shadow—it’s a weight I carry every day. I was a soldier, a kid from Brooklyn, trying to do right. Then Hydra took me, broke me, turned me into something I wasn’t. I killed for them—people who didn’t deserve it, people I didn’t even know. It wasn’t me, not really, but it was my hands, my body. Those memories, those faces—they don’t go away.”

He paused, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand, grounding himself in your touch. “When I got free, when Steve pulled me back, I thought I could start over. But it’s not that simple. I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the world to remind me I don’t deserve this—deserve you. You’re… you’re light, and I’m afraid I’ll drag you into the dark with me.”

Your throat tightened, and you squeezed his hand, your voice steady despite the tears in your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you said. “I’m not afraid of your dark, Bucky. I love you, all of you—the soldier, the man, the scars. But I need you to let me in, to trust that I can handle it.”

His breath hitched, and he looked at you, his eyes wide, searching. “You love me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, like he still couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, a small smile breaking through your tears. “Yeah,” you said. “I do. And it scares the hell out of me, but I’m here. I just need you to be here, too.”

He leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours, his grip on your hand tightening. “I’m here,” he said, his voice steady now, a vow. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. Not this time.”

You held his gaze, the diner fading into the background, the world narrowing to this moment, this promise. The hurt was still there, a quiet wound, but it was healing, slowly, with every word, every touch. You didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in weeks, you felt like you could face it, as long as he was by your side.

“Okay,” you said, your voice soft but resolute. “Let’s do this. For real.”

He smiled, a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes and made him look younger, lighter. “For real,” he echoed, and you knew, in that moment, that you’d find your way through the shadows together.

A/N: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I had a lot of alternative endings in mind and I hope I made the right choice. Thanks for reading!! I hope you like it. Love Lots!!!!!❤️🩷🩵

See my other stories here >>> Masterlist <<<

[acid-ixx]

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

partly inspired by @l0vergirls and @on-leatheredwings.

i like to think that jason todd as your yandere would be very subservient in a sense that he's willing to drown deeper into the depths of corruption and bury all of which hurts you. he's already killed hundreds, no thousands— you eventually lose track of your kill streak the moment blood touches your fingertips— what more can a couple of your foes or even harassers do? you don't even need to acknowledge his existence to guarantee that by the time the clock strikes the dawn of another evening, another life or even lives would be taken justly (in jason's eyes) to ensure you would walk the streets without the need to periodically check your back for any thieves or to feel adrenaline rush through your veins whenever you hear something out of the picture. no, you wouldn't, not when your savior, red hood, would be quicker than all to eliminate any dirt on the street.

sure, jason's moral code was to never murder low-life criminals but hell be damned if any filthy hands lay on your body. he would rather be shot with his very own collection of guns, than let your eyes glint with fear, with trauma he was so accustomed and hardened to. whereas bruce would be known to prioritize missions, jason would immediately abort his the moment he was given a signal that your safety was compromised. jason todd is a child of gotham, and he knows she wouldn't be merciful enough to spare a breathtaking soul such as yours; a life he promises to cherish with the second life he was blessed with. he knows, for sure, that you are the one to hold the very privilege to take his life. but while he's alive, he would take every opportunity to make sure your life was every bit as comfortable.

jason todd is never gentle with his identity as red hood, but as robin, as your jason; he is a man whose actions speak a thousand words. with him as your protector, he has taken to a habit of making sure you know he isn't there to hurt you, but rather keep you safe. and you know it in yourself to not see him as a threat. you would be greeted with your favorite copies of books, either limited or collector's edition. oftentimes, your table would be filled with warm food the moment you step inside your apartment after a night shift. sometimes, you would feel his presence in your room, just right after you enter would you know that he was in there minutes ago, leaving small trinkets or gifts that reminds him of you. they may be jewelry, or music boxes, or keychains. pieces that remind you that under that thick wall of hatred, there is a heart filled with a love for creativity.

he may be known as violent, but with you? you are his everything. your knuckles would be kissed by his bloodied, busted lips, softly, patiently with every reverence in the world. every kisses you sear him with are kisses to his wounds; bruises from which he knew he took for you. your waist or hip would be protectively caged in his scar-filled arm, the other ready to point a gun at another who perturbs his peace. his chest is your safe haven, you can lay on it at any moment and sleep to your satisfaction. his hold on you may be tight, but it would never be as tight as the fingers that would crush the throats of the people who would dare to even make you cry.

jason todd is your right hand man— never beneath you, never above you, but he will kneel for you as he would offer the land of the damned if you would ever accept his sinful sacrifices. all you have to do is say the word, and your very own lover would be glad to shed more blood for your namesake.

[starleska]

73 Yards has devastated me and i have some theories

we all agree that 73 Yards was a genre-defying, harrowing episode...and i think there's some really interesting themes and ideas going on here. tw for discussion of trauma, abuse, neglect and abandonment:

i hope we're all on the same page that the Woman seems to represent Ruby's fear of abandonment, brought to life. always present, always out of the corner of her eye, and whose primary mechanic is to drive people to scorn and leave Ruby without explanation. even people who do not know her, or people she's just met, or who are incredibly warm towards her...they speak to the Woman, and they look back as if to confirm their suspicions, and then run away, maddened and horrified. it is an unbelievable stroke of genius to make the Toymaker's breaking down of the boundaries between science and fantasy bring Ruby's abandonment into being...and for Ruby to weaponise her. but that's it - as soon as Roger ap Gwilliam was taken care of, we expected the Woman to disappear, right? but that could never happen, because Ruby's fear of abandonment will never disappear...no matter how purposeful her life is, or how much she distances herself from others. the use of the cruel, distant individuals in the Welsh pub to set up Ruby sympathetically is excellent...and then, we see people approach Ruby at all levels of emotional connection, when time and again she is considered untouchable, as if her very being is contagious. and all this time, we have the fairy circle being broken and hope vanishing...with hope being the Doctor. the one man who potentially holds the key to uncovering Ruby's deepest desires - to find out why she was abandoned, and by who. and at the end of it all...even in death, Ruby doesn't find peace. she is transported into a neverending hell-loop where she is her own abandonment. the two are inseparable, inexplicably the same, because Ruby's very existence as herself is built on the bedrock of abandonment. and i think this resonates heavily with any trauma survivor...the way that our trauma and our very real anxieties brought on by that trauma are inextricable from ourselves. i think the plot with Roger ap Gwilliam shows off a very real symptom in trauma survivors: we often daydream that our hurt and pain will be useful one day - functional. and not only does Ruby get to do that...she gets to be the quiet, unsung saviour of the whole world, protecting us from a world-ending terror in spite of the abuse and neglect she's faced. she endures menial work and constant fear, while only confiding quietly in one other person...Marti, who i believe is coded as another trauma survivor due to her response to Roger (who she describes as a monster). if Ruby can't receive love and affection from anyone else, at least she can feel satisfied that she served her purpose. on a practical level, the presence of Mrs Flood and Susan Twist in this episode AGAIN gives me pause. my theory that someone here is another of the Toymaker's Legions, and is the embodiment of Story, has only deepened. the fact that we had a cold open without the title sequence, we met Susan Twist very quickly, we seem to have flipped genres for the show and Ruby was able to embark on a self-destructive wish-fulfilment saviour fantasy in real life...it all indicates to me that the boundaries between reality and fiction are fully collapsing. when Kate says things are trending towards the supernatural lately, i think we've only hit the tip of the iceberg. on a broader level: my God Russell T Davies, what a brilliant script!!! this is one of my favourite ever episodes of Doctor Who, and is absolutely my highlight for the season. huge kudos to Millie Gibson for giving such a killer performance...i am now terribly endeared to, and protective, of Ruby, and hope against hope she gets the happy ending she so deserves 💖

[glitch-but-ya]

04| THE ECHO OF WHO I ONCE WAS

"Let your memory of me be lost to time" IV

TAGS: Platonic!Xavier, angsty, drugging, alcohol, mentions of blood and violence, use of weaponry, self-depreciation, self-image struggles, mental health struggles. WORD COUNT: 6,571 words. TAG LIST: @withering-dream @moonlight-inthe-sea @tinyweebsstuff @vyntheria , @xxfaithlynxx , @just-a-shapeshifter08 , @stxrrielle , @napa-the-yappa

A/N: Sorry for the wait!! Been super busy lately. Anyways, somehow I pushed my boundaries and wrote double the amount of words from the previous fic. Expect it to keep increasing in the future! Hope you enjoy longer parts💕

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3 , PART 5

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear whilst your other hand fiddled with the hem of your gown. Your fingers intertwined with Xavier’s with fervor. Your eyes darted around, searching for the thousands of mocking gazes you felt were glued to you. Yet, nobody spared you a glance. Why? Your mere presence commanded unwelcome attention. The gown, although breathtaking, stood out like a sore thumb—dashingly elegant yet suspiciously innocent compared to the intricate needlework of the N109 zone. The gowns of the women here certainly did no injustice to their intimidating complexions. A simple flick of their hand or the subtlest crook of their eyebrows bore more authority than you collectively owned—if any at all. Their gazes were dangerous, their words reserved. To successfully imitate even one of their gestures would cost you half your lifespan. And unfortunately, the mission could not wait. Neither could Xavier, you assumed, judging by how swiftly he whisked you through the auction.

Xavier, in your eyes, was a determined individual whose focus could not be swayed from the task at hand. Or at least, that was the reasoning you came up with to justify the protective grip on your hand. Like a drill head, he pushed through the throngs of people, penetrating the densest masses and shielding the body behind him from whatever obstruction might arise. A part of you pondered whether it was instinctive protection. He was aware, after all, of the mental state you were in.

For a moment, you considered it—perhaps he didn’t hold onto you for the sake of the mission but because he wanted to. Because the thought of losing you among a crowd of foes unsettled him. But the part of you that left no credit to yourself denied the possibility immediately, smothering it beneath the weight of reason and insecurity. There was no way he cared enough to worry about your well-being. It had to be the urgency of the mission.

His grip on you was unfaltering. Even as you wiggled your fingers, he didn’t let go. Letting out a defeated sigh, you resigned yourself to scanning the crowd.

The auctioneer’s voice sliced through the air, overpowering the rustle of silk and the clink of wine glasses that pressed against your ears unremittingly. You watched as the prices climbed higher, your lips parting a little wider with each bid. The wealth and power radiating from the room bore down on your shoulders like an unbearable weight, crushing you from within. Everything felt unreal. You couldn’t believe such places existed—so abundant in greed and filth. Though the air reeked of nothing but luxury perfumes, you swore you caught a horrid stench beneath it all.

Heavy chandeliers glared upon you, forcing you to squint under their unfamiliar glow. You were certain your behavior was viewed as eccentric. No noblewoman shields herself from a mere arsenal of chandeliers. No woman of class envies the faces of those passing by. No woman grips her partner’s hand in a place she is supposed to call familiar. You hugged yourself tighter with your free arm.

You wanted to go home—to curl up, to succumb to your burdens, to bury yourself within your sheets while you wiped your tears on the face of your once-favorite crow plushie. If being the truest version of yourself was most desirable, why did it hurt so much?

You thought you could handle it. You thought you could endure the stares. But reality crashed into you like a tsunami at its might. You gripped the sides of your gown, tugging it down in a feeble attempt to shield yourself from the world. You wanted to hide. To run away.

Your gaze wandered to the visages of the countless women attending the auction. They were adorned in rich colors—deep emerald, burgundy, and black being the most common. Many wore backless gowns, others dressed in garments with thigh slits and plunging necklines. Their feet were encased in piercing-sharp heels.

A group of them turned over their shoulders to glance at you. One woman held her gaze for a moment longer before turning back to her friends, snickering at what you presumed was you. A frown tugged at your lips.

Elegant, refined, opulent, and greedy—they were everything you could never imagine yourself to be. Yet, it begged the question: why chase a single soul when surrounded by women of similar class? What had made you so different in his eyes?

What made the cruel sorceress appealing to the lone dragon?

To you, she was no different than the women who stood here, carelessly sipping wine bought with their own blood-soaked money. So why did he like her?

Your muscles tightened. If you knew, maybe you could be her. You could weave together that picture-perfect facade meant to be glued to your face.

"Ouch."

A small voice broke you out of your trance. Immediately, you released your grip on Xavier’s hand. You muttered a quick apology, averting your gaze the moment his concerned eyes swept over your face. You could sense it—the curiosity, the worry. But you weren’t ready to give any answers yet.

Your relationship with Sylus was strictly confidential. Nobody—especially a skilled hunter—should know of your interaction with him. As if sensing your reluctance, Xavier pursed his lips.

"Did you sense any fluctuations in the area?"

You folded your arms over your chest and shook your head. "As we suspected, the real aether core is not here," you whispered back.

Xavier craned his neck to meet your gaze, placing a thoughtful finger under his chin.

"But," you interrupted his trance, your eyes scanning the hunter’s watch hidden beneath your sleeve, "I do sense slight fluctuations in one of the VIP lounges." A crestfallen shake of your head followed your statement. "Not strong enough to be an aether core, though. So I’m guessing it’s another high-grade protocore."

"I would be surprised if the actual aether core was here," he chimed in.

You nodded in approval. "We're here for leads. Let's keep our eyes peeled for any information beacons. Anyway, should we keep an eye on that room?"

Xavier hummed in thought before glancing at the entryway to the lounges. "I'll fish around for some information. You keep watch in the meantime. Keep an eye out for anyone slipping in or out."

"And don’t approach them, right?"

Xavier responded with a firm nod. "Wait for my return." He tossed you an extra gun.

The gun you’d caught yourself reaching for trembled in your hand. Why did he have to be here? You constricted your lungs, muffling yourself with your palm as you dissolved into the shadows. The auctioneer’s declarations dimmed in volume as the world around you distorted.

Our souls are intertwined. We cannot escape from each other. Your fingers tightened around the gun’s grip as familiar strands of silver hair flashed past, accompanied by whiffs of cedar. The thump of your heart crept up to your ears. Your forehead throbbed, and beads of sweat streamed down its sides. A lump of saliva pushed past your throat. Could it be that you were mistaken? That his lingering presence in your mind caused you to connect him with an unrelated stranger passing by? But the man’s identity was unmistakable. Tall with white hair, crimson eyes, and a deep voice you couldn’t forget. It was undeniable. The man before you—the man that had just passed by—was your past lover, Sylus.

"You’ve made quite the trip here, haven’t you?" a rich female voice remarked, swiping a black card against the modern card reader. Your legs trembled with anticipation as the door glided open with a beep. No, you told yourself, Xavier told me to stay put. "I happened to be staying nearby." "That’s good, then," the lady’s wide-brimmed sun hat dipped as she lowered her head and pushed the door open. She gestured toward Sylus, who stepped in without hesitation.

A slight pang flared in your chest. An array of thoughts began to flood your mind, but you swiftly shut your eyes. He’s not yours anymore. He’s a lone man, free to do anything he desires with whoever he pleases. It’s not your business.

It was wrong to feel this way. You knew jealousy was a destructive sin, both to the self and to those around you. But their mere interaction—the way he glanced at her beneath her hat, how he offered a calculated smile, and how he conversed so casually with a woman he was (at least supposed to be) on strictly professional terms with—awakened something in you that you couldn’t quite grasp. Something dark, painful. In a word, it was jealousy. You assumed she was something close to his type. Of course, you didn’t know her. You didn’t really know either of them. But the presence she radiated reminded you of her. Clad in an amethyst dress that draped down her legs up to her knees with an attractive slit on its side, she seemed powerful. Her long lashes, sharp nails, elegant hat, and extravagantly jeweled neck and fingers rendered her a perfect fit for Sylus. They seemed to slot in just as two oppositely shaped puzzle pieces would, forming a flawless picture—an unstoppable duo able to conquer whatever they pleased with ease. They shared a common prowess and were up to each other’s standards.

You scanned her form again, noting how the corner of her lip crinkled as she smirked. Was she who you were expected to be? A savage woman bearing a rotten heart swathed in prodigious amounts of greed? A woman whose ideals rivaled every philosophy you’d sworn to defend? You couldn’t forget all you’d stood by and believed in for the sake of earning a man’s approval. Even if God had decided one evening to swap your body with hers, and had forced you to spend the next 25 years of your (her) life in her body, you were certain you would inch no closer to fathoming her mindset. She felt so distant, just as the past version of you did.

At that moment, it felt as if your decision had reached solid ground. There was no point in yearning for a man whose heart already belonged to someone else. It was a fact—you could not understand her, much less be her. If there was something to invest in, it wasn’t Sylus’s love. Your mission stalled for none, and your goal remained firm. Once you solved the mystery behind your aether core and removed yourself from Ever’s hit list, you could settle into a lonesome yet tranquil life far from the bustling streets of Linkon. Somewhere new, for sure. For a new beginning. When that day comes, and you are to leave behind whatever mess you’ve made here, you would do so with your chest heaved high. Sylus was your equivalent of a short-lived high school romance fueled purely by hormones. It didn’t matter how you truly felt. Because from now on, the truth would be that your relationship with him was merely an ordinary fling and nothing more. Greater priorities had stepped in, demanding your full attention. You couldn’t afford to be heartbroken. Not in this broken world that raced incessantly. And besides, something assured you that this time, you had followed the right lead.

You watched as the door shut after the two, sliding into place with another distinct beep. You revealed yourself from the shadows shortly after and walked down the hall, imitating an ordinary guest. Once out of the cameras’ range, you immediately pulled up your hunter’s watch and typed a short message to Xavier. You ended it with your next location—"I’ll wait for you near the bar." If anything, you were ready to face him this time. Having 'overcome' your period of heartbreak, you were ready to commit to this task with him.

"A drink, miss?"

You shook your head and waved your hand dismissively. "No, thanks." The bartender's eyes narrowed visibly for a while. "Not much of a drinker, huh?" he pressed on. The small talk fell silent as you pursed your lips, unwilling to provide an answer. A conversation with potential spies was the last thing you needed while waiting for a belated meet-up. Speaking too much, especially in a place like this, was a fatal mistake that could cost you your life. You were well aware of the roles bartenders often adopted for a couple of extra bucks. They were subject to drunken confessions, after all, and they wielded the authority to alter your drink at will. Alcohol wasn't particularly something you were fond of either. You did wonder, though, whether refusing the drink had blown your cover more than you realized.

"We offer lots of non-alcoholic options as well, miss. Should I fetch you a French Bloom?" he offered with a simper, pushing on relentlessly with whatever his pursuit was. His words weighed heavy, marked with an undertone you couldn't quite grasp. His eyes, although seemingly modest, concealed bundles of ill intent. You didn't know what he wanted. You were unsure whether what he simmered with was lust or danger—a greater goal to sabotage your mission. Whatever it was, his determination was unwavering.

"Or perhaps you'd prefer a Virgin Mary?" he leaned in, his head tilting to the side. The air shifted. Your eyes darted about the room, scanning your surroundings in a manner subtle enough not to give away your nervousness. The laughter of guests surrounding the counter echoed persistently. It was as if your discomfort was imperceptible. Or, even worse, perhaps it was too insignificant to matter. Surrounded by people of class, by people of importance, you felt small. If anything were to happen, you were sure nobody would come to your aid.

Your jaw tensed. Your hands inched toward the opening of your purse, where your gun was. The room shrunk significantly, walls caging in to confine you in place. There was nowhere to run, no place to flee to. Xavier, your only savior at this moment, was nowhere near you. And it was too risky to attempt to contact him anyway. You were trapped. And the only way to escape unscathed was to play your cards right.

"Just some water, please." You turned to him with a cold smile. "Bottled."

The bartender's smile slackened notably. His gaze seemed to pierce into nothing with an indescribable intensity. His fingers curled around a glass, tightening ever so slightly. The space between you fell silent but remained heavy. For a moment, the two of you simply stared each other down, as if bound to compete on who would falter first. With one final cock of his head, the man stepped away.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. The tension dissipated as he vanished. Your hands sank back to your sides, and your back leaned against the counter. The walls slid back into place, releasing you from your confines. You'd won. For now, it seemed. Of course, you weren't foolish enough to believe you'd truly won. But you were more than willing to savor the temporary moment of triumph.

Your fingers drummed against the counter, your mind wandering off as you waited. It had been a while since the man wandered off into the back. So much time had passed, yet there was no sign of Xavier. You wondered if he had gotten caught up with trouble. You doubted it, though. You’d seen what he was capable of with your own eyes. If you could manage to avoid getting killed (although barely), you were confident Xavier could as well. Much better than you, in fact. If your suspicions were true, and he was indeed the renowned Lumiere, you had nothing to worry about.

“Here you go, miss.” The bartender set a sealed bottle down on the counter. You swiftly dropped a few coins onto the counter and whisked away the bottle. The realization of how thirsty you were had just dawned on you. Your lips hadn’t kissed a liquid in hours, and the incident that had just occurred didn’t do you any favors by drying your throat up further.

Your fingers deftly twisted the top open. It was sealed. You smiled at the discovery, letting your shoulders slump. There shouldn’t have been any problems if it was sealed, right? There was no way he could unseal, spike, and reseal your drink in such a short time. Oh, well. You were too thirsty to ponder it anyway. You chugged the water hungrily. Some of it trickled down the corner of your lip, barely making it to your chin before you wiped it away. By the time you were done, the bottle was half empty. You fetched a tissue from your purse and gently tapped your lips. You winced at the bits of lipstick that had been absorbed alongside the excess water.

At that moment, your ears perked at the sound of a familiar voice calling out your name.

Your head whipped toward the source, eyes brightening as Xavier approached. From afar, he shot you an apologetic smile.

“I got distracted. Did you wait long?”

As if reminded of his late arrival, a frown graced your lips. “Did you doze off or something? I—” You stopped. You didn't know what you were supposed to say or how to say it. Were you supposed to cry about how your mysterious ex, who just so happened to be the infamous leader of an illegal corporation the Hunter’s Association was after, had gotten himself involved with the lady you two were after? The fact that Xavier was unaware of the relationship in the first place made it worse. Furthermore, how were you supposed to relay to him how you felt like you were in danger? Would he not think of you as paranoid when you failed to provide any concrete evidence? Would you not be judged when you tell him how constricted you felt, even though the man had not actually posed any real threat? To add to that, your mental state was not the best, and you knew Xavier was aware of that. You would be dismissed as a newbie paranoid about her first real mission. It was useless. You were useless. He wouldn’t get it. He would misunderstand and criticize you without your knowledge. Not that he would be wrong to. You just didn’t want him to. Because it would hurt, nonetheless—true or not.

Just shut up and lie. That’s the most useful you could be anyway. You were sure you were onto nothing. No matter how many discoveries you made, Xavier would come in and throw it all out the window, proving it wrong or offering a better solution. You didn’t resent him for it. He was a professional, after all. Worthy of the delicate suit he wore, worthy of his title and reputation. In the end, people like him are the ones who get picked. They are loved, cherished, and looked at. They are the ones with healthy careers, blooming relationships, and a flock of friends, no matter their past. The rest are filth, like you, who will eventually be disposed of, discarded into landfills, and forgotten. All while people like him have their names displayed on pillars of strength. Whether it be notoriety or fame that got them to that place, regardless, they will remain at the top while the rest rot and wither away. That was your fate. So, you told yourself, it’s your place to shut up and remain quiet.

“I was just overwhelmed by the crowd.” Once again, you retreated into your shell, shielding yourself from prying eyes and good intentions. “Sorry.”

Xavier shook his head and leaned in, his eyes carrying a hint of worry. “No need to apologize. I shouldn’t have left you alone. But,” his eyes narrowed, “if you were overwhelmed by the crowd, why did you drift someplace more crowded?” You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling sheepishly. Unsurprisingly, he'd caught you in your lie.

"Oh, I needed a drink," you held out your half-consumed water bottle. "Want some?"

He waved his hand dismissively. You shrugged and stuffed the bottle into your purse. It was small enough to fit, but the surface bulged subtly.

"You know," Xavier started, "you should avoid buying anything when undercover."

"I know, I know." You flicked your wrist. "I forgot to pack a bottle, so I was practically dying."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, but next time, be careful."

Suddenly, his eyes hardened, and he set out toward a more secluded place. You straightened your posture instinctively, trailing him as he walked.

"Liora Blackthorne. She's a relatively amateur merchant in charge of several trading guilds around the world," he whispered, glancing at you over his shoulder. So, her name is Liora.

"She's recently risen to fame. Got lucky, according to her competitors. The aether core has been her object of interest for a while now. She was probably scammed. I can't help but feel pity for her." He stopped, eventually coming to lean against the wall of a segregated corner. His eyes wandered off in thought. That was when you noticed it cross his mind—the thought you dreaded at the moment.

"I think," you started, "that it's still worth a shot. We could learn of the supplier and apprehend him. Besides, if she is after the aether core, she may pose a greater threat to us later on."

Xavier, whose thoughts you'd just interrupted, looked back up at you, his eyes regaining their familiar glow. He stared at you for a while, tilting his head subtly to the side as he scrutinized you as if you were a specimen behaving irregularly. Your breath hitched in your throat. Did he know you knew? Did he figure it out? Although you were enamored with both the softness and the power of his gaze, you resented it at present. Your instincts told you that he'd caught on and that you should just come clean now. But a part of you doubted your own judgment. Perhaps you're just overthinking it like you always do.

Xavier sighed, pushing himself off the wall. "Alright," he said, his voice indifferent. "I suppose you're right. We have nothing to lose, after all." He turned on his heels, as if ready to leave. A tide of relief washed over you. He hadn't noticed, and you'd successfully averted his focus where you wanted it to be. The thought of your fulfillment made you rejoice internally.

As you'd barely begun your celebration, Xavier's face approached yours. Placing both hands on his knees, he crouched down. His face was a modest distance from yours, but you felt suffocated nonetheless. You were pinned under his gaze, even though he was barely touching you. The intensity in his eyes caused your heart to thump with more fervor against your ribs, threatening to leap out. You were stripped bare with all your misdoings etched across parts of your body, open for him to see. For the first time, Xavier scared you.

"You know, I would prefer it if you didn't lie to me like that," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave lower. "Don't you think it's best if we place our full trust in each other?"

At that moment, your world shrunk. Once again, you were trapped.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Only a soft tremble of your lips followed. Xavier scanned your form again. His eyes softened as he noted your nervousness.

"I'm not mad." What a lie. "I'm sure you had your reasons, and I won't pry into them. But, please," he pleaded.

With renewed courage, your eyes met his again. You could tell he was being sincere. His presence radiated safety. Maybe telling him wouldn't be so bad.

And so you did. You began, narrating the events that had occurred so far. From Liora's appearance to the silent threats you received at the bar, you recounted everything in detail. You explained to him the bartender's obtrusive behavior, and all the while, he listened without a flicker of judgment or critique passing his lips. You'd left out Sylus on purpose, replacing him with "a suspicious-looking man who'd entered the room alongside her." And you were sure Xavier had caught on to your half-truth. But out of pity or respect, he did not pry. He only listened with a countenance you could not decipher. You could see the cogs turning in his head, processing the newfound information. And once you were done, Xavier's lips curled gently.

"You did a good job," he patted your head gingerly. "Your experience will be helpful."

You couldn't help but beam at his praise.

"But," he began, making your heart sink to the depths once more, "I'm a bit worried about that water he gave you. You drank it, right?"

You tilted your head and placed a finger on your lip. "It was sealed."

Xavier shook his head. "Bottled water can be spiked as well. Some prepare drugged bottles and seal them in advance."

You rolled your elbow, raising your arms as you did. "I feel fine, though."

"Let's just hope you remain that way."

You bit the inside of your cheek. Only now had you realized how imbecilic it was to let your thirst overwhelm you in crucial moments like these. You felt stupid. How dare you be so oblivious? Well, there was no point in beating yourself up over it now. If you were marked for death, you'd have died by now.

"You mentioned a suspicious man entering the room alongside her." Sylus. "Could he have been a lover?"

Your cheeks flared. "No!"—you blurted out faster than you could comprehend. Xavier's eyes narrowed, lingering on you for a minute. Okay, he was definitely judging you. You quickly readjusted your tone. "I mean, of course not! I already told you—it's a business partner!"

"You didn’t."

"Oh... Well, now you know." You grinned awkwardly.

Xavier cleared his throat. "Anyway, I think we should check it out. We could try eavesdropping. That way, we could determine whether it would be a waste of time to pursue her or not." Xavier suggested, to which you nodded in agreement almost instantly.

You placed your hand against the wall, leaning some of your weight onto it. You huddled closer to Xavier, who was listening to the conversation unfolding inside via a portable monitor. Apparently, in the long and grueling half-hour he had been gone, he had made time to access the room's footage through a hidden camera. Unfortunately, the footage was blank, leaving you only with distorted audio clips to extract information from. Whatever it was, it was enough.

"I’ve heard of your recent acquisition, Miss Liora. I wish to congratulate you in person." You perked at the sound of a rich male voice. It was certain now: it was truly him.

"An 'acquisition'..." Xavier mumbled. You chimed in, "I think it's the protocore."

The next bits of the conversation included a string of fabricated formalities. The two spoke in a formal tone with a proper accent and decent grammar. It seemed they weren’t so close after all.

You subconsciously leaned into Xavier's body, almost entirely releasing your weight onto him. The realization had only dawned upon you when he staggered forward uncomfortably. However, the moment you'd decided to move away, he wrapped an arm around your back and propelled you to your feet while supporting you.

"You okay?" He tilted his head, his eyes brimming with concern. You felt a pang of guilt in your heart. It was you who was bothering him, and yet, he was the one asking you if you were okay. Friends like him were quite scarce nowadays.

"I'm fine." You flicked your wrist dismissively. "Just a little weak in the legs. Haven't had a seat in a while, you know." With his hand still on your back, Xavier pushed you down onto the floor, crossing his legs and seating himself beside you. Your cheeks flared. "Xavier! This is embarrassing! What if--"

"I've disabled all cameras and doors leading to this hallway. Don't worry, we're safe here." He sent you a comforting glance. Something fluttered in your chest, causing you to feel soft and fuzzy inside. Your cheeks flushed as blood rushed to your face. You wanted to squish his cheeks, to pat his head aggressively until his hair was a huge mess. Seriously, how could someone as powerful as him be so adorable?

"This," the two of you relocated your focus back to the surveillance monitor, "is my key to the greatest success man can accomplish." A camera would have done you both a huge favor right about now. If you had one, you could see whether the object in Liora's possession was an aether core or something less trivial. You shared a knowing glance with Xavier. He was thinking the same. But a hint of something other than irritation crossed his face. His eyes deepened, carrying a resemblance of anxiety. His leg oscillated up and down as if he were trying to shake bothersome worms off his thigh. He wasn’t telling you anything, though. Not yet. That was until he turned his neck to face you fully. With a calculated voice, he began, "Hey, don't freak out, but I think--"

"And now, the only impediment in my evolution is you." You both held your breath. Your bodies stilled at the woman's explicit confession. You looked at Xavier, and he nodded. He raised his gun to his face, the barrel pointed upwards, and lowered his head. At his signal, you would make your move.

But you couldn’t help the way your legs trembled. It was not fear. You were certain you weren't afraid. It was as if all the blood had drained from your legs, leaving them numb and lifeless. You grimaced, feeling the sensation slowly begin to spread across your stomach. Picking up on your discomfort, Xavier pushed you back onto the ground.

"Wait here. I'll apprehend them both." You reached out to wrap your fingers around his sleeve. With a swift tug, you had him crouching near you. You brought your face closer to his, letting him look into your eyes. Xavier's lips parted.

"No," you adjured firmly, mustering up the fiercest look you could manage. "You won't last." And you were confident he wouldn't. Not against Sylus, if they were to find themselves in a face-off. You didn’t know who would emerge unvanquished, but it didn’t matter. Either outcome was unfavorable. Despite the falling out you’d experienced with Sylus, and despite the bond you shared with Xavier, you didn’t wish ill on anyone. If either were to wind up injured, you couldn’t forgive yourself. Xavier was unaware of the kind of foe he was up against and was consequently unprepared. You couldn’t let that happen. For the sake of peace, you couldn’t.

As the voices continued to play in the background, Xavier's eyes narrowed, but he did not protest. He knew better than to doubt you in moments of absolute seriousness. If you were confident, it was for good reason. He was aware, of course, that you had hidden the man's identity purposely. But it was only fair to let you keep your secrets close to your chest. He had locked his own away in a box, far from curious gazes like yours. After all, he wasn’t a hypocrite. But what both disgruntled and perplexed him the most was your abrupt declining health paired with your infuriating stubbornness. If a fight were to break out, you would fall first.

But before he could lay you down against the wall, you scrambled to your feet. With the copy of the keycard, you barged in recklessly. Xavier cocked his gun and followed after you. Once the two of you were inside, the door slid shut with a hiss.

With aching legs and a light head, you raised your gun, leveling it with the woman's head. You racked the slide. Click.

"Miss," you called out, your legs readily giving in. "Please stand down." You watched as Liora's eyes widened, as her grip on the gun faltered. Her eyebrows knitted menacingly. A crease formed at the center as she did. But a smirk tugged at her lips, replacing the frown the moment she picked up on your wobbling legs. You were trembling all over. This was only a minor setback.

In a rapid movement, she whipped her gun at you. Her finger tightened around the trigger. You instinctively tightened yours. The anticipation worsened your symptoms and caused your vision to distort. Your hands shook violently. Your focus drifted. Taking the chance, Liora launched a bullet from her gun.

The bullet froze mid-air. A dark mist wrapped around her torso. It extended past her body, wrapping itself around the bullet, which was now suspended mid-air. "Sylus... you! Why?! They won't spare you either!" she gritted her teeth. He said nothing in response.

Your head spun, and eventually, you lost your balance. Xavier was quick to come to your aid, using one hand to prop you up as you were about to fall. Your eyelids drooped, your vision blurring. Your head snapped to where Sylus was standing. You analyzed his features in a haze. He seemed angry. Was he mad you screwed up his plan? He must be. You failed him yet again.

"Xavier..." you mumbled, squinting. His grip on you tightened.

"Just hold on," he whispered into your ear. He raised his head from your scrunched countenance to shoot Sylus a nasty glare as if daring him to make a move. But to Xavier’s astonishment, he didn’t move. He simply focused on pinning the woman down with his evol, ignoring you as if you didn’t exist. As if you didn’t matter. It angered him further. What type of men were you involved with behind his back?

After a period of struggle, and despite Xavier's soft coos and pleas, at last, the world faded to black.

The following morning, you awoke on a soft, unfamiliar mattress. The scent of burnt eggs mixed with sandalwood permeated the air, filling your nostrils and offering you a (not so) warm welcome to your new room. The mattress squished beneath your weight as you lifted yourself off the bed. The scarlet velvet fleece draped around your body, bunching oddly with your movements. A fresh jug and glass were placed by your bed with the care you were familiar with. You were still dressed in your gown from before, the only difference being the absence of the itchy or uncomfortable upper layers. Your hair was undone, messy, and your neck lacked the jewels it once bore. Your face felt muddy, possibly as a result of lingering makeup. Despite the comfort of the grand bed, your head throbbed with vigor. Had Xavier wrapped up everything back at the auction? Did he capture Liora? Or did she run away? Did your negligence botch the mission? Had your identities been revealed? Are you on the run? Are you even in the N109 zone? And what about Sylus?

Your head ached in retaliation, urging you to rest, to shut your eyes and sink into the sheets again for a single moment of shut-eye. But something unpleasant stirred in your chest uncomfortably. Something fiery and bitter. Before you knew it, it spread to your veins and marionetted you onto your feet. You winced at the coldness of the floor. Your head followed the rays of peeking sunlight, guiding your eyes to a window. The darkness of the N109 zone swirled with Linkon's azure skies, forming a vortex of contrasting colors above. On your side, there appeared to be more blue than red. From that, you could determine you were somewhere around the border between the N109 zone and Linkon, but in Linkon nonetheless.

Each step you took caused bolts of pain to spike up your feet. The numbness slowly began to return, but this time as an aftermath of being drugged rather than a consequence. Comparatively, though, it was slightly more bearable.

You pressed your face against the glass, peering down at the land below. Your room offered an unimpressive view of a parking lot with rows of vehicles positioned in designated spots. You watched as a red car wheeled off the gravel road and attempted to line itself between two white strips, only to fail and bump into a wall behind it. You should've scrambled out of your bed in search of Xavier, yes, but your fragmented and exhausted consciousness demanded otherwise. No matter how many times you urged yourself to move, you couldn't. Your body betrayed your will.

"Oh, good morning." The scent and sizzle of burnt eggs drifted into the room, flowing past your nose. "How are you feeling? I'll get breakfast ready soon."

You turned to face him, although you didn't need to look to know he'd burnt the food he had been struggling to prepare. "You overcooked it."

He laughed sheepishly. Your heart couldn't help but melt at the sight. He was so adorable.

You limped toward Xavier, who was leaning on the doorway with a pan of charcoal eggs. "Don't move around too much. You're not fully recovered." He grabbed onto your shoulder to steady you before walking you back to your bed. He set the pan down on the bedside table. He pulled a stool and seated himself in front of you. "The drug has lasting effects."

You turned your head, fixing your eyes on the window again. He chuckled, a boyish sound. "Anything interesting out there? You've been staring at it for a while."

"Where are we?" you urged, but your tone bore no perplexion. Xavier's lips parted as if saying, Right, how could I forget?

"The man there." He bit his lip. "The man you seemed to be acquainted with. He helped us." You slowly turned your head back to him with an unreadable expression plastered on your face. He continued. "He didn't tell me his name. But he helped wrap things up there. He got rid of the evidence. We had been caught on a few cameras, and a couple of guests had picked up on our unfamiliarity. Including the man who'd ordered your drink to be spiked. He erased the footage, used his authority to shut some lips, and took care of anything else that needed to be put under wraps."

"And Liora?"

He paused. "The man... gave her up to us. She was dragged away by the association. Out of respect, I stayed silent and mentioned nothing about his existence. I simply claimed it was all my work. The protocore was, in fact, fake. Just another high-grade protocore. She'd been tricked."

You nibbled on the skin of your lower lip. "And about where we are?"

"He arranged a hotel for us to stay a night. He covered it as well."

"In exchange for what?"

He turned his head away. "That..." Your eyes narrowed, and you cocked your head, waiting for him to say it. A pregnant pause followed, and Xavier clasped his hands together and leaned in. His eyes hardened as he looked up at you.

With a sharp exhale, he began. "He demanded that I drop you from this mission."

[starrbishops]

⟡Everything Else⟡

(John Walker x Reader)

Summary: You wake up from a nightmare and find yourself drawn to the tower's grand piano. John finds you having a crisis shortly after. (Based on a request by @laugffgbbh) - ao3 version

Word Count: 2.5k

Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, self-loathing, nightmares, feelings of inadequacy, general mental illness (this is mostly based on my own experience with an anxiety disorder so uh. yeah), reader plays piano, hurt/comfort i think??? walker in his therapy era (king) Beethoven, romantic undertones (to be explored in a potential part 2??)

a/n: So if you didn't know I am a huge theatre kid. However I am cursed in that I am a tech kid and do not know anything about music besides 3 years of clarinet in elementary school. But I love Next to Normal (which this is named after) and I love John Walker and I have a mental illness so enjoy this piece.

You wake up with a start, panting as you try to calm yourself down. Your eyes flashed across the room, trying to comprehend your surroundings.

It was just your room. You took a breath. Just a nightmare. You are home, and safe, in the Watchtower. You take deep breaths; one in, hold, one out. John insisted on teaching you his military breathing techniques. You’d never admit it to him, but they worked. 

You flopped back on your bed, staring into your ceiling. You could try and go back to sleep, but you knew it’d be futile. You took a glance at your alarm clock. 3:45. Jesus.

You settled on heading to the common room to watch some nonsense middle of the night television till you hopefully fell asleep. As you left your room, you took care to tiptoe through the halls, trying not to wake the others.

You didn’t bother turning on a light as you reached the common room; you plopped down on  the sofa, shutting your eyes to bask in the silence. The tower was rarely this peaceful; there was always Yelena and John arguing about something, Alexei pitching a new marketing idea. It was soothing, just existing in the quiet space. 

You opened your eyes again, craning your neck as you looked out the picture windows. The sky was still dark, the sun still hidden beyond the horizon. Out of the corner of your vision, you could see the grand piano that had sat gathering dust since you’d all moved in.

Val insisted that it came with the tower when she bought it. You all placed bets on who put it there; Bucky insisted Tony did to look cooler and more elegant, Yelena and Ava were convinced it was Bruce Banner’s, while Alexei kept spouting out his theories about Asgardian musical traditions. Still, you found no leads as to whose it was or who had put it there.

It just sat there, another mystery of the past. Just another reminder of your headquarter’s prior residents. You all felt the presence of the old Avengers in everything you did. Bucky had chosen to live in Steve’s old room, Yelena in Natasha’s. John was still reeling from his brief stint as Cap. You knew they still felt the losses, the gaping void both in them and the world at large, the level of greatness they felt was expected of them. Maybe it wasn’t as personal for the other three, but you knew they felt the same. You felt it too. You felt it every time you looked at that godforsaken piano.

The Avengers weren’t perfect. You knew that. But everyone certainly remembered them as perfect. After the Blip, people had forgotten how New York had been torn apart after the battle in 2012, how Sokovia had been completely razed. They had made some serious fuck-ups, same as you had. But the 6 of you hadn’t saved the earth from a genocidal purple alien (well, except Bucky), which meant you had big shoes to fill.

You found yourself walking to the piano, pulled as if by some invisible force beyond your comprehension. The surface was covered in dust, the keys still hidden beneath the lid. A small light hung above the sheet music, slightly crumpled and yellowed with time. It had still been there with the piano when you’d all found it. None of you could bear to touch it.

You flicked on the light. Opened up the keylid. The black and white keys sat there, untouched, polished. Just as they were left.

You’ve never told any of the team you played piano. You learned because your old building had a piano in the lobby, and you went down there when you felt too boxed in in your own apartment. It was a little embarrassing, honestly. Especially when compared to a group of former professional killers whose special talents include walking through walls, jumping off buildings and literally flying, being able to play an instrument didn’t seem too impressive. 

So you never brought it up. You found yourself avoiding the piano, in fact. It felt like a piece of history, a museum exhibit that shouldn’t be touched. You’d all grown used to living in the tower, to being so close to what felt like history. Still, it was the piano that felt most off limits to you.

Your fingers hovered over the keys, hands adjusting to the correct position. Still unsure, you pressed one key.

The sound felt like it echoed through the whole tower. You whipped your head around, afraid someone would suddenly appear. You were met with silence, the common room just as empty as before.

You’re no pianist. You play decently, a hobby for between missions, for when the day felt too long and you needed to get out of your head. When you sat at that old, untuned piano, you could forget who you were, what you’d done. You could just play.

You tap along the keys, a scale of sorts. You haven’t played in months, not since before the vault, before this. You’ve avoided the piano like the plague, like it was something unholy.

Still, you can’t seem to stop yourself as you start to play.

You forget your nightmares. You forget all the people you've killed, the pain you caused. You forget you’re playing an instrument owned by a man who saved the world. THat you’re the one who's supposed to be saving the world now. The weight of your life vanishes in the music, harmonies echoing out of the instrument. Then you hit a wrong note. And it’s ruined.

“Fuck.” you mumble. You pause, fingers hovering just above the keys. You stare into them, trying to recenter yourself. You readjust, go back to the beginning. You start to play again.

You close your eyes, trying to lose yourself in it like before. But that one fuckup note still echoes in your mind. You wonder if someone like Stark or Barton sucked at piano too. It didn’t matter, because they were heroes. They didn’t need to be good at this, because everything they did was good. And here you sat, some screw-up anti-hero at best playing their piano.

You hit two wrong keys at the same time.

You don’t bother swearing. Just crack your neck slightly and start again.

Yelena talks about Natasha often. She’s one of the only ones who feels like a person, not some idolic figure that left this massive hole in their wake. Yelena and Alexei tell stories of her as a kid, always the protective older sister, standing up for Yelena, playing make-believe in the backyard. They don’t bring up her faults, all the dark things in her life. And somehow it makes all your mistakes even bigger, that little voice in the back of your mind even louder as it tells you you don’t deserve this, to have a second chance, to be a hero.

This time, you smash the keys as you screw up. You try again.

You think of how the nation saw Steve Rogers. Like some saint, someone who was truly good. You compare it to the way Bucky talks about Steve. Not as some painting on a church wall, but as a person, a real human. He tells these ridiculous stories of their days in Brooklyn, stupid things Steve would do. He wasn’t perfect. But he might as well be. And you weren’t. You had no one to look fondly upon the times you lost a fight, got a black eye. You have a world watching you, just waiting for you to screw up so they can throw you away.

You cry out, smashing against the keys like a madman. Fractured, angry sounds emanate through the room, mixed with your grunts of frustration. You beat against the keys like a punching bag. If you can’t do it right, you might as well give up. Might as well pound on the keys till you can’t hear your thoughts. Hurt them, like it’ll take away the loathing you feel everyday as you parade yourself around like some kind of hero.

You didn’t even realize you were crying till you stopped, head hung low over the keys, your own voice feeling like an echo, low sobs coming out of your throat.

You feel alone. Utterly alone. And a failure. You’ll never live up to them. To this title you found yourself forced into. How could you? Who could ever replace them? Certainly not some shitty assassin for hire like you.

A voice interrupts your spiral.

“Hey.”

You jolt up, wiping the tears from your face as you spot Walker standing a few feet away. You blink hard, trying to clear the wetness forming in your eyes. “Hey. You’re up early.”

He nods awkwardly, trying to find a way to address what he just saw. “Yeah. I couldn't sleep.”

“Me neither.” you both go silent again, the room quiet save for the buzzing of the old piano light. “How long were you-”

“You’re really good.” you both speak at the same time. You scoff, glancing at the vile instrument. 

“I fucked up.” you blurt out. “I fucked up over, and over. I suck. I can’t play for shit-”

“Hey. Hey hey hey.”John insists as he scooches onto the piano stool, his large frame taking up almost the whole thing. “Don’t talk like that. What’s this about? Because it’s clearly not just about you absolutely shredding on the piano.”

You chuckle a little. “I don’t think that’s the right word for it.”

“Whatever. You wanna talk about it?” you look over at him. He doesn’t have the usual smug look on his face. He seems genuinely concerned. Who wouldn’t be if they found their teammate crying at a grand piano at 4 in the morning.

You take a small breath, staring into your reflection in the polished black of the piano. “How are we supposed to live up to them?” you mumble. “How is a fuckup like me supposed to be an Avenger? I-I can’t even do this right, how am I supposed to save the world?”

John sighs. “We’re never gonna be them.” he admits, earnest and quiet. “Trust me, I know better than anyone.”

There’s a hint of sarcasm in his voice, trying to lighten the bad memories. You didn’t live under a rock; you saw John’s meteoric fall from grace as Cap a few years back. 

“But you can’t let it get to you.” he steadies himself, assertive in his words. “None of us are perfect. But we just gotta keep trying.”

None of you are perfect, that’s for sure. You probably have a combined kill count of a small country. But you can forget about that, even just for this moment, sitting here with Walker, with your friend by your side. 

You can’t erase it. But you can move forward.

You turn back to him, a small smile forming. “Nice pep talk, Walker.”

He shrugs jokingly. “Yeah, the therapy’s helped a lot.”

“You go to therapy?”

“Everytime I say something about my childhood, you and Ava tell me to go to therapy, and you’re surprised I actually did it?”

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.” You actually laugh at that. “But that’s good.”

“It is. It’s actually nice, talking about…feelings.” he says it as if it’s a dirty word, or if he’s not sure if he’s allowed to use it. 

“Wow. Crazy stuff.” you deadpan, earning another chuckle from him. He has a nice laugh, a low rumble you don’t hear very often. You like this John. Kind, soft. You hope he stays when the sun comes up.

For now, you just lean against him, head resting on his shoulder. You feel him tense up just a little, surprised at the touch. He clears his throat. “You, uh, can you play this?” he gestures to the sheet music before you. You squint. The first few pages of Für Elise.

“Pretty easy. Whoever was using this wasn’t very good at piano.” you joke.

“See? We’re the Avengers with the better pianist.”

You just laugh, moving into the piece. You forget your nightmares, the Avengers, the pain. You just lean into John, joking and laughing, and you play. 

You make a mistake.

Before you can even start to think poorly of yourself, John is talking. “That’s still really good,” he points out. “I mean, you just saw the music for the first time. I can’t even read this.”

“What, you’re telling me you weren’t in your high school marching band?”

“I was on the field actually playing.” he reminds you. “3 years, state champs, back-”

“To back, to back, go Bears!” you jokingly raise your fist as you recite it from memory. “You bring this up at least once a month, John.”

“Because it’s impressive!”

“Alright, you wanna see impressive?” you crack your knuckles dramatically, stretching your fingers as they return to the keys. 

Your fingers move on their own, like you’re casting a spell instead of hitting keys. You play it through, then turn the page over to the next, and the next, and the next. Everything else just vanishes as you throw yourself into it, only feeling the cold keys under your hands and the warmth of John Walker next to you.

You finish with a flourish, giving a smug smile to Walker. He doesn’t even look annoyed; just happy, impressed, even. He gives a small clap. “That was good. Nerd.”

You smack his arm playfully, and he responds by pulling you into a one armed hug. You both laugh, your sorrows forgotten as the sun begins to rise, the light reflecting on the surface of the instrument.

You look up at John, noticing the way the light catches his bright blue eyes. You like to bully him about them sometimes, joking that they always look like they’re boring into your soul. In this light, they remind you of a clear sky, of a moment of peace. 

You don’t realize you’re staring till moments after you realize that John is as well. Your faces have inched closer to one another. A little too close. You clear your throat, turning back to the piano. 

“Thanks, John. For, uh, everything.”

“‘Course.” he says. You can still feel his eyes on you, the warmth of his arm around you. You feel him lean in just a bit, his lips just barely touching the crown of your head. You swear you can feel him leave a kiss against your hair, before he excuses himself to go train.

You just stay at the piano. You pick through the sheet music, find another piece, and try to play. You don’t beat yourself up at your mistakes. You just keep playing, on and on and on.

And for a minute, everything else goes away. Well, almost everything.

a/n: TO BE CONTINUED???? MAYBE??? idk if you guys like this and are interested i'd love to do a little part two to this one. maybe also n2n inspired??? you guys aren't escaping fic based on this musical i've already got bob character study in the works. Ain't much but it's honest work!

[euphoricfilter]

HIIII GIRLY. I saw your drabble game anddd how about

"How could we ever just be friends" + yoongi djskskjs

just friends:

pairing: yoongi x gn! reader

genre: fluff || mild hurt with a lot of comfort || non-idol au

summary: maybe you were never just friends

word count: 1.2k

tags/ warnings: feelings, fluff, the smallest hint of hurt, they’re actually just really in love and the m/c is slightly oblivious but yoon is a big old sweetheart

notes: OMG HEY!!!!! you didn’t ask for a specific au so i did indulge slightly and made it fluffy and soft, hope you like it :D

drabble masterlist || all my other works

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

There had always been something utterly unique about Yoongi’s existence in your eyes. He had been the first, and only person whose life had meant anything to you.

You’d spent most of your life aimlessly wandering, taking each day as it came and only hoped it would get better the more you trudged through. Fingers letting go of the ropes of friendships you’d made and lost—people you didn’t pay any mind to now that they weren’t in your life.

You didn’t miss them. Never thought of them unless they were right in front of you, if they never made themselves known.

But Yoongi had been different.

It didn’t take his physical presence for you to wonder how he was doing. He didn’t need to message first for you to ask how his day was. Dreams filled with another reality, what the two of you would be doing the next time you met, how sweet your name sounded from his lips. Or that sweet smile he would give you every time you stumbled over your words, too caught up in his eyes your brain malfunctions and you forget how to speak.

Thoughts consumed by him, feelings wrapping around the idea of his existence, soul dancing around his in this weird push and pull, not quite just friends but not really anything more.

Special, precious, perfect, Yoongi.

In all your years alive you’d never had a crush until that first moment you met. Never once thought of another human being in any other way that wasn’t platonic. It felt as though part of your world had started to crumble to moment, you’d acknowledged how you truly felt about him, stuck in this endless dilemma. Because who were you meant to tell him about your feelings when he was your closest friend? What if he asked who it was? He knew you rarely went out, and you sure as hell would have told him if you’d gone on any dates. So, you’d been stewing in your own feelings for as long as you can remember, too scared to utter a word about what was really happening between the two of you.

Because, sure his touches lingered, warm skin pressed against one another until the heat has travelled to your cheeks and you refuse to look at him, too scared he’d see how flustered you were. And sure there was the nicknames, though that was something he’d started early on, and you had doubts he fell in love just as quickly as you did.

Sometimes it felt like he only smiled at you, and yet you could only assume it was because you were his best friend, a safety net for him as much as he was one for you.

But not once had he made it obvious he liked you any more than a friend. A fact you’d slowly decided you could live with.

Just like yourself, it wasn’t very often Yoongi went on dates, you don’t think he’s been on one in the time you’d been friends. Which makes this whole dilemma slightly easier to swallow, because at this moment in time you were probably the most important person in his life.

You got to live out your secret little fantasy, and he got a low maintenance friendship. The perfect exchange.

And truly you believed it would be like this forever, until that little dream in the forefront of your mind was shattered by someone else coming into his life, and the two of you slowly drifting apart.

That was until tonight.

It wasn’t often you drank, never indulged in the fine whiskeys Yoongi would bring over to your place, stashed away in the cupboard when he wanted a little something before bed. However, Yoongi had come over with a cocktail making kit, saying he’d done some research because he knew how much you liked sweeter drinks.

And maybe you’d had a few too many, eagerly asking him to make you different drinks from the little book he had, excited as you watched him mix everything together. Utterly amazed by how good everything he made tasted.

You can’t remember what you’d said, words tumbling out your mouth quicker than you could swallow them back down. The small, sane part of your brain slowly catching up to what was happening as you watch Yoongi’s face morph into something slightly more surprised.

“How could we ever just be friends?” he shakes his head, scooting closer to you on the couch.

“Because you don’t like m—”

He holds a finger up to your lips, quick to silence you.

“Don’t finish that”

A frown tugs at the corners of your lips, “but Yoongi—”

He takes hold of your hands, thumb running over delicate skin as he looks at your face.

“No” he shakes his head, “listen to me for a moment, yeah?”

He’s calm, voice tender and smooth.

You nod.

“You’re not forcing me into anything” he starts, “I thought I was being too pushy with you”

You swallow.

“Huh?” your eyes widen slightly, “But I could have sworn you didn’t like me more than a best friend”

The low rumble of a laugh vibrates from his chest, “Best friends don’t look at each other the way I look at you. They don’t hold your hand on days out, or wish they could kiss you when you make that sweet little face when you first wake up in the morning”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you murmur, “I really thought—”

“And why didn’t you tell me, hmm?” he smiles, “feelings are weird.”

You nod, outburst having helped you sober up slightly.

“What now?” your legs bounce a little, so far out of your comfort zone.

“Whatever you want” he reassures.

“I’m scared” it spills past your lips before you can think about it.

He tilts his head slightly in question, “About what? Commitment?”  

You shake your head, frantic “I just—I don’t know what to do I’ve never dated a person before”

He gives you a gentle smile, “Just be you. Just like you are now, that’s all I want”

“But what if I want a kiss?” you inch a little closer to him.

“Then I’ll give you a kiss”

“What if I wanted a kiss when we go out to dinner with your friends?”

He laughs, “Doesn’t matter when or where, I’ll always be willing to give you a kiss if that’s what you please”

You chew on your bottom lip.

“I’ve never actually kissed anyone before” you say, shoulders losing their tension, because now this felt normal. Like how it always was with Yoongi, where you didn’t need to have secrets or be scared about what he thought. Because for all the time you’d known him, he had always been by your side, and you hope it will stay like that for the rest of time.

“Then I’ll teach you” he hums, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, “Try not to worry your pretty little head too much, I know what you’re like”

“But—” you worry.

“Nope” he laughs, “We’ll work through this together like we do everything else, I’m always here for you, you know that right?”

Your eyes flicker between his for a moment, words settling into your soul as you nod.

“And I’ll always be here for you too, just so you know” the corners of your lips curl up into a smile.

[plussizefantasia]

Hesitant Hearts

Kili Durin x Soulmate!Reader (Part 4)

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

warnings: tragic backstory, mentioned abuse (not graphic) alcohol, running away, reader is depressed, abusive ex

word count: 2.9k

a/n: thank you to all who sent me messages encouraging me to continue this! I have so much love for this story in my heart, but no time to actually write it haha anyway, shoutout to @crackedpumpkin who has been my backbone for this part and will be just as important for the next couple I'm sure.... Anyway enjoy this next chapter, I've already started on flushing out the next one <3

Kili hadn’t been back to the tavern since that night. Honestly, you were missing his presence; you didn’t realize how much safer he made you feel when he was there. Roland had been true to his word and not shown up again either. It felt a little bit like you weren’t really there, like you floated from one day to the next, never actually taking anything in- just existing. 

Last week, Brant had told you he thought you were ready to take over the tavern fully, you immediately turned to Kili’s stool to celebrate with him and felt your heart drop into your stomach when he wasn’t there smiling along with you. 

That’s been happening a lot recently, Kili’s absence has become a lot more noticeable as the days go by. Once you were able to put aside your fear and hurt, all that was left was longing, and that scared you in an entirely different way.

You swore never to let your heart be controlled by anything but you ever again, you had made the promise to yourself on a cold dark night huddled by a fire with nothing but the stars over your head. Your life in Bree was not a pleasant one, daughter of a merchant whose wife had died when you were just a little girl. There wasn’t much love between the two of you but your father did his best to provide for you and the time came that you ought to have started looking for a husband he did what he thought was right.

By all accounts the man he had promised you to was not a bad man, he was well off and made good conversation. He was not an ugly man and he took the time to get to actually know you. You did not want to get married, not then. You had hardly explored the world, you had no interest other than what your father had been interested in. You wanted more, you wanted to be more. But your father had insisted. “It’s how it’s done, girl.” He had said. That was that. Three moons later you and Ricard were married in the church, nobody in the seats but his mother and your father. 

 It wasn’t exactly a happy marriage but it didn’t compare to some of the nightmare stories you had heard from the other ladies. You had heard of course the stories of women whose husbands were nothing but useless drunks. Who raised a hand to them regularly and kept them under lock and key. Your marriage was not a nightmare, and you forced yourself to be thankful for small miracles.

Until Ricard had become the very type of man you had feared. He controlled everything in your life. You didn’t leave the home you two shared, after all, why would you need to when he provided everything? He didn’t like when you spoke, it seemed that when he looked for a wife he wanted a maid instead. You warmed his bed and cooked his food and turned a blind eye when he came back smelling of another woman. He had trapped you, stripped you of the vivacious young woman you had been.

One day you had had enough, you don’t even really remember what pushed you over the edge, just that one night after he had drunkenly stumbled into bed smelling of ale and other women, you had grabbed a pack that you had stashed under the floorboards and ran. You didn’t stop running, not when you found yourself alone in the woods, or when the sounds of wolves and wargs alike haunted your dreams. Not when you were given dirty looks in the towns you passed through.  And certainly not when you ended up in King Thranduil’s palace staring down the elf with all the disgust you could manage. You hadn’t meant to stumble into the elven kingdom you had been walking for weeks, months? You weren’t sure anymore. You had no destination in mind just a goal: get as far away from the life you led and anyone who knew you when you lived it.

Walking through the woods while it was dark was admittedly, not your best idea but you had lost any sense of what was a good idea a long time ago. There were no good choices, only ones that kept you alive and ones that killed you, nothing else mattered. 

A pack of Elvish guards doing a patrol to keep the spiders at bay had seen you, a human woman looking worse for wear trekking through their woods. They had grabbed you and not listened to your pleas as they dragged you through the forest and into the King’s home, throwing you down to your knees right before his feet.

You didn’t speak Elvish but the quick and ruthless exchange of syllables from those that surrounded you made your hair stand on edge. 

The Elven king stood tall before you, “You’re far from home.” It wasn’t a question but you knew he wanted an answer.

“I am traveling to meet my kin in Dale.” you paused. “Your Majesty.”

“Alone?” He raised an eyebrow at you and curled the edges of his lip into a sneer.

“I have no family left to escort me. I must meet my Uncle in Dale.”

“Well then, allow us.” He turned his back and waved his hand. Seconds later your arms were grabbed with an iron grip and you were once again being dragged through the halls of the King. 

He had a pair of guards ‘escort’ you to the edge of Mirkwood. Before they released you back into the wild, on the other side of the forest, they stripped you of your little belongings and passed along a message from the King.

“If you’re seen again within King Thranduil’s kingdom you will not live long enough to see the inside of a cell.”

You were honestly surprised that you had managed to make it to Dale. You had no provisions, the clothes on your back, and only strength of will. 

It was nighttime when you stumbled onto the city streets of Dale. At the time, the town was still young, mainly filled only by the survivors of the Battle of the Five Armies and some families that had made their way to the city in the year that followed. 

Your legs felt as though they were made of lead. They dragged behind you as you stumbled from exhaustion into the center of town.

It was late, most lights were out and doors were locked. You didn’t know where the master of the town lived or if there even was one.

The sound of revelry caught your attention and in a small burst of energy, you followed the sound. You happened upon a tavern that was soon to be your home.

When you pushed past the doors all talking and laughter seemed to stop. Eyes shot at you and your torn dress, they filtered over the mess of hair on top of your head as well as the dirt on your face.

Everyone was still and then slowly, from behind the bar an older man stepped closer to you. His hair was speckled with grey and his shoulders were broad. If you had more sense you might’ve turned tail and run but you were locked where you were. Your legs refused to move but your heart refused to stop. You felt as if it would burst out of your chest.

The man reached a hand out to you and smiled. For the first time in a long time, you let yourself have a moment. One moment to let go, you reached out your hand and placed it in his.

He put a hand on your back and started to usher you to the set of stairs on the other side of the room. He gently guided you up the stairs and into an empty room.

“I don’t imagine you’ll want to answer too many questions so I won’t ask any. You can stay here for the night at least, get a hot meal and a bath.”

“Thank you.” Your voice rasped from lack of use, not having another soul to speak to for weeks since you were expelled from the Elven kingdom. 

One night turned to two, then three, and then a whole week. During that time you had started to help out, you had no money but wanted to return the kindness shown to you.

Eventually, you told Brant the basics of your story, that you grew up in Bree and managed the journey across Middle-Earth on your own in order to make a better life for yourself. 

“Well, you can start one here. It’s been a while since I’ve had decent help and you need a place to stay.” You nodded and gave him a hug, he patted your back, and thus began the next chapter of your life. 

Over the course of the next three years, you’d found a purpose, gained back some of the spirit that had been stripped from you, and carved out a handsome little life for yourself here, halfway across Middle Earth from the life you had once been imprisoned in. 

And now it feels as though you’ve lost it all in one fell swoop. In protecting your heart you may have lost the only person who would honestly take care of it. 

You still remember the silence that echoed after Kili’s departure. The sound of the doors slamming on repeat in your head. You fell to your knees and wept. You bared your teeth and held in a scream. Your heart cried out in pain, pain for a love lost, for the innocence it longed for, for you, for Kili, and for what could have been. If only you were a little braver.

That is how Brant found you the next morning. He descended the stairs from his own rooms above the tavern and saw the young lass he had taken a chance on, curled in on herself fitfully sleeping with tear tracks down her cheeks.

Sighing deeply he shook you awake and ushered you upstairs despite your protests.

“Lass, I’ve kept this place standing for longer than you’ve been alive, one more day won’t kill me.” He placed a single kiss on your forehead and you smiled for the first time in a while. Brant had filled the role of a Father far better than your own had and you were deeply grateful for everything he had done for you.

You thanked him and placed a similar peck on his cheek, sleepily shuffling off to your room and closing the door softly behind you. 

You yearned for a dreamless sleep but the Gods did not see fit to grant your wish. For weeks You dreamt of a love lost and slamming doors. Of drowning in your own sorrow and waking up in your bed back in Bree chained to a man with locks nobody but you can see. Ricard takes steps towards you, locking you in with his body, a cruel smirk spread across his face. 

You jolt up in your bed, sweat dripping down your face and a scream trapped in your throat. For a brief and terrifying moment, you don’t know where you are, you feel the phantom grip of his hands on your skin and his breath on your face.

You force yourself to stand and get out of the sweat-soaked sheets, quickly getting changed and fleeing the dark room that twists your mind. You amble your way down the stairs, Brant said that he could take care of everything and you trust him but it wasn’t fair to leave him high and dry, not for this long. 

You need to work, to push yourself out of whatever fog you’ve been in, just a few hours of not thinking about your own life, about your past or your present. Not thinking about the way your heart still twists when you don’t spot the shag of brown hair among the sea of people. You want to lose yourself in the rhythm of serving drinks and food. Take care of everyone so that you don’t have to do the same for yourself. 

The mindless thrum beneath your skin keeps you moving, you aren’t as bright as you normally are, no pleasantries fall from your lips and no smile falls upon your face. But you’re fast, and people respect that. No glass goes unfilled for very long and no surface is dirty. You fall back into the recesses of your mind and let the familiarity take over. 

You lose yourself in yourself and for one brief and terrifying moment, you realize that there is a longing deep within yourself to stay lost. To lock down your mind and your heart, to become a numb and mindless being with no purpose. 

Then his voice rings in your mind, his laugh fills your heart and his smile warms your soul. 

There might be a sense of peace in the numbness, but you would rather hurt for the rest of your life than give up the joy that he brings you, even if only through memories now. 

You don’t notice the group of men who walk through the door until one of them is standing right in front of your bar, he knocks his knuckles against the wood and your eyes shoot up to get a look at his face.

“Ah, My King, how are you this fine evening.”

Bard smiled at you and shook his head from side to side, “It’s just Bard, and you know that. None of this My King nonsense.”

“Sorry, King Bard but you mean too much to the people ‘round here for me to throw that all away. Anyway, what can I get you?” You send him a teasing smirk and wipe your hands off on the towel hanging from the loop of your skirt. 

“Whatever you have for supper tonight and a round of ales if you please?” 

“Of, course just you tonight?” You ask.

“No, As much as I’d love to spend the night indulging in simple pleasures there is always work to be done. A meeting with the Dwarf prince about the new training for our guards. Hopefully, we can put everything into place soon so that I can start eating dinner with my family again.” He caps his words with a laugh but you don’t hear it. 

The second the words ‘dwarf prince’ leave his mouth your eyes are scanning every face in the place. Desperately searching for just a glimpse of the man whose face you’ve only been able to see in dreams. 

You cast your eyes to Bard’s usual table, seated there are Captain Steinar, Bain two men you don’t recognize from this far away, and a Blonde dwarf who has two braids flowing from either side of his lips. 

You try to ignore the way your heart freezes when you realize that Kili has sent his brother, Prince Fili. How much damage did you cause? How much did you hurt him that he won’t even show his face? Will you ever see him again?

The thought alone of never seeing Kili again almost brings you to your knees. Nevertheless, you take a breath and smile at the King.

“I’ll have your food and drinks out to you as soon as I can.”

He nods and leaves some coins on the counter before pushing himself off the bar and walking back towards his companions for the evening. 

You load a tray up with five servings of fried fish and potatoes along with some bread and cheese and make your way over to the King’s table, placing the food down in front of each of them before returning back to the bar to grab their drinks. 

You load them up into your arms and take about ten steps toward your destination when the front doors are thrown open. They loudly bang against the interior walls and with them, a chilly gust of wind permeates the room.

It isn’t the cold wind that freezes your blood in your veins though, that would be due to the man who stands in the entrance. 

The man takes his hat off his head and looks around the room, locking eyes with you and you watch as a cruel smirk spreads over his face.

“Hello love, miss me?” 

The only sound in your ears is the shattering of glass and the rushing of blood.

How the hell did he find you?

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[pomegranatelifethis]

Father

I don't like it but let it stay here anyway

The summer of your sixteenth year was a golden cage, its bars forged from endless days and suffocating solitude. The city hummed with life—children shrieking in the streets, ice cream trucks chiming their siren songs, the air thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and sun-baked asphalt. But for you, it was a season of shadows, each day stretching into the next with a relentless, aching emptiness. You were Miguel O’Hara’s daughter, a fact that should have tethered you to something solid, something real. Instead, it left you adrift, a ghost in a world that refused to see you.

Home was a fortress of silence, its walls lined with your father’s absence. Miguel was a titan, a Spider-Man whose life was a tapestry of dimensions and dangers, his mind a labyrinth of anomalies and multiversal threads. To him, you were a faint outline, a quiet presence he barely registered. You’d watch him in his lab, the glow of holographic displays casting sharp angles across his face, his voice clipped as he barked orders to Lyla, his AI assistant. You’d sit at the dinner table, your fork scraping against the plate, waiting for him to look at you, to ask about your day, to notice the way your shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. But his eyes were always elsewhere—on screens, on missions, on a universe that didn’t include you.

“Dad,” you’d ventured once, your voice a fragile thread as you stood in the doorway of his lab. “Can we talk? Just for a minute?”

He’d barely glanced up, his fingers flying over a console, his brow furrowed with the weight of a collapsing dimension. “Not now, mija,” he’d said, his tone sharp with distraction. “I’m in the middle of something critical.”

The words stung, a quiet rejection that settled into your bones. You’d nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, and backed away, the door clicking shut between you. That was the pattern—your attempts to reach him met with a wall of preoccupation, his focus always on the next crisis, the next world to save. You were his daughter, his flesh and blood, but you were also a stranger, a shadow he didn’t see.

Your room was your sanctuary, a small corner of the world where you could breathe. The walls were plastered with sketches—cityscapes of towering spires and neon-lit streets, places you’d conjured from the fragments of your imagination. You’d spend hours hunched over your sketchbook, your pencil scratching out dreams of freedom, of swinging through the air like the heroes your father spoke of. You’d hum old songs, ones your mother used to sing before she was gone, your voice soft and trembling, as if afraid to disturb the stillness. Your bed was a nest of blankets, a place where you could curl up and pretend the world didn’t exist. But even there, the loneliness crept in, a cold hand wrapping around your heart.

Summer stripped away the structure of school, leaving you to wander the city alone. Your sneakers scuffed against cracked sidewalks, your backpack slung over one shoulder, a sketchbook and a half-empty water bottle your only companions. The other kids your age moved in bright, noisy packs, their laughter a blade that cut through the air. You weren’t one of them. You never had been. They didn’t shove you or steal your money anymore—summer had dissolved the daily rituals of cruelty—but their indifference was its own kind of violence. They looked through you, their eyes sliding past as if you were a smudge on the world’s canvas. You were invisible, and it hurt worse than any bruise.

You tried to fill the days, to stitch together a life from the scraps of your solitude. You’d sit in the park, sketching the way sunlight dappled through the trees, the shadows shifting like your own restless thoughts. You’d linger in the library, losing yourself in stories of heroes who saved the day, their courage a stark contrast to the fragility you carried. But the stories always ended, and the heroes never looked like you. They were bold, bright, unbreakable—everything you weren’t. You were a girl who flinched at sudden noises, who checked the locks on her door twice, who felt like she was drowning in her own skin.

The weight of your worthlessness grew heavier with each passing day. You’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, the darkness pressing against your chest like a living thing. *Why am I here?* you’d wonder, the question a knife twisting in your gut. You wanted to be someone—someone who mattered, someone who was seen. But the world seemed to conspire against you, whispering that you were nothing, that you’d always be nothing. You’d trace the scars on your heart—not physical, but just as real—each one a memory of a moment when you’d reached out and found no one there.

You tried to bridge the chasm between you and your father, clinging to the hope that he’d see you if you just tried harder. One evening, you found him in his lab, the air humming with the glow of his tech. You clutched a sketch you’d poured your heart into—a cityscape with a figure swinging between buildings, a tribute to him, to the hero he was. “Dad, I drew something,” you said, your voice small but trembling with hope. “Can you look? Please?”

He didn’t turn around. “Later,” he muttered, his fingers flying over a console. “I’m dealing with a collapse in Sector 7. It’s urgent.”

The sketch crumpled in your hands as you backed away, the rejection a physical ache that radiated through your chest. You’d stood there for a moment, waiting for him to change his mind, to glance back and see the hurt in your eyes. But he didn’t. You slipped out of the lab, the door hissing shut behind you, and the sketch found its way to the bottom of your drawer, buried like so many of your dreams. After that, you stopped trying. The hope that he’d notice you withered, leaving only a hollow ache in its place.

The summer wore on, each day a mirror of the last. You’d walk to the cliffs at the edge of the city, where the ocean roared below, its waves a symphony of chaos that matched the storm in your heart. You’d stand there for hours, the wind tugging at your hair, your toes curling over the rocky edge. The vastness of the sea called to you, its endless expanse a promise of escape. You imagined stepping off, letting the air carry you away—not to die, not exactly, but to be free, to shed the weight of a life that felt like a punishment. You wanted to be weightless, like the heroes in your father’s stories, like the girl you dreamed of being.

You’d close your eyes and picture her: a version of you who laughed without fear, who swung through the sky with grace and power, who was enough. She had your face but none of your pain. She was the person you’d never be, the one no one would ever know. You’d whisper her name to the wind, a secret you kept even from yourself, and the ocean would answer with its ceaseless roar.

The loneliness became a living thing, a shadow that followed you everywhere. You’d see families in the park, parents laughing with their children, and the sight would twist something deep inside you. You’d hear your neighbors call out to each other, their voices warm with connection, and you’d wonder why you were so easy to overlook. You’d pass by shop windows, catching your reflection—a girl with hollow eyes, a smile that never reached them—and you’d wonder who she was, this stranger wearing your face.

You stopped singing. The songs that had once been your solace felt like lies, their melodies mocking the emptiness of your days. You stopped sketching as much, the cities in your mind growing dim, their spires crumbling under the weight of your despair. You felt like a husk, a shell of a person, your insides scooped out and replaced with a void that grew larger with every breath.

One night, the sky was a bruise of crimson and violet, the horizon swallowing the last of the sun in a blaze of color. You stood at the cliff’s edge, your sketchbook tucked under your arm, its pages filled with dreams you’d never shared—cities that didn’t exist, heroes who didn’t save you. Your hair whipped across your face, tangled by the wind, and for a moment, you felt like you were part of the world, not apart from it. The ocean roared below, its voice a call you couldn’t ignore.

You thought of your father, his broad shoulders hunched over his work, unaware of the daughter slipping through his fingers. You thought of the kids who never invited you to their games, the neighbors who never asked your name, the world that had turned its back on you. You thought of the songs you’d sung, the stories you’d told yourself, the quiet strength you’d carried alone. You thought of the girl you’d wanted to be, the one who swung through the sky, who laughed and loved and lived.

You closed your eyes, and the wind was gentle, like a hand guiding you forward. The world would spin on without you, but in that moment, you were free. Your dreams, unspoken and unseen, floated with you, a constellation of what might have been. The ocean’s roar swallowed the sound of your final breath, and the sky held you as you let go.

---

Days later, Miguel O’Hara stood in your room, the silence a weight he couldn’t bear. Your bed was neatly made, your sketchbook open on the desk, its pages fluttering in a breeze from an open window. He picked it up, his hands trembling as he traced the lines of a city he didn’t recognize, a figure swinging through its heart with a grace he’d never seen in you. His chest tightened, a grief too vast to name, its edges sharp with the realization of all he’d missed.

He found your other sketches, tucked away in drawers and under books—hundreds of them, each one a piece of a world you’d built alone. Cities that soared, heroes who flew, a girl who looked like you but shone with a light he hadn’t noticed. He found notes in the margins, fragments of your thoughts: *I want to be enough. I want to be seen. I want to fly.* His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, the sketchbook clutched to his chest, his sobs breaking the silence he’d let fester for too long.

The cliffs stood silent, the ocean’s roar a requiem for a girl no one had truly known. Miguel would carry the weight of his neglect for the rest of his days, a scar that no mission, no dimension, could erase. He’d saved countless worlds, but he hadn’t saved you.

Somewhere, in a universe he couldn’t reach, you were swinging through a city of your own making, weightless and free. Your laughter echoed in the wind, your sketches came to life, and you were everything you’d dreamed of being. But the cost of that freedom was a truth no one had heard in time: you had been enough, all along, and the world had failed to see it.

[strryhaze]

something i wondered about just now but. i remember reading teddy’s biography for kennedy lore ofc and finding out just how serious jack was about his godfather duties. one time an overwhelmed, teenage teddy impulsively decided to run away from home and he hadn’t made it very far before he called home to reiterate that he was running away to his parents. jack, however, was the one who picked up the phone and heard teddy venting about how he was finished and tired and leaving home. and jack didn’t laugh at him. didn’t minimize his feelings or ring him out like any other adult would’ve done at the time. instead he made an “adolescent boy feel like a worthy person whose feelings mattered” by merely wisely suggesting that teddy meet him at the theater to watch a war picture (with his war hero older brother) and if he still felt like he wanted to run away after it was finished, then he could still go. no harm, no foul. after the movie was done, jack innocently reasoned that it was too late and that teddy should get a good night’s sleep first before running away in the morning. and on that same night, jack found their father and told him to “let up” on teddy. he would also pick teddy up from boarding school the morning after kick’s death, driving back home together in a somber, steady silence. all these little details about his dynamic with jack that ted was able to share because he was still alive to share them. and these details wouldn’t have come from any other external kennedy biography because how would they know such one-on-one details? personal memories forever preserved between two people unless one later decided to share it.

and it just makes me think about bobby. bobby and jack. oftentimes, biographers become so preoccupied in trying to instill how unclose they were growing up ( and of course there is truth in that ) that they undermine what most likely existed instead. because what about the small, noteworthy moments in between the eye rolls and the hurt feelings and the slight distance that exists between siblings when one of them is still too little? the walks along the beach jack would take bobby on? the spy novels he would geek to bobby and only bobby about? the moments where bobby was a pillar for jack throughout his deathly near misses, a steady presence that calmed a sick, anxious jack and the nurses around him? the moments when he might’ve been running down the stairs to go sail with his friends, only to see bobby’s sad little downtrodden face after their father had been a little too brusque with him that morning — pausing for a beat before turning around and telling him with a pseudo-stern tone just this once, alright? a shy grin quickly overtaking bobby’s face and jack’s chest loosening up at the sight though he surely would’ve hidden it with a casual scoff before gesturing at him to follow? and i’m sure that there were so many more of those in-between moments that we’ll never get to know because they didn’t live long enough to share them.