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zerocoded · 8 days ago

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summary: your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.

authors note: chapter two is here and i couldn’t be more grateful for all the support i’m getting for this story, i hope we can all enjoy our time here <3 for this one i’d like to clarify that i’m still trying to improve my writing and pacing so pls bear with my anxious ass until i can properly proofread it. anyways, let’s cut the bs and thirst over our confused funny reader and her hot vampire neighbour. PLS, READ THE WARNINGS FOR A SAFE AND COMFORTABLE READING.

warnings and tags: mommy issues • explanation of a cancer treatment (not detailed) • reader was forced to become an adult at thirteen (matilda's vibes) • her dad has cancer • mentions of lab reports, chemotherapy, prescriptions, hospitals • detailed descriptions of fever and sickness symptoms • reader is sick and passes out • THIS IS ANGST, I'M WARNING YOU • but we also got sarcasm and hot neighbors if that makes you feel better • this is so introspective i'm sick • jungwon is fully tatted in this story, i think i should add this • soulmates!au • vampire!au.

word count: 16k.

previous chapters: series masterlist.

the jeonghyeon building was known for its picturesque internal design, even the elevators had decorations.

today, it was pastel ribbons — thin, barely tied things, looped lazily along the edges of the brass railing like an afterthought.

you didn’t notice them when you were ascending to the rooftop last night. not when your embarrassment was so loud you could hardly breathe. not when you practically fled to the greenhouse after niki barged into your apartment. not when you came back down much later, heart racing, pupils blown, mouth dry.

not when your concern for your hot neighbor — because that’s all he was supposed to be — soured into something heavier. something quieter. something that curled low in your stomach and refused to leave.

sunghoon was a complex character. that much you'd noticed the very first time you saw him — standing in front of your door, black coat, mail in hand, giving you the kind of silent nod that felt like it had punctuation. he didn’t bother with small talk. didn’t seem interested in charming anyone. he was cute. quiet. mysterious in that brooding, emotionally unavailable way you hated admitting you were into.

but after last night... he became something else entirely.

not just a guy with good cheekbones and strange eyes. not just your weird, hot neighbor with an allergy to speaking.

something had shifted. and not in a fun “i think we had a moment” kind of way. more like a “maybe i was one minute away from being a missing person” kind of way.

and you weren’t saying he was dangerous. you were just saying… if this were a movie, and you disappeared mysteriously next week, he would be the first suspect. and the internet would agree.

at first, you thought maybe sunghoon was just allergic to something — you didn’t know, maybe air. maybe there was a weird flower up there in the greenhouse and he was reacting to it. you genuinely wondered, for one disoriented second, if he needed an epipen.

then you realized he wasn’t having an allergic reaction to the environment. he was having one to you.

and that’s when the alarms started going off.

because it wasn’t just weird. it was canonically weird. the kind of weird that didn’t fit into real-world logic. not just him — the whole thing. this building. his roommates. the greenhouse that felt like it shouldn’t exist on a rooftop, but somehow did.

the moment you saw his eyes — blown wide, pupils dilated like he’d just been drugged or bitten or both — you knew something was happening. and it was serious.

he couldn’t breathe right. he kept making these awful, strangled movements — like he was trying to swallow something back and failing. and then came the gulping. the salivating.

so much saliva.

you weren’t a doctor — hell, you hadn’t even passed your college entrance exams yet — but you knew what a medical emergency looked like. and that? that wasn’t that.

that wasn’t a panic attack. that wasn’t low blood sugar. that was something that didn’t belong to a normal person. and he had looked right at you while it happened.

so your thoughts, as you waited for the elevator door to open — so you could escape and hide in your apartment for the rest of the night because he begged you to leave him alone — were something like:

did i fuck up by moving here?

are they criminals?

omg, what if they’re human traffickers?

what if this is actually a cult and they’re looking for their next victim?

you weren’t being dramatic. you were being logical. or at least that’s what you told yourself as you stared at your blurry reflection in the elevator panel, trying not to have a full-blown breakdown while descending back to your floor.

you chalked it up to adrenaline. or hormones. or the silent, creeping onset of a stress-induced stroke. because how else were you supposed to explain the fact that your limbs were shaky, your stomach twisted in knots, and your mouth — for some reason — kept watering like you were watching someone eat cake on tv?

as you were inside that elevator, your head was spinning, your legs felt like someone had unplugged them mid-walk, and your skin was so oversensitive that even the elevator air felt too loud. it wasn’t fear. not exactly. it was something stranger. heavier. like your entire body was reacting to something your brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

the worst part was that, when the elevator finally opened and you stepped onto your floor, niki was there. again.

of course, again.

just standing in the hallway like a casually summoned demon. hands in his pockets, party attire perfectly unbothered, like he’d walked straight out of a hongdae fashion editorial titled ‘trouble but make it cute.’

you blinked at him. or — at least, you thought you did. hard to tell. it felt less like a voluntary movement and more like your body was running on lag, processing commands with a half-second delay. even your eyelids weren’t cooperating anymore.

he blinked back, completely unfazed. like finding you half-frozen in front of the elevator, breathing like a hunted animal, was just another tuesday night.

but this wasn’t a tuesday night — this was a friday night where you were supposed to have finished your college entrance essay four hours ago and kept things lowkey inside your pastel-colored apartment, eating dry cereal and pretending to be emotionally stable.

instead, you looked like you’d just seen a ghost. or worse — a really hot hallucination in a greenhouse that almost gave you a cardiac event. your hoodie was slightly damp from stress-sweat, your slippers were mismatched, and your mouth was still parted in that half-shocked, half-“please don’t let me die in a designer building” kind of way.

niki tilted his head, one brow barely lifting, like he was trying to place a scent or decode your entire existence using only his nostrils. the hallway lighting buzzed faintly above you, casting him in soft gold and you in fluorescent anxiety.

“you good?” he asked, nose twitching — subtle, but just enough to make you feel like he’d caught something in the air. something off. something you.

his small reaction made your stomach tighten, though you couldn’t explain why. embarrassment bloomed in your chest — sharp, involuntary — and you weren’t even sure what you were embarrassed about. the greenhouse? sunghoon? your face? the fact that your body still felt hijacked by a panic you didn’t understand?

you smoothed your face into what you hoped was neutral indifference. why? because you did not want to become a part of whatever cult these boys were running. you didn’t want to incriminate sunghoon in front of his possible accomplice before even knowing if they were a team or not. “yeah. totally. why?”

“just asking,” he said, tone too light — like a cat batting at a dying bug. “you look weird. smell off”

“oh, wow, thanks.” you did feel weird. but you weren’t about to unpack your almost-panic attack with your stupidly dressed neighbor while standing in a haunted hallway.

at midnight, mind you.

“you’re welcome.”

you sighed, already unlocking your door, ready to bolt inside in case sunghoon showed up with a knife. or a sword. at this point, you weren’t ruling anything out.

“what do you want, niki? it’s late as fuck.”

he shrugged. “i was asking if you wanted to come to this party with me.”

you turned to him. stared.

“niki, i’m not going to a party with you at midnight.”

he raised an eyebrow. “why not?”

“because we’re not that close, okay? and it’s fucking midnight, i need to finish this stupid essay and i need to sleep and walk my frog, whatever suits you.”

niki blinked. “you have a frog?”

“no, niki. i do not have a frog.”

he nodded slowly, like you’d just confirmed a suspicion.

“so you’re not coming to the party,” he said flatly — like your face wasn’t still flushed with nerves, like you hadn’t just come down from a near the vampire diaries death episode.

“no, niki. i’m not.”

“shame.” he didn’t pout. didn’t try to convince you. just accepted your answer like it was weather. like you were a passing cloud.

then he turned. walked off.

you watched him disappear down the corridor, steps light, hands still buried in his pockets. you kept staring until his figure was swallowed by the metal of the elevator. the doors closed with a soft ding.

and then you frowned. cursed under your breath.

what a fucking weird set of neighbors you’d managed to pull.

because what kind of approach was that? what kind of person — someone who had the audacity to call himself your friend — invited you to a party and then just... gave up. no convincing. no teasing. like the second he saw your clothes, your freezing cheeks, your wide eyes, he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. like he already knew your answer.

or worse — like you weren’t the one deciding at all.

you let your thoughts about niki slip away the second you glanced into your apartment.

inside your apartment, the first thing you did was lock everything. the front door, the balcony latch, the windows — even the sliding one in the bathroom that barely opened. then you cleaned, because what else could you do? it was either that or scream into a pillow, and your neighbors already thought you were weird.

so you tossed the half-bitten cookies niki had tasted earlier, like his saliva could infect your air or something. you washed the coffee machine you still hadn’t figured out how to use without flooding the counter. you folded your laundry into uneven stacks and told yourself you’d wash them properly in the morning. everything was done with a kind of desperate, mechanical precision — as if moving fast enough might stop your thoughts from catching up.

you were trying to return to normal. to do human things. to signal to your own body that there was no threat. but even after hours had passed — after the rooftop, after the greenhouse, after sunghoon’s eyes and niki’s nose twitch and whatever the hell had happened up there — your chest still felt tight. your blood pressure was high enough to make your ears ring. your fingers twitched when you paused too long. your heart, traitorous as ever, kept hammering like it knew something you didn’t.

eventually, your body gave out before your brain could. you laid down without brushing your teeth, without washing your face, without checking your phone. just collapsed into bed fully clothed, limbs aching like you’d run a marathon, mind buzzing like a dying lightbulb.

——

living in seoul city for five weeks now had been less like a teenage dream and more like a young adult nightmare. it’d only been a little more than a month, and you were already regretting changing your emergency contact to someone who once got lost inside a daiso for four hours and blamed capitalism (niki).

the whole move was supposed to be a fresh start — a quiet little apartment, a somewhat normal routine, a chance to reinvent yourself as someone who didn’t spiral every time a stranger looked at you too long. but after the greenhouse incident, you hadn’t reinvented anything except your ability to dissociate on command.

you hadn’t seen sunghoon since that night. not even once. not in the elevator, not in the hallway, not in the weirdly lavish mailroom with gold-trimmed cubbies. even niki had stopped popping up uninvited like a cursed genie in high-top sneakers. radio silence. total blackout.

at first, you assumed it was guilt. or maybe they'd gone out of town for one of those mysterious rich-people getaways where everyone pretends to hike and secretly joins a cult. then, after a few days, you started wondering if you'd hallucinated the whole thing. the greenhouse, the pupils, the gulping. maybe it was just a panic attack — one of those real dramatic ones your body pulls when your serotonin hits zero and your caffeine intake is at god-tier levels.

you almost convinced yourself. almost.

until the acceptance email came.

at first, you thought it was spam. the subject line was too cheerful. too optimistic. too full of polite korean university jargon. but then you opened it, and there it was — bold and clean and terrifying:

congratulations on your admission to the department of psychology at hanil women’s university.

you stared at it for a solid minute, unsure whether to cry, scream, or throw up. maybe all three. you read it again. and then again. and then once more just to make sure it wasn’t a prank from your father, who once photoshopped your middle school report card and printed it on the fridge “for motivation.”

and then you called him.

“you got in?” he said, picking up after one ring, as if he’d been waiting next to the phone like a k-drama dad.

“i got in.”

“to psych?”

“yes.”

“so you’ll finally be able to explain what’s wrong with you.”

“that’s the plan.”

he laughed like it was the best news he’d heard since kim yuna’s olympic gold. you could hear the pride tucked behind his teasing, even if he still refused to say anything too sappy. this was how you and your father celebrated: sarcastic banter, cheap delivery chicken, and maybe — if you really pressed — a heart emoji in a text message two days later.

you saved the acceptance email in three separate folders, took screenshots, emailed it to yourself again just in case the system crashed and erased all evidence that you were now, officially, a psychology student. march semester. hanil women’s university. you made it.

it didn’t fix everything. your head still hurt more days than not, and your stomach kept doing this fluttery thing like it was waiting for the other shoe to drop. but it helped. it grounded you. your dad even sent a voice message where he tried to pronounce “clinical psychology” and accidentally said “clitoris” instead. you cried laughing. saved that too.

and then, just as you were finally starting to convince yourself that life was back on track — that the sunghoon incident was just a weird blip, that niki wasn’t ever coming back to sniff your hallway anxiety again, that your body would stop rebelling against you any day now — your phone buzzed.

just one notification. just one line.

save my number. how’s city life? 🌼

you read it like it might explode. because of course it was her. of course it was now. right when you were managing to piece together something resembling peace — there she was, barging in with lowercase friendliness and a fucking flower emoji. no warning. no apology. no context. just a digital ghost pressing its face to the glass of your almost-healed life.

you stared at the message for a full minute, thumb hovering over the screen like it might bite. she hadn’t contacted you in months — not since she sent you those cold, bullet-pointed instructions on how to legally transfer the lease of your grandmother’s penthouse to your name. not a call. not a birthday emoji. just radio silence. and now… this. polite. breezy. like she was reintroducing herself.

you and your mom never had a real relationship. not after she left your father — not even two months after he started chemo — because her own mother couldn’t stand the idea of her daughter being married to a countryside fisherman.

there was no explosive fight. no door slamming or screaming match. just a quiet kind of abandonment, like someone slowly stepping backward out of the frame. you didn’t beg her to stay. you didn’t cry at her feet. you were thirteen, already too familiar with watching people leave and too tired to stage a dramatic protest.

you never had that teenage rebellion backbone — not the kind that slammed doors and yelled “you don’t understand me” through tears and acne. mostly because you didn’t have the time. you were too busy trying to hold the house together.

your mornings started before sunrise, heating up leftover rice and folding the blankets your father left on the couch when he was too nauseous to sleep in his bed. you’d take the bus to school, headphones in but nothing playing, brain looping through test dates and pharmacy receipts. in the evenings, you’d come home, drop your bag, and start cleaning again. washing dishes, checking the water filter, cooking something he could actually stomach.

your grades hovered somewhere between “survival” and “bare minimum,” not because you weren’t smart, but because you were exhausted. every hour of algebra felt like a theft — time stolen from the real emergencies. and when your classmates complained about their parents being annoying, you stayed quiet. you didn’t know how to explain that your mom had vanished into a new apartment across seoul, and your dad was losing his hair in clumps in the bathtub.

you learned how to read lab reports before you could even understand half of them. you taught yourself how to refill prescriptions without crying at the pharmacy counter. and at some point, you stopped wondering whether your mom was going to call. because she didn’t.

for years, han seo-jeon vanished. and you were too busy to care about that.

and now, here she was — texting like she was trying out for mother of the year. asking how city life was like she hadn’t helped drop you into the middle of a building that felt cursed. you didn’t know what pissed you off more: that she reached out, or that some small, bitter part of you was still hoping she meant it.

you did save the number. not out of sentiment, but logistics. she was, unfortunately, still your mother. and if she was going to start texting again, you at least needed to know when to emotionally flinch.

life in the city had not been the neon-lit montage the commercials promised. no rooftop parties. no cute cafés where you accidentally met your soulmate while reaching for the same scone. instead, you got: weird neighbors. a haunted greenhouse. and an apartment that echoed too much when you were overthinking — which was, statistically speaking, most of the time.

for the past two weeks — since your hot neighbor had an allergic reaction to you — your days were a blur of mild headaches and to-do lists you never fully finished. you woke up late, ate bland convenience store meals, and tried not to notice how heavy your limbs felt lately. it was like your body was trying to warn you about something but refused to be specific. even your skin felt wrong — itchy but not irritated, like your cells were in a group chat and everyone had started subtweeting you.

it’s been two weeks since the greenhouse incident and you haven’t seen this building as empty as it’s been. not a single glimpse of sunghoon — not in the elevator, not in the halls, not even in the mailroom where you used to hear his shoes before you saw him.

and niki, who once acted like the hallway was his personal runway, had vanished too. no impromptu visits. no weird comments through the door. not even a single “you good?” text with the passive-aggressive concern of a guy pretending not to care.

you stopped hearing late-night music thumping through the walls. the gym — which was always suspiciously clean for a place that niki once described as “his meditation zone” — stayed dark every time you passed it. the whole building felt like it was holding its breath. like it knew something you didn’t.

and maybe the scariest part wasn’t that they were gone. it was that no one else seemed to notice. no neighbors asking questions. no complaints about noise or missing faces. just… silence. echoing down perfect, pastel-colored halls. like the jeonghyeon building was designed to swallow noise. and people.

you told yourself the silence was a good thing. that it meant peace. that it meant maybe things were finally settling into something normal — something liveable.

but when nighttime came, when your apartment dimmed into shades of grey and soft buzzing fridge hums, when you hadn’t more essays to finish because you finally had been approved, the quiet got loud.

it crawled up the walls and pressed against your windows. it sat with you on the couch, next to your half-eaten dinner, and watched you scroll through your phone like it was waiting for you to break first.

you weren’t sleeping much. the insomnia wasn’t new, but it was different now. not the usual overthinking or anxiety kind — not the kind you could talk your way out of with youtube playlists and peppermint tea. this was… physical. your body didn’t want to sleep. it felt like it was bracing for something. like your heart refused to settle into a rhythm unless it knew you were alone, and safe, and not being watched.

at first, you chalked it up to the winter weather. maybe you’d caught a cold walking home with wet hair. maybe the convenience store ramen diet was finally taking its revenge, one sodium-packed headache at a time. your body ached like it had been through a minor car crash — but you were a student again now, technically. a little exhaustion came with the territory.

but when the symptoms hit the two-week marker, you started to get restless. it wasn’t just fatigue anymore. it was this bone-deep tired that sleep didn’t touch. your limbs felt heavy. your skin pulsed under certain lights. your migraines weren’t even announcing themselves like normal — they just showed up, sharp and unapologetic, like a knife pressed between your eyes.

some days you couldn’t even look at your own reflection without feeling like your face was one second away from morphing into someone else’s.

you tried to brush it off, blame it on stress, or hormone shifts, or anything that wasn’t weird supernatural fallout from a rooftop garden horror show. but your dreams said otherwise. and the worst part? you were starting to believe them.

sleep had never been your strong suit — not since you moved into the seonghyeon building, not since that night. some nights you fell asleep without realizing it, slipping into unconsciousness between one thought and the next. other nights you’d lie awake for hours, heart pacing like it was running laps without your permission.

but lately, it wasn’t the lack of sleep that bothered you. it was what came after.

you were never one to actually remember dreams in the morning. you’d wake up blank, maybe with a flicker of color or the echo of a word on your tongue, but nothing concrete. now, though — now they clung to you. heavy and wet.

they didn’t always make sense. sometimes you couldn’t recognize the places or the faces. sometimes there wasn’t even language, just this overwhelming pull — like your subconscious was trying to lead you somewhere you weren’t ready to go.

and the worst one came midweek, on a tuesday or maybe a wednesday — you’d stopped keeping track. you’d been up until 4 a.m. trying to finish your entrance essay, blinking at the screen like it might write itself if you stared hard enough.

eventually, your body gave up before your brain did. you passed out right there on the couch, lights on, laptop humming warm against your leg.

in the dream, you were back in the greenhouse. only it wasn’t beautiful anymore. the air was wet and sour, like rotting soil and mold. the plants were shriveled, leaves curling in on themselves like dying hands.

the glass walls were fogged over, and the lights buzzed low, flickering. you couldn’t tell how long you’d been standing there — just that your feet were bare and your skin was cold.

and then you saw him. sunghoon. standing still in the center of it all, surrounded by the decay. same black clothes. same unbothered posture. but his eyes… they glowed this awful, pale gold, like old moonlight trapped behind water. he didn’t speak. didn’t move. just watched you. watched you like he knew something. like he was waiting for you to admit it out loud. whatever it was.

you woke up gasping. drenched. fingers clenched in the fabric of the couch cushion so hard your nails left dents. your skin was damp with sweat, and the back of your neck felt like it had been kissed by frost. your heartbeat didn’t calm down for ten full minutes.

you didn’t go back to sleep after that, or the night after that. and now, without even noticing when it started, you hadn’t properly slept in four days. not real sleep. not healing sleep.

you were running on half-hour naps and caffeine shakes, staring at your ceiling like it might blink first. your body was forgetting how to rest — how to switch off — and your brain? well, your brain had entered that fun little stage of exhaustion where everything started feeling like a hallucination.

you kept misplacing things. your keys. your charger. your sentences. your skin felt too tight, your ears kept ringing, and your eyes burned every time you blinked.

you tried to blame it on the season, the new routine, the stress of college. because you had gotten in — that was real. the email had arrived last tuesday, and you’d cried over it in the bathroom like a girl in a coming-of-age movie. but even that joy felt distant now, like it belonged to someone else.

and now it was monday night again. fourteen days since the last time you saw any of your neighbors — not sunghoon, not niki, not even the middle-aged man with the dog that barked at its own reflection in the lobby mirror.

the building had gone eerily silent. the kind of silence that didn’t feel like peace, but like someone was holding their breath.

you were lying on your back, staring at the ceiling like it owed you answers. your phone rested on your chest, heavy and useless, buzzing every now and then with reminders you’d already missed and ads you’d never clicked. one missed call. one weather notification. zero messages from the people you told yourself you didn’t care about hearing from.

your brain was cotton. your limbs were bricks. your spine felt like it had been politely removed and mailed to another country. nothing helped — not water, not caffeine, not your fifteen-minute attempt at yoga that ended with you lying flat on the mat wondering if this was how people in cult documentaries started.

and the dreams weren’t letting up. they came every fifiteen minute nap now, and each one ended in that same suffocating greenhouse, with those same rotting plants and those same pale gold eyes watching you like a question you didn’t want to answer. you were starting to feel haunted by someone who hadn’t even spoken to you in two weeks.

so you called your dad. not for answers, not even for comfort — just because monday nights were the kind of nights where calling him felt like survival.

“kid,” he answered on the second ring, voice thick with sleep and instant worry, “you sick?”

you scoffed, immediately offended. “wow. no hello, no i missed you, just straight to the diagnosis.”

“your breathing’s weird. you’ve got the voice of a medieval orphan. you eating real food or just surviving off noodles again?”

the thing about your father is that he became your friend sometime between your fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays — sometime between hospital visits and pharmacy receipts, between learning how to drain an IV and helping him shower when the chemo made him too weak to lift his arms.

that kind of routine broke people, sometimes. made them distant. awkward. in your case, it did the opposite. it turned him into your favorite person. the only person who really knew you.

and by “knew you,” you didn’t mean in that fake, sentimental way people threw around when they wanted to be close. no. he knew you.

he could read your breath like punctuation. he heard your sighs like subtext. he could tell when you were lying just by how you said the word “fine.” he always knew when your laugh meant happy and when it meant not right now, please.

so when he picked up the phone and didn’t even say hello — just launched into a casual, “okay, how long have you been pretending you’re fine?” — you weren’t surprised. you just let your head fall to the side and sighed into the speaker.

“jesus, dad. give a girl some mystery.”

“mystery’s for strangers. and you don’t call me this late unless something’s up. so. what’s wrong? food poisoning? heartbreak? crime?”

“crime?” you snorted. “what kind of crime?”

“you tell me.” he yawned. “you’re the one whispering like someone’s watching.”

“i’m not whispering.”

“yet.”

you pulled your blanket higher up your chest. the warmth didn’t help much, but the sarcasm did.

“it’s not a big deal. just haven’t been sleeping.”

“for how long?”

“…i plead the fifth.”

“that’s an american law, kid.”

“then i plead being very korean and very tired.”

he chuckled on the other end — that low, warm sound that always made you feel like a person again. “okay. insomnia. check. what else?”

“you want the list alphabetically or emotionally?”

“surprise me.”

you paused. the line stayed quiet. and then:

“you ever feel like your body knows something you don’t?”

that made him go silent for real.

then, in the most casual tone imaginable:

“are you finally becoming a vampire?”

you groaned. “dad.”

“what? you always had the teeth for it.”

another thing about your dad was that he was, in fact, obsessed with vampires since his teenage years. how did you discover that?

oh, he never kept it hidden.

the man had tastes, and they were proudly undead. your childhood home had shelves dedicated to vampire literature, half of them worn out from rereads, the other half banned from your school’s book list.

it wasn’t just books either. halloween — a day that barely made a ripple in your korean school life — was his super bowl. even if there was no party to go to, no one to impress, he’d still show up on october 31st dressed like an eighteenth-century romanian warlord, sipping blood-red juice from a goblet he bought off some sketchy forum in 2009.

once, he wore a victorian frock coat and a prosthetic bite wound to your school’s parent–teacher meeting because he forgot to change. you’d never lived that down.

he was harmless about it, though. just enthusiastic. you used to think it was a dad thing — like model trains or grilling. but as you got older, you realized he didn’t just find vampires cool. he respected them. like they were a dying species whose stories deserved to be preserved.

he claimed it started as a joke. some middle school phase, back when vampires were still making headlines. but it stuck. and now, years later, he still made the same awful jokes and kept the same bookshelf and watched the same bootleg documentaries that used actual vampire interviews from the early days, back when coexistence was something society still tried to publicly understand.

he used to say, “one day they’ll come back around. real ones. they never disappeared, they just got quieter. like wolves when the forest burns.”

“you’ve been waiting your whole life to say that, haven’t you?” you mutter through clenched teeth, voice scratchy with exhaustion as another migraine slices across your skull like a dull knife.

“literally. your mother hated when i made those jokes. said it would scare you.”

“it didn’t scare me. it made me judgmental.”

“same thing at your age.” he paused, then added more gently, “what’s your symptoms?”

“i think i’m dying. pretty sure. either i’m dying or i’m the chosen one. probably both.” you grimace alone in your bedroom, pressing the phone tighter to your ear like proximity might somehow dull the ache — like your dad’s ridiculous voice might drown out the static building behind your eyes.

he chuckled. “you always wanted to be special. now look at you. main character syndrome.”

“dad, i’m serious. something’s off. i’ve been having migraines and dreams and…” you trailed off. rubbed your temple. “weird stuff. i can’t explain it. it’s probably stress, right?”

“or,” he said, entirely too cheerful, “you’ve been marked by a vampire.”

you groaned. “not this again.”

“hey, you brought up chosen one energy. don’t act surprised when the lore gets involved.”

you stared at the ceiling, lips twitching despite yourself. “lore? have you been sneaking onto aeri’s tiktok again? you’re obsessed.”

“obsessed is a strong word. passionately informed, maybe. listen—back in the eighties, they were everywhere. on the news. in magazines. talk shows. you’re too young to remember, but vamps were the real deal. civil rights protests, televised feedings, designer blood banks—hell, they had perfume lines.”

“dad.”

“and the soulmate stuff? wild. freaked people out. imagine waking up one day and realizing some pale bastard with three centuries of unresolved trauma has you bookmarked in his little undead brain. bam. linked for life.”

you snorted. “you say that like it actually happened.”

“it did happen. i had a friend in middle school—joon-seok—swore up and down his aunt bonded with a vamp in the seventies. met him at a blood drive or something. said she had dreams about him for weeks before they even locked eyes.”

“uh-huh.”

“i’m serious! back then it was like—vampires weren’t some secret club. people knew about them. they had ID cards, worked night shifts, bought supplements, did press tours. hell, there was this old drama your grandma used to watch where a vampire opened a pharmacy. they were around, okay?”

you raised an eyebrow. “then where are they now?”

“vanished,” he said, a little too dramatically. “right after the second blood regulation act in '93. that’s when everything got strict. no more voluntary donors, only licensed feeding centers, stuff like that. vamps started leaving the cities. some went underground. some just… stopped showing up.”

“so now they’re like urban legends with tax records.”

“basically. but back in the fifties, when the law passed that made them part of school curriculum, people freaked. there were protests. some parents didn’t want their kids learning about blood bonds or mortality rights. said it was corrupting the youth. but most people didn’t care. not really. they figured the vamps were gone anyway, so what was the harm in reading a textbook about them?”

you were quiet for a second. your fingers traced the hem of your blanket. “but they’re still around.”

he sighed, softer now. “probably. just hiding better. or maybe they figured out humans aren’t worth the hassle.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. you didn’t even know if you believed half of what he’d said — and yet… you wanted to.

maybe because lately, your dreams were starting to feel less like stress and more like memories that didn’t belong to you.

“you’re quiet,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“just thinking,” you replied, which was technically true, but your voice came out thinner than expected. you shifted on the bed, pushing the blanket down to your waist, your skin suddenly too hot. you’d been feeling like that all day — warm in your joints, flushed in your chest, like your blood was dragging itself uphill. it wasn’t a fever, exactly, but it wasn’t nothing.

on the other end, your dad went silent for a beat. “how long has this been going on?”

“what?”

“the weird dreams. the migraines. the fact that you just said three words without a single joke in them.”

you rubbed your forehead. “don’t start.”

“i’m serious, kid.”

“so am i. i think it’s just... the city. or the stress. or hormones. or caffeine withdrawal. or,” you inhaled, voice flattening, “i’m dying and it’s a really slow, poetic demise.”

“you’ve always been dramatic,” he said, but he didn’t sound amused anymore. “have you seen a doctor?”

“no insurance yet.”

“baby—”

“dad,” you cut in, then sighed. “i’m okay. just a little off.”

he didn’t answer immediately. and when he did, it was softer. older. “you sound like how your mom used to get.”

you blinked. “what do you mean?”

“back before... everything. she’d go quiet like that. said her skin itched from the inside out. said her dreams smelled like soil and smoke.”

that made your stomach twist. “you never told me that.”

“you never asked.”

and there it was again. that quiet, pulsing unease. like something was being handed to you in pieces — but the full picture still refused to come together.

“you know,” your dad added, offhand, like it wasn’t about to lodge itself under your skin for the next several years, “your mom used to get these weird spells too. back in the day.”

you blinked. “what kind of spells?”

“feverish, bone-deep fatigue. said it felt like her whole body was… not hers. she’d get these migraines that knocked her out for days. always happened around seasonal shifts or when she got really stressed. i took her to the hospital once and they ran every test imaginable. nothing ever came back.”

you stared at the ceiling, the shape of your own breath shifting slightly. “you’ve literally never told me that.”

“you’ve literally never asked.”

your heart gave a slow, reluctant thud — like it was unsure whether to beat faster or stop altogether.

“i thought it was just anxiety,” you said.

“it might be,” he replied quickly, too quickly. “probably is. you’re under pressure, adjusting to a new city, new apartment, starting college — it’s a lot.”

but he didn’t say it like he believed it.

and you didn’t hear it like you believed it either.

he seemed to sense the silence hardening between you, because he cleared his throat. “okay, let’s just make a list, yeah? go full nurse mode.”

you exhaled, quietly grateful for the deflection. “sure.”

“fever?”

“not exactly.”

“headache?”

“migraine.”

“appetite?”

“dead.”

“joint pain?”

“like old creaky stairs.”

“chills?”

“yes. but only sometimes. like… internal shivering.”

he hummed. “hm. sounds like what your mom said, too.”

you didn’t answer. not really because you didn’t want to. more because you couldn’t — because the words sat heavy on your chest, like something that had been waiting to be remembered.

he kept talking, light again, half-joking like always. “could be an autoimmune flare. could be your iron. could be a ghost. could be—”

“a vampire?” you deadpanned, waiting to see his reaction.

“finally! thank you for saying it first. you brought up ‘chosen one’ energy. don’t act surprised when the lore gets involved,” he repeated with far too much glee.

you scoffed, shifting the phone to your other ear as you curled deeper into your blanket cocoon. “you need a new hobby.”

“i do. how’s city life treating you aside dying from fever dreams and vampire encounters? made any friends yet?”

you hesitated. just enough for him to catch it.

“...no,” you said eventually. “not really. just weird neighbors.”

“hmm.” a beat. “any of them look suspicious to you?”

you scoffed again — but it came out closer to a laugh this time. not because it was funny, but because it was accurate. “dad. this building is suspicious. the floor tiles look suspicious. i’m pretty sure the elevator music changes based on your blood type.”

he snorted. “so that’s a yes.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

you rolled your eyes, but a small part of you was glad he asked. even if you weren’t about to admit that the weirdest one of all had glowing eyes in your dreams and possibly an allergic reaction to your existence.

“look, kid,” he said, suddenly serious in that half-joking, half-dad way of his. “if any of them turns out to be a vampire, you call me first, okay? i want to meet one before i die.”

you snorted. “right. i’ll schedule a coffee date between your blood pressure pills and my hallucinations.”

“i’m serious. call me. and then you run, alright? don’t be cute. don’t do that heroine nonsense where you try to understand him or fix him or whatever. just—bolt. fangs equals exit.”

you rolled your eyes, even as your chest squeezed a little. “yeah, yeah. wooden stake, garlic, sprint in the opposite direction. got it.”

he paused. “...you still carrying that pepper spray i gave you?”

you didn’t answer immediately.

“do not tell me you lost it.”

“technically,” you said, drawing the word out, “it’s not lost if i know it’s somewhere in my kitchen junk drawer.”

“god help you.”

“god’s not the one with bloodlust in my building, dad.”

“exactly why i’m saying this.” his voice softened. “you’re a smart girl. just… trust your gut, okay?”

you didn’t have the heart to tell him that your gut hadn’t been reliable since sunghoon looked at you like you were something to be devoured and saved all at once.

“okay,” you whispered instead.

“good. now go drink water or something. you sound like you’re dying.”

“thanks for the emotional support.”

“anytime. love you.”

“love you too.”

you hung up. and for the first time all week, your apartment didn’t feel entirely empty. just a little haunted.

monday night came in like a ghost—silent, heavy, and cold. for the first time in a while, you weren’t sure if you were awake or dreaming. after you hang up the call with your father, your body floated through your night routine of existing while your mind kept slipping out of your grip. everything tasted like metal. your skin was clammy, your head hot, but your fingers ice-cold.

you fell asleep that night without meaning to, face buried into your pillow, phone buzzing somewhere under the blanket. and for the first time, the dream didn’t take place in the greenhouse.

this time, you were at a bar.

warm lights buzzed overhead, golden and slow, like honey. niki sat across from you in a booth too plush to be real, his hands wrapped around a glass filled with something electric blue. you were laughing—no clue why—but the kind of laughing that made your ribs ache, cheeks flushed. he was grinning, head tilted, like this was a game he knew how to play.

and then it changed.

like someone had ripped the film reel and taped another piece of movie over it.

the lights dimmed. the music stopped. everything blurred. your breath came out visible, like fog. and niki looked at you without smiling this time. not cruelly. not kindly. just looking.

"he didn’t mean to scare you, you know." his voice was so thick it made your insides tremble.

you blinked. "what?"

"you’re not supposed to feel it this strong."

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. the booth dissolved around you. the lights disappeared. and then you were falling, stomach-lurching, skin searing.

you woke up with your hand clenched in your sheets and the inside of your mouth tasting like copper. your body was soaked in sweat. the window was fogged over. your throat felt raw. every muscle in your body ached like you had been sprinting in your sleep.

by the time you sat up, your phone said it was 6:02 a.m.

you didn’t think. didn’t even wash your face. you just threw on your thickest hoodie, dragged yourself into your boots, and called a cab. you needed a hospital. something was wrong. your body had been telling you for weeks. you were just finally ready to listen.

you grabbed your keys off the kitchen counter with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. not dramatically — just this quiet, persistent tremor, like your body was trying to ring some kind of alarm your brain still hadn’t heard.

your hoodie felt too hot and not warm enough at the same time, clinging to the sweat still clinging to your skin. your breath fogged the front door glass. you ignored the mirror by the entrance completely. you already knew you looked like shit.

stepping out into the hallway was like stepping underwater. the building was so quiet it felt wrong — not peaceful, but hollow, like it had been emptied out moments before you arrived.

your boots were too loud against the marble, each step echoing in a way that made your stomach twist. and then you pressed the button for the elevator.

you pressed the button. the elevator arrived.

and that’s when you saw him. a someone you have never seen properly.

red hair. tall. face like someone who didn’t try to look good, just was. hands in his pockets. bored expression. headphones around his neck, not on. you blinked, confused for half a second — and then your brain clicked into place. heeseung. that’s what niki had said. the quiet one. the scary one. the one that belonged to your hot set of neighbors that had disappeared for two whole weeks.

you’d never actually spoken to him. hell, you’d never even seen him this close before. just glimpses inside their apartment once, whispers in passing. but now, at 6:13 a.m., in your half-dead state, he was standing in the elevator like some glitch in your morning programming.

heeseung didn’t look at you at first. just shifted slightly, like he wasn’t expecting company. and then — his nose twitched.

subtle. sharp.

just like niki had done that night after the incident.

and then he turned. slowly. deliberately. his eyes scanned your face, dropped to your hands, then back up again — like he was taking inventory. like you were… something.

he didn’t say anything. didn’t smile. but he definitely noticed you.

you stepped inside anyway. because you had to. because your chest felt too tight and your throat burned and if you didn’t sit down in a sterile waiting room within the hour you were pretty sure your organs would give out.

heeseung moved slightly to the side, still watching you out of the corner of his eye. the doors closed. the elevator began to descend.

you focused on the panel, the numbers lighting up one by one. he didn’t speak. didn’t clear his throat. didn’t reach for his headphones. he just… stood there. completely still.

you were too exhausted to care. too sick to feel awkward. too scared to ask why, when his nose twitched again, his throat visibly tightened — like he was resisting the same instinct you’d seen flood sunghoon’s eyes on that rooftop.

the elevator dinged softly as it reached the lobby, the sound barely registering through the static in your skull. your limbs moved before your mind could catch up — muscle memory, maybe. or sheer desperation. you stepped out, blinking under the fluorescent lights, the air colder here, sharper, like it hadn’t been used all night.

heeseung didn’t follow immediately. you paused, slow, turning your head slightly, just enough to see him still inside the elevator, standing exactly where he’d been the entire ride down. his gaze flicked toward you. brief. unreadable.

and then he turned — not toward the glass exit like you had, but deeper into the building. no words. no goodbye. just a quiet pivot on his heel and footsteps swallowed by the corridor tiles. gone. like he hadn’t just stared at you like you were something he almost recognized.

you stood there for a moment, dazed. the outside world waited on the other side of the sliding doors, all grey sky and early winter air, your breath already fogging against the glass. you were still half-drenched in cold sweat, your hoodie clinging to your spine, fingers twitching with leftover dream static.

then, as if on cue, headlights flashed against the curb. your cab.

you pushed through the doors. the cold hit you instantly — fresh and cutting, but grounding. you stumbled more than stepped toward the car, collapsing into the backseat with all the grace of a wet noodle.

you didn’t look back. not at the building. not at the glass doors. not at the place where heeseung had disappeared.

you just pulled the door closed, gave the driver the hospital name, and leaned your head against the window.

whatever was happening to your body — whatever strange, slow collapse you were crawling through — you were done ignoring it.

——

the ride to the hospital was slow. slower than it should’ve been for a six a.m. trip with no traffic, but maybe that was just your body dragging time behind it.

every turn of the cab made your stomach lurch, your pulse throb at the base of your skull like a broken metronome. you curled tighter into your hoodie, eyes half-shut, watching the city yawn awake through the fogged window.

streetlights flickered out. bakeries opened metal shutters. someone walked their tiny dog in a matching jacket. the world was still spinning, business as usual — but your body hadn’t gotten the memo.

hospitals were never your favorite place. you’d spent too many late afternoons in one, slumped beside your dad while he slept through chemo, trying to balance a school textbook on your knees and pretend you weren’t thirteen and terrified.

back then, hospitals smelled like antiseptic and fear. now, they smelled like routine and something sour rising in your throat.

the emergency wing was mostly empty when you stumbled in, barely able to speak past the burn in your chest.

they made you sit. take a number. the nurse who called you in was young, her ponytail too tight and her smile too professional to be comforting. she took your temperature, your blood pressure, asked how long you’d been feeling this way — and your answers were all a blur of shrugs and mumbles.

she furrowed her brow. called in someone else. another nurse. a maybe-doctor. you were poked, prodded, and ultimately left with a note scrawled on hospital paper and a prescription for the most generic painkillers known to man.

nothing definitive. no test results. no dramatic diagnoses. just vague nods and “it’s probably viral” and “get some rest.”

you’d nearly laughed in their faces. but your lungs hurt too much.

you’d barely made it down the hallway before your phone slipped out of your fingers twice while trying to open the ride app. the nurse at reception gave you a pamphlet about hydration and a smile like she thought you were dramatic, and maybe you were — you were twenty-three, chronically underslept and iron-deficient.

of course you were dramatic. but you were also right. something was wrong. they just didn’t have the equipment to name it.

the cab smelled like mint gum and cigarettes, and the driver didn’t ask questions, which was kind of perfect. you stared out the window the whole ride back, watching the city flicker past in washed-out gray. your throat burned, and your stomach rolled, and there was only one place your body wanted to collapse.

and then, finally, the seonghyeon jaega building came into view — dark, looming, stupidly expensive. familiar. you tipped the driver more than you should’ve and slid out without a word.

you stumbled into the lobby like a cartoon ghost, hoodie strings dangling, hospital paper crumpled in one hand. this time, the doorman was there — the one with the dead fish eyes and the ridiculous thermos with a cartoon shark on it, hyunwoo, you think.

he looked up from his crossword and smiled politely.

“good morning, miss.”

you nodded, tried for a smile, something automatic. it barely stretched across your face. “morning.”

he didn’t press. just nodded back, went back to his puzzle like you weren’t the walking dead in fuzzy socks.

your chest was still tight by the time the elevator closed behind you. your fingers fumbled the painkillers into your mouth like muscle memory. water, swallow, sigh.

the elevator doors closed with that same slow, deliberate finality they always had, like the building itself was chewing you up and giving you a moment to realize it. you leaned your back against the mirrored wall, the cold glass seeping through the cheap fabric of your oversized hoodie. underneath, you were still wearing the thermal pajamas you’d left the house in — flannel with little blue bears on them. cute, in theory. tragic, in the fluorescence of an elevator that smelled like metal and lemon cleaner.

the temperature was impossible to pin down. too warm around your neck, but your fingers felt icy. your breathing grew shallow — not panicked, exactly, just... off. like your lungs were trying to inflate through a coffee straw. your legs ached, your spine was stiff, and your vision flickered at the edges like a dying film reel.

and then there was the music.

soft, aimless, infuriatingly cheerful — some instrumental jazz cover of a pop song you couldn’t name. it filled the silence like a joke you weren’t in on.

your head tilted back. your eyes slipped closed just for a second.

your knees wobbled.

you didn’t even notice the bell ding — didn’t realize the elevator had reached your floor until the doors sighed open, cool air brushing against your clammy face. you blinked once. twice. the hallway felt darker than usual. not unlit — just dim in that way that made shadows stretch longer.

and that’s when you heard it.

music. faint, pulsing through the air — not elevator music, but actual music. bass, low and smooth, like a party was happening behind closed doors.

your neighbors. their apartment. the one that had been silent for two full weeks. you hadn’t seen any of them. not even a sliver of a shadow beneath their door. but now, someone was definitely inside.

you stood frozen, one hand halfway inside your hoodie pocket, searching for your keys. the motion felt foreign now, like your limbs belonged to someone else. you looked down — or tried to — but the world tilted slightly, just enough to make your breath catch.

your fingers felt too thick, your palms too sweaty. and your vision… it was wrong. blurry in the center, like someone had smeared vaseline over your pupils.

it hit you, then — the vertigo, sudden and sharp. like your body had lost the plot entirely, like it was trying to reject gravity itself.

your knees buckled, and you had to lock them to stay upright. the hallway stretched before you, distorted and too quiet. like it was holding its breath.

you tried to laugh. just a small, sarcastic breath. but it came out wrong.

if this was how it ended, death in fuzzy socks and blue bear pajamas, you hoped the morgue at least had the decency to change your clothes.

your hand was still braced against the wall when your vision gave out for real.

it started at the edges — a gray blur creeping inward, slow and soft like fog rolling off the ocean. and then came the ringing. a high, steady whine that drowned out everything else.

you blinked hard, tried to shake it off, maybe whisper a curse to yourself just to prove you were still awake, still standing, still you. but your tongue felt too heavy in your mouth. your body didn’t move. it just paused — like a system crash in real time.

you took one step.

the floor shifted beneath you, or maybe it was the hallway that leaned — you couldn’t tell. all you knew was that the walls started breathing. that was the only way you could explain it.

the plaster pulsed like lungs. the light above you buzzed louder. the key in your hand slipped again, bounced once on the tile with a sound that echoed way too loud for something so small.

you tried to grab it.

you didn’t make it.

your knees folded first — no drama, no warning. just gone. the weight of your body hit the floor with a dull thud. your cheek pressed against the cold tile.

it felt good, almost. like sinking into something solid after floating too long. your ribs ached from the fall, or maybe they’d been aching for days and this was just the last straw.

you saw the elevator doors closing in your peripheral. heard the soft whirr of them sealing shut. somewhere behind your eyes, the pressure built. like something ancient and wrong was trying to crawl out.

and then darkness. not unconsciousness, not yet — just a deepening shade. like the hallway was dimming just for you.

then came the black. final and quiet.

you didn’t hear the door open across the hall. you didn’t see the figure step into the light. you didn’t know someone had been watching.

——

you came to like a body surfacing from black water — slowly, painfully, limbs cold and heavy, breath dragging itself in ragged pieces through your nose. your eyelids were leaden. every blink took effort.

the world behind them was gray, not quite dark, not quite light, just there, suspended and quiet like someone had pressed pause on the air itself.

your head ached. not the sharp pain of migraines, but the dull, submerged throb of something deeper, more systemic. like your blood was moving wrong inside you. like your insides had been shuffled, then stitched back together under anesthesia.

but you weren’t numb. no — there was sensation. your skin felt… balsamic. cooled over. like someone had run ice across your arms hours ago and it still hadn’t melted.

the air in your lungs was stale, metallic. your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

you didn’t open your eyes at first. couldn’t. the weight of your body was too much. even the pulse behind your knees hurt. even your fingertips tingled with the kind of exhaustion that belonged to the sick — not the tired. the sick.

you didn’t remember falling asleep.

you didn’t remember making it back to your apartment.

hell, you didn’t remember getting off the elevator.

eventually, after a few minutes — maybe longer — you managed to open your eyes halfway. the ceiling was the first thing you noticed: tall, shadowed, vaguely ornate in the dark, like you were looking at it underwater. not your ceiling. not your room.

your pulse spiked. something primal stirred in your ribs. you shifted, just slightly, and the sheets under your skin told you everything — they were too soft. too expensive. too not-yours. you registered the faint smell of something woodsy and warm — bergamot, maybe. something layered, complicated. familiar.

but the rest of the room came in pieces. the walls, dark and blurred. curtains, still drawn. a dresser with gold accents, a lamp too dim to see the switch. shadows shifted in the corner.

and that’s when it hit you.

you weren’t at home. not yours, at least.

you swallowed, throat raw. you tried to shift your head, to look, but even turning your neck felt like moving through water.

the room swam as you turned, your eyes dragging across the edges of expensive shadow — velvet curtains pulled halfway closed, light bleeding through in soft golds and sickly grays.

the bed beneath you was too soft, the sheets too smooth, like they belonged in a hotel room or a catalog, not your life. you weren’t used to this kind of comfort. and now, it felt wrong.

you blinked hard, vision blurring again, and finally the rest of the room began to settle into focus. a dresser — vintage. gold-framed mirror with a crack near the corner. a collection of books lined up too neatly. and coats. coats you didn’t recognize, thrown carelessly on a chair too clean to be real.

and then — the unmistakable curve of a shoulder. the long shadow of someone standing still.

you froze. someone was there. no.

not someone. multiple someones.

you couldn’t move your neck fast enough to catch all of them at once, but you didn’t need to. the room felt occupied. the atmosphere itself buzzed with quiet attention, like your awakening had flipped a switch you couldn’t see.

your vision tilted sideways and that’s when you caught it: a tall figure near the corner. motionless. arms crossed. sharp silhouette, too familiar.

niki.

your chest pulled tight. not with relief — not exactly. something in your body recoiled before your brain could make sense of it, like it hadn’t decided yet if his presence meant safety or danger.

you blinked once. twice. tried to clear your sight, tried to will away the syrupy haze still coating your lashes. but the outline remained. long limbs. black clothes. the way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, lazy, like standing upright was an inconvenience.

you should’ve felt comforted. he was the only face you recognized here. but instead, your muscles locked into something colder.

slowly, pieces started dropping into place, memories unrolling in the back of your skull like loose film: the elevator buttons glowing too slow. the air going stale. your ears ringing. fumbling for your keys. the elevator music mocking you with that stupid, upbeat jazz. your knees giving out. music from a nearby apartment — one you hadn’t heard life from in two full weeks — and then nothing.

darkness.

and now — this.

you shifted your eyes again, dragging your vision past the edge of the dresser, and there it was. someone else. younger, maybe. shorter than niki but not smaller — no, the space around him shrunk. like he was pulling it into himself.

he stood with his hands loosely clasped in front of him, hair parted too neatly, posture too perfect. he wasn’t looking at you. but your chest still caved a little the moment your gaze landed on him.

you didn’t know his name. hadn’t seen him around. but you had seen him once — blurred through the peephole on your first day here, flanked by the same crowd of sharp-dressed men. mafia, your brain had offered. or something worse.

he looked like he could kill someone with a sentence. and that if he did, he’d do it with impeccable grammar.

and then — the final one.

your eyes caught movement near the door. not coming in, not leaving — just standing there. someone with their back to you, broad shoulders squared, head tilted like they were listening to something you couldn’t hear.

his coat was expensive. dark. layered like he’d been pulled from a noir film and dropped straight into your fever dream. even from behind, you recognized him.

you didn’t know how. maybe the shape of him was burned into your brain now, maybe your blood had started mapping itself around the sound of his voice. but it was sunghoon. you knew it as sure as you knew your own name.

and despite every reason your brain tried to throw at you — the rooftop, the eyes, the way he looked at you like he was starving — your body… relaxed.

just a little.

and that scared you the most.

the realization landed with a thud — no drama, no crescendo. just a slow, icy spread of fuck.

your body recoiled, bones stiffening like it was trying to protect something inside of you that had already been exposed. because this was real. he was real. sunghoon. standing right there.

and that fact alone made everything else around you sharpen into clarity.

you had passed out. not inside your apartment, not in bed, not even in the privacy of your own little rented anonymity. no. you had passed out in the hallway. on a tuesday morning. in winter. wearing your dumbest socks and your oldest hoodie and whatever pride you had left.

and now you were here — not in a hospital, not even with a nurse — but in their apartment. his apartment. the place you’d only ever imagined from the other side of your thin wall. and you were being watched. by too many people. too many eyes.

but the worst part?

you still felt sick.

not flu sick. not tired or hungover or “i skipped breakfast” sick.

this was something else.

this was nausea curled around your spine like a snake. this was your blood running too fast, then too slow, like it couldn’t decide who it belonged to. your skin didn’t fit right. your limbs felt like borrowed furniture. and deep inside — somewhere between your lungs and your stomach — something was pulsing. thrumming.

you didn’t know what was happening to you.

but you knew it wasn’t natural. and it sure as hell wasn’t over.

your fingers twitched first.

just barely. just enough to make the blanket shift near your hip — a slow, traitorous movement that betrayed your consciousness before your eyes could.

you tried to stay still. to keep your breath shallow, chest frozen mid-rise. but your body had other plans. and the moment you shifted your hand again — not on purpose, just from the static ache of your joints — the air in the room changed.

you didn’t see them react at first. you felt it.

like the drop in pressure before a thunderstorm.

then a rustle. fabric brushing against leather. the creak of wood beneath shifting weight. soft, purposeful movements, like they were trying not to scare you. or maybe trying not to startle each other.

“she’s awake,” someone said, voice low. careful. male.

you didn’t know who it was — not yet — but it pulled your eyes open like a string had been yanked from behind them.

the blur cleared slowly, and then you saw it: niki had moved closer. crouched near the bed now, his usual smirk absent, replaced by something you didn’t recognize — not quite concern. not quite guilt. just… watching.

behind him stood the other man — shorter, more compact, but no less imposing. he looked at you like you were a puzzle he didn’t mind breaking apart to solve.

niki’s eyes didn’t leave your face, and for a moment, you could almost pretend this was a dream again. that none of this was real.

but the ache in your limbs, the heat still trapped under your skin, the taste of metal on your tongue — it all said otherwise.

niki looked at you with something that hovered between pity and worry — unfamiliar emotions when filtered through his usually unreadable face.

for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

“you’re stabilizing faster than i thought.” it’s the first thing he says, slicing clean through the quiet and making your ears ring. the words hit you wrong — not just because of what they meant, but how they sounded. too casual. too clinical. like this was normal. like you were normal.

your face twisted on instinct, some pained reaction caught between confusion and disgust. your lips curled back, eyebrows pinched. it wasn’t even what he said — it was how he said it.

“jesus,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your temple, “did you always sound this annoying or is that a new post-trauma tone?”

niki didn’t laugh. just tilted his head slightly, like your bite had confirmed something for him. like he’d expected the fight. like he preferred it.

your voice sounded terrible — like gravel soaked in fire, your vocal cords rasping out their protest with the elegance of a dying cat.

the boy behind niki — the terrifying one with that calm, unreadable face — took a step back as soon as you spoke. not dramatically. not even with alarm. just a slow, calculated shift in weight, like the sound of your voice had confirmed something for him. like he hadn’t been expecting you to sound that wrecked.

your eyes cut to him instinctively, and for a second, all you could register was that air around him felt different — sharp, quiet, waiting.

what really made you feel awful — worse than the nausea, the fever dreams, the throat that burned like you’d swallowed sandpaper — was that sunghoon still hadn’t turned around.

he was right there. you knew that it was him, your brain was certain of it.

tall, straight-backed, motionless. staring at the door like it was going to solve all his problems if he just glared hard enough. you didn’t know what exactly you expected from him — maybe an apology, a grimace, a nod of acknowledgment — but definitely not this. not silence. not cold shoulders when your blood was still boiling in your veins like it was trying to cook you from the inside out.

how dare he not stare at you like his other two friends were doing right now. how dare he not even glance at you now that you were awake.

you hated that you were hyper-aware of his silhouette. that you recognized the slope of his shoulders already. that, even without looking at his face, you could tell he was tense. worse than that, you hated that the tension didn’t feel rooted in indifference. it felt rooted in guilt.

or shame.

was he fucking embarrassed?

good. he should be. he should be mortified, actually. you blamed all of this on him. every fever spike. every migraine. every dream that left your sheets soaked (not in a good way) and your body aching in ways no human sickness had ever managed.

you blamed it on the way he had looked at you that night. like he was starving. like you weren’t real. like you were his.

you shifted slightly under the covers, the motion sending another wave of heat curling behind your eyes. your voice was wrecked, your body was failing, and your patience was hanging by a thread made of spite and caffeine withdrawal.

and then, through cracked lips and clenched teeth, you rasped:

“do you plan on facing me anytime soon, or should i just keel over again while you brood in a corner?”

niki and jungwon glanced at you, then back to sunghoon — the silence dragging, thick and charged. they weren’t saying anything, but the exchange between the three of them was unmistakable.

it felt like waiting for a bomb to go off. or a verdict to drop. you didn’t like it. didn’t like being the center of some unspoken tension you didn’t understand, didn’t cause, didn’t even want to be a part of.

you felt the tension, too. but not the romantic kind, not the kind that sizzled in books or made girls blush in school hallways. no, this was the kind that crawled under your skin and nested there. this was physical. literal.

your body had latched onto sunghoon like a tuning fork the second your eyes opened in this weird room, and his silence was making it worse — like your cells were offended.

like something primal inside you was throwing a tantrum, demanding acknowledgment. and the longer he stood with his back to you, the more your nerves twisted.

you were sick. god, you were sick. not just flu-sick or stress-sick — something else. something worse. it was spreading now, minute by minute, like acknowledging sunghoon in the same room was gasoline thrown on a fire you’d been trying to smother.

your head pounded, your stomach twisted, your limbs buzzed like your blood had turned carbonated. this wasn’t anxiety. it wasn’t psychosomatic. it felt like your entire body was trying to make you get his attention — or punish you until you did.

and honestly? this was embarrassing. not just uncomfortable or inconvenient — embarrassing. your brain was offended by the sheer audacity of your own body, reacting like this on a tuesday morning, no less.

like what, did your bloodstream forget the concept of normalcy? you were sweating through your clothes, your eyes were stinging, your limbs were shaking, and sunghoon — the root of all this insanity — hadn’t even looked at you.

what the fuck was your problem?

you didn’t know. you couldn’t name it. you just felt it — wrong, off, tilted. like the world had taken a sharp left and forgot to tell you.

you shifted again, groaning under your breath. you hated that you were still wearing your ridiculous blue pajamas under your outer clothes, soaked through with sweat despite the sub-zero weather. your skin felt clammy, your hands trembling against the silky throw blanket that wasn’t yours.

you hated that your mind was starting to spiral — that part of you was honestly considering the possibility that you were going insane.

or maybe… maybe not insane.

maybe they were exactly what they looked like.

sunghoon. niki. the terrifying man with the unreadable stare. even the one with the red hair and sharp profile you saw earlier in the elevator. they didn’t move like regular people. didn’t talk like regular people. and you’d read enough books — watched enough late-night documentaries with your dad — to know that this wasn’t just exhaustion anymore.

it felt like you were part of something unnatural.

and god, the thought of even entertaining this? it was ridiculous. not in the cute, ironic way where you half-believe your horoscope and laugh about mercury being in retrograde — no. this was full-blown absurdity. the kind of absurdity that scraped the edges of delusion.

believing in vampires wasn’t the problem. of course they existed. humanity had shared space with another species for centuries. that wasn’t up for debate. they were in the history books, the legal records, the school curriculum.

you had taken a literal midterm in middle school about post-war vampire rights. designer blood banks. the civil coexistence acts of the 1950s. it wasn’t a mystery. it just wasn’t relevant anymore — at least not to you. not in your life.

but this? the idea that they were here — your neighbors? that one of them — maybe more than one — had looked at you and decided something behind those sharp eyes? that one of them could’ve… claimed your attention? affected your body in a way you didn’t even understand?

no. absolutely not. you weren’t that girl. you refused to be that girl.

you didn’t realize you were breathing hard until the unnamed one — the quiet one with the suffocating presence — finally spoke.

“she’s peaking again.”

his voice wasn’t loud. but it was clear. measured. like he was stating a fact about the weather, or about war.

you blinked. tried to sit up again — a stupid, impulsive act, born not of logic but of panic. the kind that crawled up your spine when the world felt too heavy, too strange, too wrong. you wanted to ask what he meant by that, what was his name, but you felt panic instead.

the blanket covering you was soft, maybe even expensive, but it felt like lead pressing your bones into the mattress. too thick, too warm, too intentional.

you clawed at it, fingers shaking, limbs weak and disobedient. your shoulder burned with the effort of moving half an inch, and the moment you tried to raise your head, the blood in your skull surged like a wave crashing against a too-small shore.

and then, finally, he moved.

not much — not dramatically — but enough for every cell in your body to register the shift. a shoulder rolled back, barely. a hand unclenched at his side. his head tilted, slowly, as if listening to something only he could hear.

and then, almost reluctantly, like it cost him something, sunghoon turned.

his body twisted first, then his face, the shadows catching on the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his neck.

his hair looked darker in here, like ink had soaked through the strands, and it framed his face in a way that made your stomach twist. but it wasn’t the usual twist. not awe. not that stupid crush-thrill that had haunted your bloodstream weeks ago.

this was something else.

his eyes found yours — and stayed there.

and god, he looked tired.

not in the human way. not sleep-deprived or hungover. but hollowed-out. like someone had reached into his chest and scooped something vital out and left him barely functioning.

his cheekbones were sharper, his skin too pale under the warm light. he wasn’t perfect anymore. not in the haunting, statuesque way you remembered from the rooftop. now he looked… worn. real. something tugged at the corner of his mouth, not quite a frown. not quite anything.

and then it happened. the second his eyes fully met yours — that aching, gnawing illness that had been feasting on your nerves for two weeks cracked. like glass under heat.

your breath hitched. your ears popped. you blinked, and suddenly you could breathe.

the pain that had curled up beneath your ribs for days loosened, just like that. the weight behind your eyes lifted. your limbs still ached, yes, but something shifted — unmistakably — in your bloodstream. like your cells remembered how to work again. like they’d been waiting for him.

you stared, open-mouthed. because what the fuck.

you tried moving your toes — and felt all of them. you blinked once. twice. your vision wasn’t swimming anymore. the walls stopped melting at the edges. when you sat up, the room didn’t tilt sideways. your head didn’t lurch. your chest didn’t pull tight. nothing throbbed. nothing screamed.

you stared at your hands like you’d never seen them before, like they belonged to someone else. you flexed your fingers. no tremble. no twitch.

what the actual hell.

you ran a quick mental diagnostic, the kind your body had trained you into these past two weeks.

legs? check.

feet? check.

shoulders? solid.

ears? blessedly unclogged.

your stomach growled, sharp and dramatic, like it was protesting the way you’d ignored it for days. you touched your forehead, your neck. no fever. no chills. just warm. human. whole.

you were sitting up. fully. like a normal person. and it was terrifying.

because, what in the vampire diaries was this? you weren’t stupid. people didn’t just collapse in a hallway at 7 a.m. and wake up completely cured in a stranger’s guest bed with three unsettlingly hot men watching from the corners of the room like this was twilight fanfiction on crack.

you were hungry. you were confused. and you were so fucking exhausted. because even if your body had stopped screaming, your brain hadn’t caught up. and the worst part? sunghoon was still staring.

and your heart was still doing that thing — that pulling thing — like it wanted to beat in time with his.

he didn’t say anything at first — none of them did. they just stood there, still and watching, like they were marveling at something sacred. like your ability to sit up without grimacing was some impossible phenomenon they hadn’t planned for.

and yes, you felt like a miracle too. a tiny one. a quiet one, sitting in borrowed sweatpants and last night’s hoodie, in a room that didn’t belong to you. but now wasn’t the time to feel flattered.

not when three strangers — supernatural or not — were staring like you’d just pulled a sword out of stone.

you cleared your throat. it was the only sound in the room. your stomach growled again, louder this time, and you winced. no one laughed.

finally — finally — sunghoon moved.

his shoulders rose with a quiet inhale, and then dropped again like it physically cost him something. he didn’t step forward. didn’t close the gap between you. he just turned his head slightly, enough to look at you fully now, no barriers.

his eyes were darker than you remembered — not just in color, but in weight. like he hadn’t slept since the last time you saw him. like whatever edge had once made him look untouchable had dulled into something heavier. human, almost. except not. never.

his voice, when it came, was low. steady. practiced. but you could hear it — that thread of something cracked beneath the surface. not regret. not guilt. something older.

“you weren’t supposed to feel it this strongly.” and just like that, your pulse dropped into your stomach.

because what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

you blinked. once. twice. your body had just gone from full-system meltdown to sudden clarity in the span of — what? ten seconds? the math didn’t add up. the science didn’t add up.

and now you had a boy — no, a man, a something — standing in front of you, speaking like this was all part of a manual. a protocol.

“excuse me?” you rasped, voice still barely more than sandpaper dragged across metal. your chest felt tight again, but this time from sheer indignation. “what do you mean feel it? feel what?”

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. behind him, niki let out a breath — not a sigh, more like a slow exhale that made you want to throw a pillow at someone.

the other one — terrifying, well-dressed, probably-did-taxes-at-5-a.m. mafia looking guy — finally stepped forward like he was about to explain something official, something devastating.

but all you could focus on was the way sunghoon’s jaw clenched. how he didn’t look away. how he looked like he hated that you were asking.

and suddenly, you were fuming. not the dramatic, cinematic kind of anger that makes you throw vases and scream into the rain. no. this was worse. it was the kind of white-hot rage that made your hands go cold and your thoughts get sharp. the kind that brewed in the back of your skull like static.

because what the actual kind of fucking sorcery was this?

you had just woken up in a stranger’s — correction, a vampire’s — bedroom, after two weeks of progressively dying in slow motion, only to be cured by a pair of stupidly symmetrical cheekbones and a statement that sounded like a deleted scene from twilight: the bureaucratic cut.

you flung the covers off with all the rage of a disney villain in her final act. “okay,” you started, voice still wrecked but gaining steam, “somebody’s going to tell me what the hell is going on. and i swear, if the word stabilizing gets thrown around again, i’m going to stab someone with your vintage coat hanger.”

niki winced. the mafia guy blinked like he wasn’t used to being threatened before breakfast. and sunghoon — oh, sunghoon — had the audacity to look guilty.

“no one thought to leave a note?” you spat, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “a sticky note? a voice memo? a ‘hey, just for your information, you’re about to experience soul-level cardiac arrest, but don’t worry, it’s a normal thing?’”

“we didn’t think you’d feel it this strong,” niki tried again, cautiously.

you narrowed your eyes. “you already said that. say something new or i swear i’ll start singing gospel.”

sunghoon finally looked like he might actually say something, but you were already on a roll.

“do you people just hang out in designer clothes waiting for humans to drop dead in your hallways? is that your little fun pastime? is that why the gym’s always empty now, niki? were you all just sitting up here like, ‘oh, don’t worry, she’s just experiencing a little metaphysical collapse, she’ll be fine?’”

they all looked at you, quiet. not surprised — no, you weren’t lucky enough to have shocked them — but almost… contemplative.

you stood up, or tried to. your knees buckled slightly, but you powered through, fueled by indignation and a decade’s worth of unresolved parental issues. “i want answers,” you snapped. “and water. probably water first. but then answers.”

sunghoon finally, finally, moved toward you. slow. cautious. like you were a scared animal. or a bomb. (which, okay, fair.)

his voice was robotic, weird when he spoke. “you weren’t supposed to react like this.”

you tilted your head, deadpan. “oh, wow, thank you so much for that astounding medical diagnosis. i’ll be sure to write that down in my death journal.”

sunghoon’s jaw ticked, he seemed in pain. “it means we need to explain. all of it.”

sunghoon sat down.

that, in itself, felt like a betrayal. for a full minute, none of them had moved — like you were something volatile, like one wrong breath might set you off again. but then he finally took a breath and lowered himself into the chair across from you.

it was the way he moved that made your throat clench — careful, controlled, like sitting too fast might shake the ground beneath you.

his expression was unreadable, jaw tight, shoulders squared like this was an interrogation and not a conversation. and then he spoke.

“you’re not dying,” he said first. like he needed that part on record.

you raised an eyebrow. “thanks, doctor. next diagnosis?”

niki let out a quiet snort from where he leaned against the wall, arms folded, one boot tapping lightly against the floor. sunghoon ignored you both.

again, he seemed... weird. robotic.

“what’s happening to you,” he continued, voice low, measured, almost too calm, “is rare. it’s not supposed to happen anymore.”

you blinked. slowly. your brain took the words in like they were pieces from different puzzles. “you mean… like a sickness?”

“not a sickness,” sunghoon said. “more like… a reaction.”

he paused then. visibly debated what to say next. that’s when the third one — the one you now associated with do-not-fuck-around energy — stepped forward. the shorter guy. black coat, buzzed undercut, broad shoulders.

there was a tattoo creeping out from his collarbone, just a sliver of black ink crawling up his neck. when he finally spoke, it was without inflection.

“she doesn’t need the full story yet.”

sunghoon didn’t even look at him. “she deserves to know what’s happening to her.”

niki raised an eyebrow at that, but didn’t speak. instead, you locked eyes with sunghoon again and asked, “what kind of reaction?”

he exhaled. “soulmate.”

you laughed. out loud. an ugly, sputtering noise. “are you fucking serious?”

niki grinned. “oh no, she’s reacting like a normal person. i like her.”

sunghoon’s mouth twitched. not a smile. maybe pain. maybe something else.

“it’s not common,” he said, softer now. “not anymore. vampires used to… imprint. or whatever you want to call it. we’d form bonds. it was mutual. chemical. metaphysical. the human would feel it. the vampire would feel it. but it hasn’t happened in decades. not since the accords. not since—”

“humans stopped mingling with your kind?” you asked.

“not since both sides decided it was too dangerous.”

that made you pause. your throat was still dry. your hands clenched the blanket around your waist like it might anchor you back into reality. “dangerous how?”

“for you,” the shorter dude said this time. his voice was razor clean. “not for us.”

niki sighed. “it’s like a hormone overdose. a body-wide meltdown. like your system’s trying to recalibrate to match something it doesn’t understand.”

you scoffed. “and the something is you?”

sunghoon didn’t answer. but his silence did.

and that’s when something inside you shifted. clicked. because even if this sounded like delusional bullshit, your body was nodding along. it made too much sense. the fever. the dreams. the sudden gravitational pull toward a man you’d barely spoken to. the way your pain had vanished the second he’d looked at you.

“so let me guess,” you said slowly, “i’m your little imprint? your cosmic girlfriend? lucky me.”

sunghoon flinched. just slightly. “it doesn’t work like that.”

“doesn’t it?” you asked, voice rising.

and then — the twist.

“you’re not the only one who got sick,” the scary dude said. calm. final.

the room stilled. niki looked up. sunghoon closed his eyes. your breath caught.

“…what?”

“sunghoon’s been sick too,” niki offered, quieter than usual. “not the same way. but bad enough we had to cancel everything. bad enough he couldn’t feed. bad enough he barely stood up until yesterday.”

your mouth went dry. “what does that mean?” you asked, but your voice sounded distant even to yourself — like it had been dragged through water, then filtered through static.

was it too much to know? absolutely not. not for your overactive brain that consumed conspiracy podcasts like candy. but feeling it — sitting here, blanket bunched around your waist like armor, stomach churning, heartbeat crawling under your skin like something foreign — that was the hard part.

this didn’t feel like a reveal. it felt like a slow, rotting realization you hadn’t asked for.

you swallowed, throat raw. maybe it would be better if you passed out again. at least then, you wouldn’t have to process the idea that one of your neighbors — a hot, emotionally unavailable, glacial-faced vampire, apparently — had also been in a near-comatose state because of you.

great. incredible. what a legacy.

soulmate? imprint? some long-lost paranormal bond that now had you sharing symptoms like some twisted long-distance couple flu? no, thank you. return to sender.

you opened your mouth to say something clever — something biting and cruel and devastating — but nothing came. your lips parted and then closed again, your body betraying you in the worst of ways.

your eyes flicked back to sunghoon.

his hands were clenched in his lap. his cheekbones were sharper than usual, like he’d lost weight. there was a vein visible beneath his jaw. and when he finally raised his head to meet your eyes again, the exhaustion behind them wasn’t just physical. it was soul-deep.

“you were the first human i’ve spoken to in years,” he said, voice barely above a breath.

that made your stomach turn.

niki shifted, almost like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

the mafia looking guy just crossed his arms tighter and stared, waiting — like this wasn’t new to him.

you blinked once. then again. your body still wasn’t reacting the way it should — no more pain, no more fever, no more frost behind your eyes. but your mind? your mind was racing.

“this is insane,” you muttered, because someone had to say it.

“agreed,” niki chirped. “but hey, at least you didn’t throw up. the last one did.”

“niki.”

“what? i’m comforting her.”

you didn’t laugh. couldn’t. your body was still deciding whether to fight or flee.

niki broke the silence first again after minutes of no one breathing. of course he did.

“well, the good news is you’re probably not gonna die,” he said, rocking back slightly on his heels where he’d crouched again beside your bed. “probably.”

you blinked at him slowly. deadpan. your expression alone could’ve been used to file a restraining order.

he raised both hands. “hey. optimism. it’s a dying art.”

from behind him, the man in the coat shifted for the first time. he didn’t look at you. didn’t even acknowledge niki’s running mouth. just turned his head toward sunghoon with an unreadable expression and said, voice like a closing door:

“she needs rest.”

sunghoon didn’t argue. maybe he couldn’t. there was something off about him now that you were fully awake, fully conscious — something glassy in the way he held himself, like his body wasn’t all the way his.

the man placed a hand on his shoulder, and sunghoon moved. slow. obedient. not like himself.

you watched them go. watched their silhouettes shift through the doorway. neither of them looked back.

the moment the door shut, niki let out a long breath through his nose and flopped — not gracefully — into the armchair near the window. it creaked under his weight. he didn’t seem to care.

“so. fun fact,” he started, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie. “your new boyfriend? yeah, he’s been high for the past three days.”

you stared. “what?”

niki gestured vaguely, like that explained everything. “inhibitors. cocktail of them. pretty top-shelf stuff. he’s, like, five thousand newtons of vampire strength wrapped in a sculpted jawline, so—” he clicked his tongue, “—we kinda had to knock him out the hard way.”

you blinked. again. “we?”

niki looked pleased with himself. leaned in like he was about to share a bedtime secret.

“took all six of us. and i mean all of us. it was like trying to sedate a tank. even then, he almost won. but we found the right combo. he’s on it now. dulled his receptors, numbed his instincts.”

your stomach curled slightly. “why?”

niki’s smile dimmed. not gone — just quieter.

“because,” he said, “he would’ve come for you.”

you didn’t respond.

he leaned back again, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. his voice, when he spoke again, had that same dry humor, but underneath it — something else. something brittle.

“we had to leave,” he said, almost like a confession. “jungwon-hyung’s family has a camp house. middle of nowhere, no cell service, no risk of you running into him if he… broke through. that’s why the building was dead. we took him far. like, drive-five-hours-and-still-hear-his-teeth-clench far.”

you stared, unmoving. your hands were still clammy against the covers. your chest still felt like someone had scraped it hollow and filled it with something cold.

niki scratched his jaw. “it was either that or lock him in the basement. which, by the way, sunghoon would never let happen. pride and all. so, road trip it was.”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“don’t look at me like that,” he added, side-eyeing you. “it’s not like we knew this would happen. we don’t do this soulmate thing. not anymore. not since—” he paused, teeth clicking together. “never mind. point is: it’s rare. it’s old. and you? you weren’t supposed to feel it this strong.”

your breath hitched. that phrase again.

“but i did,” you muttered. “feel it.”

niki looked at you. quiet. unreadable for once.

then, almost gently: “yeah. you did and he did too.”

“i honestly thought this was bullshit,” niki went on, scratching behind his ear like he wasn’t casually upending your entire understanding of reality. “jake-hyung was the only one we knew who got tangled up with a human like that. we all thought it was a one-time glitch. but sunghoon? he was even worse. and i think it’s the age, you know? the older they are, the stronger the… pull.”

you didn’t move.

niki shrugged. “sunghoon-hyung is the most powerful among us. has been for a while. not that he brags about it or anything,” he added, eye-roll implied. “but this?” he gestured vaguely toward your body, the bed, the air. “this nearly broke him. we didn’t think—i mean. imprinting is beautiful, yeah, sure. sacred, whatever. but it’s a lot of fucking work. especially when it hits this hard.”

you still didn’t respond. your gaze had unfocused, lips parted slightly, shoulders slumped. and eventually, niki caught on.

“you okay?” he asked, voice gentler now, less performative.

you didn’t answer him. not right away.

because your thoughts had gone quiet. not blank — not numb — just… quiet. like the cold hush of a library, a cemetery, a paused dream.

you were confused. obviously. angry, too — because what the fuck was imprinting and why the hell did it choose you, of all people? you were a mess. you were a scholarship kid with ramen-induced ulcers and mommy issues. not a mystical blood-linked soul beacon.

but still. somewhere beneath all that static, you felt it: a pinprick of something else. something smaller. softer.

sunghoon had been sick. sick because of you.

and not just sick, but fighting it. drugged. dragged across the country just to keep him from getting to you. you’d blamed him, cursed him in your head, built this whole miserable theory of him being cold and detached and cruel — but he’d been hurting, too. maybe even more than you.

niki watched you for a moment longer, like he was trying to figure out what version of you he was leaving behind. but he didn’t press. didn’t tease. didn’t smile.

“yeah,” he said, brushing invisible lint off his pants as he stood. “you should rest. the worst’s over. probably.”

you weren’t sure if that was meant to comfort you or just be vague on purpose, but you didn’t have the energy to dissect it.

he crossed the room with that same unhurried gait — loose-limbed, strangely quiet — and paused at the doorway. “someone’ll be around if you need anything,” he added, voice already softer, like he was already halfway out. “and if you wake up starving… don’t freak out. we left you snacks. normal ones.”

your lips twitched, almost a smile. “thanks.”

“don’t mention it,” he said, then looked at you over his shoulder, eyes gleaming under the low lighting. “really. don’t.”

the door clicked shut behind him with a softness you didn’t expect.

you lay there, for a long minute, staring at the ceiling. the silence in the room was different now — not heavy, not buzzing. just there. a presence instead of a pressure. you shifted under the covers, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, your limbs didn’t ache. your lungs didn’t pull tight. your stomach didn’t twist.

you closed your eyes, and your body let you.

this time, you didn’t dream of anything.

author's note: clap if you find respectful but feral sunghoon hot. yes, i will die on this hill. yes, our couple mught hate each other now but i swear they'll be all cute soon. thank you for reading! send me a request • my masterpost

taglist: @ikeugirly @vixialuvs @hoonprksung @kyunlov @verialuv @sagegreenhairclip @gal821 @nekkodiaries @httpenhoon @questionsdearreader @mynameis-rosie1 @ninistranaut @staygenesblog @stercul1a

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i-heart-yellowstone · 7 months ago

Note

John Dutton with wife reader. Him being in such a mood that even his children start to tease him and her joining in. Anything at all. Fluff/suggestive. Up to you. Thanks!! :))

With prompts; "Are you really this happy 24/7?"

"Are you really this grumpy 24/7?"

"Are you really this happy 24/7?"

Tags [ @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @pear-1206

Exiting through the front door I joined my husband on the old wooden porch swing that overlooked the main part of the property we called our home. He moved one of his arms and laid it back down over my shoulder once I had taken my spot right by his side.

The sounds of nature were the only things we could hear for once. There weren't any of his adult kids running to complain about something or him having to rush off to fight someone who wanted to take the land from us.

I thought we could live in this peaceful moment forever- unfortunately that isn’t the case when it comes to Beth Dutton.

Her car quickly came down the gravel and dust driveway where she parked at the end of the steps. She slammed her car door walking up to the porch seeing me and her father sitting on the swing. “Are you really this happy 24/7?" She bluntly asked the two of us.

I began choking on the coffee I was drinking from one of the kitchen mugs, not expecting that to come from her mouth. “What! Why would you ask that?”

“Beth, I’m allowed to be happy with another woman.” Her father John remarked back at his only daughter.

His only daughter wasn’t exactly happy when he had brought me to the ranch a couple of times for our dates. And she especially wasn’t happy when we had gotten married a year later. I knew why though, it was because I wasn’t her mother. To her I was he step-mother.

We had done our best to be nice to one another but apparently she hadn’t fully accepted that her father could be happy with another woman just yet and we’ve been married for almost five years now.

Beth crossed her arms over her chest. “Come on, daddy. I mean you can’t really be happy all the time with her.”

“Beth!” John grumbled running a frustrated hand down his face.

I held my coffee mug in both hands, nudging my husband with my elbow in a joking manner. “Oh come on, John. You don’t have to fake being happy with me.”

“Y/n, I’m not faking it.” John shifted on his side of the porch swing so that he was directly facing me.

I tilted my head to the side knowing I could tease him for a little longer before he would figure out that I was entirely joking with the love of my life. “Are you sure? I mean I doubt I’m anything like Evelyn was in bed.”

“My mom popped out four kids in total. How many kids do you want to give birth to Y/n?” Beth asked, flipping her hair out of her eyes. “I’m going to get you someone better.”

John rolled his eyes, sitting his coffee mug down on the side table with frustration in his tone. “Beth, that's too far. Okay. I’m married to Y/n and you’re just going to have to accept it.”

“It’s going to happen, daddy.” She smirked in my direction.

Leaning back in the porch swing I almost couldn’t contain my laughter. “Oh god.”

“This whole man-to-man shit thing we got going is becoming a little ridiculous.” John shook his head wishing this would end.

His daughter spun on her heels walking up to the front door. “I’m on it.”

“Beth!”

She called back. “I got it.”

“Beth!” Her father shouted at her.

She shut the front door and hollering beforehand. “I’m totally on it!”

Once we were back alone together on the front porch I touched the side of his face making him look me in the eye. “Honey, I was just joking when I said I don’t enjoy being married to you.”

“But you said-“

I cut him chuckling lightly. “It was a lie, John. I was just trying to make your daughter happy. The only way I think she will like me is when she sees me start agreeing with her on some things.”

“Thank god.” He sighed heavily, slumping his shoulders in relief.

Resting one hand against the side of his face I felt him lean into my palm. “I can’t imagine being married to anyone else but you.”

“I didn’t realize that I was missing having a woman in my life until I saw your truck break down on the side of the road that morning.” He recalled causing a smile to grace my lips at the memory.

When I had gotten a flat tire on my truck right outside the Dutton fence line I thought I would have to call someone to tow me to a shop which would take hours until I saw a man around my age rode up to the fence on a horse wearing a white cowboy hat.

Leaning forward I kissed him slowly, moving my other hand behind his neck making the gentle kiss deeper until he broke it suggesting a common morning routine for us. “How do you feel about going for a ride?”

“Have you not met me? I would love nothing more.” Getting up from the swing I finished the last of my coffee, rushing towards the wooden stairs heading straight to the barn walking backward. Yelling with my hands cupped around my mouth. “Meet me at the barn. I’ll saddle the horses, just don’t forget my hat.”

John groaned getting to his feet, calling back. “You’re hat. I remember the white hat belonging to me when we met.”

“What’s mine is yours, honey!” I laughed with a cheerful grin.

He shook his head going to grab what we needed to ride our horses, truly treasuring the joy he felt once falling in love with you. “I love her. Let’s go to work.” It would take time for Beth to accept her father could be happy with someone else than her mother, but he wasn’t going to not live his life simply waiting for her approval.

#yellowstone #yellowstone tv show #yellowstone tv #john dutton #john dutton x reader #john dutton imagine #yellowstone imagine #yellowstone x reader #beth dutton #teasing #new wife #evelyn dutton #comments really appreciated #ask box is open for requests #kevin costner #kelly reilly

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oscopastry101 · 26 days ago

Text

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗TROPHY

lando norris x actor!male reader

synopsis: little lando norris is in love and has fully soft launched. too bad the internet doesn't believe he's in a relationship

smau, fluff, honestly no clue what else!

warnings: pinterest guys as fc.. was going to do more andrew garfield but forgot as soon as i started, lando kinda being shit on tbh

REQUESTED!!! request is here

author's note: uhmmm yay, idk if i did the request totally right but i have major headache! soz guys, and i would've done football player reader if i knew shit about it but i dont so!

1hr lando posted a story ! 10m oscarpiastri posted a story !

[caption: hehe yum] [caption: lando was the one who invited me btw]

user1 replied: now hold on! thats yn ln.

carlossainz55 replied: i'm surprised people believe this one ↳ lando replied: me too, i think ive posted enough they finally believe it! ↳ carlossainz55 replied: i doubt it, amigo

user2 replied: that hoodie has been in landos vlogs before?

charles_leclerc replied: HES ACTUALLY WITH YOU?

user3 replied: everytime u post one of these i just assume u pretending to have a man 😭

user4 commented: WHY IS IT ALWAYS A HOODIE?? WE NEED FACE PROOF LANDO

user5 replied: he invited you and hes asleep first?? 😭

georgerussell63 replied: holy, is he actually dating him

user6 replied: IS THAT NOT YN LN??? LANDO WAS TELLING THE TRUTH?????

user7 commented: this guy could always be oscars cousin

user8 commented: lando could have a whole husband and u guys still wouldn't believe him 😭

liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55 and 492,145 others lando.jpg long night before he goes ;(

user9: oh we're making men up again and using pinterest pictures huh

user10: u got separation anxiety from an imaginary bf??

user11: he's real guys that arm IS yn lns??? LIKE SPIDERMAN?

oscarpaistri: this is my roman empire 😂 ❤︎ by author

comments are limited

3m lando posted a story!

[caption: he bought ice cream :(]

user12 commented: do you guys actually believe oscar would do ts with him??

user13 replied: LANDO WHOOOOOOOOO

oscarpiastri replied: mcdonalds ice cream is goated, good choice ↳ lando replied: thank you mate, i agree, so does yn

carlossainz55 replied: why is he driving? ↳ lando replied: he likes driving, always makes me be passenger

georgerussell63 replied: wow so he actually is ln 😲 ↳ georgerussell63 replied: happy for you mate

user14 commented: i still don't believe it

user3: STOP PLAYING W US.

user8: IS THAT THE BF???

justaninchident: ik they were giggling under there

smoothoperator: this is a good angle hahah

user15: TELL ME THAT IS NOT YN LN. ↳ user11: I BEEN SAYING?? ↳ user16: and so has lando, maybe we have to stop thinking everything lando says is fake...

8m oscarpiastri posted a story ! 3m oscarpiastri posted a story!

[caption: they did it again :(] [caption: uhm you didnt see that]

user17 replied: WAS THAT THE BF

user18 replied: WE SAW THAT OSCAR U HARDLAUNCHED THEM!!

user11 commented: OHHH THATS YN LN WHO TOLD U SO!!! ↳ user20 replied: u did... ↳ user11 replied: EXACTLY! never doubt me, i told u ↳ user21 replied: but lando also told us?? like ages ago, nobody believed him because its YN LN? ↳ user11 replied: details

user1 replied: are we in the wrong..

user22 commented: its yn ln, i went back and matched the ears!! ↳ user1 replied: pardon..? ↳ lando.jpg replied: oh...😥

charles_leclerc replied: i thought we were SOFT launching? ↳ oscarpiastri replied: i panicked okay? ↳ charles_leclerc replied: YOU panicked??

user6: this is so insane

user23: lando norris and a spiderman varient.. is this even real.?

user24: i like how lando said this all the time in the beginning and nobody believed him but now yall do??

smoothoperator:🤦🏻

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။ lover - live from paris taylor swift

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 1m others

ynlnofficial✓ you guys always need so much proof.. 😓

tagged: lando

lando: and even now i bet they won't believe me ❤︎ by author

carlossainz55: tell them your favorite color next lando ↳ lando: it's actually brown lol ↳ oscarpiastri: NO ITS BLUE ↳ ynlnofficial: its both, depending on the day

user4: ARE YOU GUYS.. RESPONDING TOGETHER?

user25: THE HOLD, THE HANDS, IM SICK. VOMITING, DYING.

user9: it's all real.. 😲

maxverstappen1: i've been knowing but cute ig. ❤︎ by author

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။ till forever falls apart ashe, FINNEAS

liked by ynlnofficial, lando and 921,322 others

oscarpiastri sorry guys! at least i can post all this now

tagged: ynlnofficial, lando

ynlnofficial: oh this is cute :( ur forgiven ❤︎ by author ↳ lando: UHM NUH UH ↳ oscarpiastri: papa y papa? ❤︎ by ynlnofficial ↳ lando: uh no but funny

lando: yn is right this is adorbs osco ❤︎ by author ↳ oscarpiastri: i am sorry but about time

georgerussell63: best trio ig. ❤︎ by author, ynlnofficial and lando ↳ oscarpiastri: thank you george 😂

BONUS 1!!

MCLAREN BOYS QNA (FT. surprise guest!!)

Q: who is the better driver? oscar: me. lando: absolutely not! oscar: statistically lando: only barely for this year! lando: besides i win vibes wise, always yn (in background): he got lost on a track once oscar: SEE lando: WHY IS HE HERE?

Q: who takes longer to get ready? oscar: lando lando: me, but only because im in love and want to look nice oscar: oh my god. yn(in background): thats kinda cute oscar: i hate this

Q: are you guys roomates?? oscar: no. lando: basically, he sleeps over all the time yn: he invites himself over, actually oscar: because you guys forget to feed yourselves and im SCARED youll die? lando: thats love oscar: how are you a driver

Q: who's the messiest roommate? oscar: lando lando: me yn: him lando: OSCAR YOU'RE NOT EVEN MY ROOMATE? oscar: and yet we agree

Q: icks? oscar: probably people who swallow their water super loud lando: people who don't like oat milk yn: you've actually called it "nut water". oscar: he did. i have it on video

Q: is yn dating lando or both of you oscar: i WISH it was both lando: hey! oscar: shut up yn: im legally obligated to say lando. emotionally, its complicated??

Q: do you all sleep in the same bed? oscar: not by choice yn: he tucks himself in like a victorian child and sleeps against the wall lando: hes warm though :( oscar: IM LEAVING

BONUS 2!!

groupchat: nut water lovers😽

1:16 am lando: i miss him he's only been gone 3 days this is hell

oscar: what the hell its 1am and he's literally filming, not dead and you facetimed like twice yesterday

lando: HE LOOKED SO HANDSOME im spiraling

oscar: he said "be back on monday" and you said "ok" and now you're laying on the floor and listening to taylor swift

lando: how do you know that...

oscar: i can hear it through the walls, mate

5:34am yn: hello. hi. im alive

lando: DO YOU MISS ME?😭😭😭😭

yn: i miss you like a fork misses soup

5:41am oscar: that's beautiful write that in the vows

lando: what are you doing :(

5:46am yn: filming a stunt they said "do not text while hooked up" so naturally, i texted you guys!

oscar: I SWEAR TO GOD

yn: also one of the stunt guys said i "looked familiar" so i think he knows we're dating or he just watches a lot of f1 either way i panicked and said im oscar

oscar: IM SORRY YOU WHAT 😕😕

lando: NO THATS SO FUNNY you're gunna ruin his PR rep 😭 👎by oscar

yn: anyways im safe and good they're feeding me snacks and letting me nap lots im basically a dog

oscar: you've always been one

lando: pls take a picture, i miss your stupid little face

yn: stupid and little?? do i look like a lego man to you??

lando: a really hot lego man🙂

oscar: okay im gone. this relationship is giving me a headache 👎by lando and yn

lando: hey wait oscar

oscar: what

lando: if yn was a lego man would you build him a house

oscar: im going to bed

yn: he didn't say no! ❤︎ by oscar

lando: HAHA I WIN 👎by oscar

authors note!! that's a wrap! second time around i think i like it more, idk if i really displayed trophy husband well but i still think its cute guys, and dont mind the random oscar addon in the end, in my heart they're roomates.. or worse! thanks for sticking around :)

to everyone who will like, comment, or just read quietly: thank you!!

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nakylvr · 2 months ago

Note

would anyone like dealer dani angst/fluff...

like i keep thinking about dani having a bad high from all of the stress with being in jail and having to start all over so ofc she's going to smoke weed to feel more relaxed but sadly it doesn't go well and having to help her through her high ☹️

my shayla ☹️ this is so ☹️☹️

— troubled waters

warnings/tags: angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, f!reader, dealer!dani au, language, drug usage (marijuana), arguments, happy ending yay

part of the substance series

in the nearly three years you've been dating daniela, there were only a few times where she would have a bad high. she would usually just get paranoid about random things which left you picking up the pieces to ensure that she doesn't do something stupid or maybe say the wrong thing.

then there was this time.

barely a month after everything went down, and things were starting to feel a little normal now. it was going to be a slow process, you knew that. it would take time for things to be fully back to normal. but this was the last thing you expected to happen.

you made dani lay low for the month, not doing any deals or anything related to the sort while everything dies down, and you could tell she wasn't happy about it. she tried to argue with you, but you gave her a look that told her how serious you were and she reluctantly agreed to it. which meant she was stuck in the house even more than she normally would be. you thought it would be fine considering she rarely leaves the place anyways. apparently you were wrong.

you texted dani that you were on your way home from work, asking if she needed anything while you were driving, and you received no response. while this wasn't exactly odd, it wasn't normal either. if she was asleep she would wake up because you're notifications sounds were different than everyone else's. you tried not to think too much on it, just driving home and unconsciously preparing for what you might walk into.

you should've been more prepared.

the second you walk through the front door you're met with the smell of smoke, which would be normal if it weren't for the burning smell along with it. you walk past the living room straight to the bedroom, opening the door and seeing her.

"dani," you say, but she doesn't look up. you can see the beer bottles along with half smoked blunts across the bedding, and you have to bite your tongue to keep you from instantly snapping at ruining the bedding. you take a step closer, then spotting the actually lit blunt burning into the sheet. "daniela!" you say more sternly, grabbing her hand and taking the blunt from her, quickly putting it out in the ashtray.

daniela finally looks at you now. and when you look into her eyes, your breath hitches. red and glossy, but filled with more emotion than she could explain.

"dani?" you let out softly.

"am i a bad person?" is the first words that leave her mouth.

"what?" you question.

"i'm not." she shakes her head. "i'm not a good person."

"dani, what are you talking about?" your hands reach for her face but she grabs them and moves them away, a pang of hurt going through you at the action.

"you don't deserve me," she mumbles. "i don't deserve you."

"daniela, what are you saying?" you ask, trying to remain calm and collected.

"why didn't you leave me in there?" her eyes meet yours, and you swear your heart stops for a second. "why?"

"because i love you," you immediately respond. "i wouldn't do that for just anybody."

"not megan?"

"dani." your voice lowers an octave, already seeing where she was going with this. "don't start that."

"start what?" daniela suddenly gets off the bed, standing in front of you. "start saying the shit i want to say?"

taking a deep breath, you manage to keep yourself from snapping. "you're drunk and probably higher than you should be. you don't know what you're say–"

"i know what i'm saying!" daniela interrupts you. "i know what i am saying!" you subconsciously flinch when her voice raises, but she doesn't seem to notice. "i don't deserve someone like you. you shouldn't be with me of all people. i-i'm not a good person. i-i don't do anything good. you should've left me. you should've stayed with sophia or someone else just not me."

your body tenses up when she mentions sophia. you know sober she knows better than to speak of her, but with the alcohol and weed mixed in her system she's spilling it all out. "you know sophia wasn't good to me, dani," you say to her. "you're a good person, daniela."

"what do i do for a living, yn?" she looks at you expectantly. "i sell people weed. that's my lame fuckass job! yo-you have a real job! you work in an office! you have people under you! you have people who respect you! you can call out and still get money that day! meanwhile i haven't done shit for a month and now we're barely making rent money!"

"i am doing my best and you know that," you tell her, pointing at her. "i worked my ass off to get this job. i'm working my ass off keeping our house while you lay low like i told you to. you can go back to it in a few weeks, that's what i told you. i didn't say you had to."

"obviously i have to!" daniela throws her hands around in the air. "if i don't listen to you god knows what will happen!"

"what is that supposed to mean?" you ask, crossing your arms over your chest.

"it means i'm not your fucking puppy like you treat megan," daniela tells you.

"excuse me?" you let out surprised.

"i mean–"

"think very carefully before you say your next words, daniela," you cut her off sternly, losing your patience by the second. "don't say something stupid."

"you think you can tell me everything. what i can do, what i can't do, what i shouldn't do, what i have to do. everything!" she exclaims. "i'm done listening to you!"

you take another deep breath, your fingers twitching showing you were close to snapping. "look, daniela. i never said you had to listen to me, you just did. you always have. do not put that on me when i have never once told you to do anything and made you do it. you–"

"just listen and do! i know!" daniela yells. "i do because i'm scared you'll leave if i don't!"

a moment of silence passes before she continues. "i fucked up so fucking bad that i ended up in jail and you ended up traumatized because i didn't even hear you out! i listen because i'm too stupid to figure out anything myself! i-i can't remember the last time i did my own taxes, or even the last time i double checked the income because you help me. you help me with everything and i appreciate that so much but fuck i feel so useless." her voice cracks and she balls her hands into fists, covering her eyes that were furiously tearing up. "i-i feel like i can't do anything anymore, or i fuck it up when i try. and i don't want to fuck up what i have with you. i love y-you so fucking much a-and i'm fucking terrified of screwing up again and you l-leave." the tears start rolling down her cheeks, her breaths coming out shallow and short. "i don't know wh-what i'd do without you."

your gaze softens when she starts rambling, and you uncross your arms and take a few steps towards her. hesitantly, you reach out and grab her arm, pulling her into your arms and holding her tightly. she tries to push you away, murmuring "let go" under her breath, but your arms tighten around her, keeping her close to you.

"it's okay, you're okay," you mumble as she cries into your chest. "everything's okay, i promise. nothing's going to happen. i'm not going anywhere." you press a gentle kiss on the top of her head. "i love you so much, i'm staying right here. i promise."

daniela's body trembles with the sobs wracking through her, her arms finally wrapping around you and allowing herself to feel vulnerable for once in her life. "i'm s-sorry for ev-everything."

"don't do that." you shake your head. "you don't have to apologize, i'm not mad. i promise." you kiss her head again. "everything is okay."

she still mumbles incoherent words that you can't understand past her cries, but you can get a gist of what she's saying through the sobs. you keep her close to you, feeling your shirt getting progressively more damp with her tears, but you didn't mind.

you were unsure how long it had been of her crying before she went quiet, her head still pressing against your chest trying to calm her breathing back down. her fingers were curled around the material of your shirt, loosening slightly as she finally calms down.

"are you okay?" you ask softly, running your hand through her hair.

"yeah," she mumbles with a nod, pulling her head away and looking at you. "i'm sorry. i didn't think–"

"it's okay," you interject, shaking your head. "everyone has bad highs once in a while, and you drinking doesn't help. but it's okay."

"i didn't mean it," her voice cracks, and you can see the tears building again at her realizing what she said. "i'm so sorry."

"hey, hey." you move your hands to cup her face, wiping away the few stray tears with your thumbs. "it's okay. i know you're–we're still going through everything, but we're together in this, okay? the two of us, like it's always been. it's still us. nothing else matters. i love you so much, and i don't want to lose you if this happens again. you are a good person, daniela. even if you don't think it, i do. i love you, and only you. forever."

daniela's bottom lip trembles as you speak, a choked sob escaping her mouth and she nods. "i love you too," she whispers. "i love you so much."

"i know." you smile softly at her. "but you're gonna have to pay for the new bedding, okay? i spent too much on this last one."

"okay." she nods again. "you'll help me pick it out, right?"

"of course," you respond. "i know you wouldn't pick a good color."

"rude," she laughs.

"you love me." your smile grows bigger.

"i do." she smiles back.

#katseye thoughts 💭#katseye x reader #katseye imagines #daniela avanzini thoughts 💭#daniela avanzini x reader #substance thoughts 💭

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angel06babysworld · 8 days ago

Text

I Blame the 6 Year Old

singledad!rafe x babysitter!reader

Chapter Nine

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ𖦹 ﾟ｡⋆𓂃⊹⋆｡ﾟ

The light was soft when she woke up.

Not the harsh kind that made you groan and hide under the blankets—but the kind that filtered in through half-closed blinds, golden and warm and quiet. The kind that made everything feel safe.

She blinked.

The first thing she noticed was that she wasn’t cold.

The second thing was that she wasn’t alone.

Rafe was still asleep beside her, arm slung around her waist like it belonged there, bare chest pressed to her back, nose buried in the crook of her neck. He was warm and solid and so real that for a second, she didn’t move at all.

She didn’t want to.

Last night felt like a dream—the texts, the look in his eyes when she opened the door, the way he touched her like he already knew where she was softest. But this? This morning? This was what made it real.

She stretched gently, her foot brushing his under the blanket.

“Mmm.” His voice was gravel and sleep, his hand flexing against her side. “That better be you.”

She laughed softly. “Wouldn’t it be wild if it wasn’t?”

He cracked one eye open, groaning as he pulled her closer. “Don’t even joke.”

She rolled over to face him, hair messy, cheeks still a little pink from the night before. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

They stared at each other, both smiling.

He leaned in, kissed her nose. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got what I wanted.”

“You did.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, slow and soft. “So did I.”

Their legs tangled. Her hand slid under the blanket, fingers dancing lazily along his ribs. He caught her wrist, kissed her palm.

“I could get used to waking up like this,” she said.

“You’re allowed to,” he murmured, kissing her again—this time longer, deeper.

Her hand cupped his jaw. His slid under her thigh. The kiss turned hotter without even trying. And when she shifted closer, the blanket slipping slightly—

The front door opened.

And Ellie’s voice rang through the house.

“Daddy, I forgot my—”

Rafe sat up. “Shit.”

Too late.

Ellie rounded the corner, pink backpack hanging from her shoulder, a juice box in one hand—just in time to see them on the couch. Shirtless. Kiss-swollen. Blankets not quite hiding enough.

She froze.

So did they.

Then—

“OH MY GOD.” Ellie slapped her hand over her eyes and spun around. “I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING I SWEAR.”

Rafe dragged the blanket over them with one hand, the other already reaching for his hoodie on the floor. “El—baby—it’s not what it looks like.”

“You were kissing!”

She let out a helpless laugh beside him, already burying her face in the pillow.

Ellie groaned loudly. “I came back to get my stuffed animal, not walk in on whatever that was.”

“I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow,” Rafe said, trying to sound calm while she scrambled for her t-shirt under the blanket.

“Grandma had a dentist appointment! She dropped me off early! WHY ARE YOU NAKED?”

“I’m not naked,” he muttered.

“You’re kind of naked,” she whispered to him, eyes wide as she pulled her shirt on under the covers.

Ellie shouted from the hall, “I’m staying in my room FOREVER!”

The door slammed.

Silence.

Then she looked at him. “So.”

“So,” he echoed.

“You wanna explain that one?”

He sighed, falling back onto the couch. “Eventually. Maybe when she’s thirty.”

She laughed, crawling up to rest her head on his chest again. “I liked our morning better before we got caught.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But she only screamed once. That’s a win.”

She smiled.

And even with the chaos, and the ruined stealth, and the fact that Ellie would now probably never let them live it down—she still felt happy.

Still felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Wrapped in Rafe.

Half-dressed.

Fully his.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @sc04 @matthewswifeyy @meetmeintheemeraldpool @icversvoid @honeyinthesummer @dolli333 @lolabunnyworldss @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @rafessbaby

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crowsofdarkness · 5 months ago

Text

Arranged: Chapter Ten

*gif not mine. credit to owner*

Pairings: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: language, 18+ smut(ch 12 & ch 17), angst, fluff, mentions of death and violence. I will update the warnings with each chapter.

Summary: Reader would do anything to make her parents happy and that included agreeing to an arranged marriage. She never expected it to be to one of New York's most feared Mob Boss: Bucky Barnes. He is anything but loving towards Reader however when her parents are mysteriously killed, Bucky makes it his mission to find out who were at fault. And in the process, ends up coming close to losing Reader.

Authors Note: If anyone who is interested wants to be tagged, let me know!

Tags: @sakuracyberhex

The sudden rush of wind blew the bottom of my dress but I paid no mind to it, the cold breeze having no effect on my already frozen stature. My broken eyes were glued to the large hole in the ground where a two person casket had just been lowered, now filling up with dirt. The men on both sides of me stood with their arms crossed at their hips, not bothering to utter a word. Even if the funeral had ended some time ago, they knew that it wasn’t the time to leave.

Bucky spared no expense, giving my parents the best funeral they could ever imagine. All of their friends and family came out, some shocked that I had gotten married, especially since it wasn’t known that I was even dating anyone. A quick lie of ‘we kept it quiet for so long, that's why’ seemed to suffice.

I don’t know how I would have made it without Bucky by my side. He was there for me this past week more than I could have ever thanked him for. He put the majority of his meetings on hold so he could be with me, giving me whatever I needed.

The night I received the news was the first night Bucky and I shared a bed. I was broken and Bucky was afraid to leave me so he stayed with me that night, holding me in his arms until I fell asleep. The next night I found myself crawling into his bed when the nightmares began, thinking of how my parents died, and Bucky quickly wrapped me up into his embrace.

That was the last night we slept separate, opting to fully move into Bucky’s room.

It had been a week with zero updates from the detectives. There was no fingerprints, DNA, or any sort of evidence left behind.

“Whoever this person was, they knew what they were doing.” Detective Roth’s words kept replaying in my head.

Up until now, I had been upset and broken about losing my parents, especially after the last conversation I had with them. But now I was pissed, angry, and ready to figure out things on my own. I thought about asking Bucky, him having connections that I would need, but I didn’t want him knowing what I was up to. If he did, he would force me to stop.

“Doll?”

I hummed, still not able to form words, but kept my eyes glued to the ground below. Bucky sighed and linked out fingers together, the vibranium of his wedding band pressed into my skin. He decided to wear it on his right hand, mentioning something about having enough vibranium on his left. Bucky made that joke a few days ago, in hopes of it cheering me up.

It didn't.

“Y/N,” he pressed again. “They’re done.”

I blinked, shifting back to reality, and looked up towards Bucky. He’s had the same look plastered over his face the last week; sorrow. I told him countless times to stop giving me that look, I didn’t need him to feel sorry for me anymore.

Which is exactly what I told him now.

“Stop giving me that look, Bucky. I’ve been getting it all day and I’m so fucking tired of seeing it,” I sighed.

Bucky nodded then wrapped an arm around me to pull me into his chest. “Sorry. Let’s get you back home then.”

With my own arms wrapped around Bucky’s back, I looked over towards the other man that stood next to me all day.

“Are you coming back with us, Steve?”

The blonde shook his head. “I’ve got some errands to run but I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Besides Bucky, Steve had been there in my mourning and grief stricken state, a shoulder to cry on when Bucky had to step out for some kind of business.

“I’m guessing it's back to business,” I looked up towards Bucky.

He answered my question with a soft kiss to my lips. “I’m sorry, doll.”

I shrugged, letting him know I didn’t mind. Only because I had been planning on running a couple errands myself and the only way I would be able to do that was if both Bucky and Steve were preoccupied.

Soft snores sounded behind me as I traced the gold bands of Bucky’s vibranium arm while he slept. His bare chest pressed against my back worked like a personal heater, warming me the second we laid down together. Our feet were intertwined together at the end of the bed and I knew when he began to twitch that I would be safe to sneak away.

Steve and him had been busy all day in the office with meetings working like a revolving door. I didn’t see who was coming or going because I had been in bed all day. Bucky thought I needed more alone time to mourn but I was doing the opposite.

I spent the majority of the day on my laptop and phone trying to chase down any leads I could in my parents murder; where they spent their last moments before coming home and who saw them that night.

It was all dead ends until I remembered someone who could help me in getting the answers I wanted. As much as I didn’t want to or the fact that Bucky told me to stay away, I needed his help. He had connections in law enforcement that I didn't.

It was almost midnight and he said that he would text me soon with an address of someone that remembers seeing my parents an hour before the murder.

Turning over in Bucky’s embrace, I watched him for a moment. His eyes moving underneath its lids, snores coming from his parted lips, and his messy hair falling into his face. Under the moonlight breaking in from the window, he looked so peaceful and divine.

I brushed the hair out of his face and laid a soft kiss on his cheek, the growing beard scratching my lips. His grip tightened while he buried his face deeper into my neck, leaving his own kiss. Guilt filled me knowing that I had gone against his word and was lying to him but I knew that this was what I had to do.

My phone buzzed on the table behind me and I did my best to reach for it in hopes of not waking Bucky.

21412 Longview Lane. 30 minutes-J.W.

“Who is it?” Bucky grumbled into the back of my neck.

Shit.

“Just another friend of my parents sending their condolence,” I lied while snuggling closer towards him.

“At midnight?” His half lidded eyes looked at the clock.

I smiled at his sleepy voice and nodded. “Late bird I guess.”

Bucky hummed before rolling towards the other side of the bed and when his back was turned, I placed a few kisses down his spine.

“I can’t sleep so I’m going to go downstairs and make some tea.”

With his grumble of words as a response, I knew this was the only chance I would get to sneak away for a bit.

I rubbed the red mark on my wrist with a grimace towards the guard who opened the metal door in front of me, a loud buzzer sounding throughout the building. As I walked through the long hallway, I tried to mentally prepare myself for the fight that was about to ensue the second we got into the car.

What I had just gone through the last two hours paled in comparison to the man that was waiting in the lobby. I wished they would have called anyone else but since he was my husband, they had to call Bucky.

My tired glance landed on Bucky who was leaning against the front desk, an angry scowl on his face. The cop next to him handed him all of my personal belongings and he took them without saying a word.

“Hi,” I muttered once I was in front of him.

Bucky kept his hardened face before linking our hands together and somewhat nicely dragged me to the car. The twenty minute drive home was complete silence, the only thing that could be heard in the small confinement was Bucky’s heavy breathing. He had been gripping the steering wheel so tight that his flesh knuckles had gone white.

The car eased up the drive and once he was parked in front of the house, I made a quick dash inside, hoping to avoid whatever conversation that was about to ensue.

“Arrested, Y/N? Are you fucking serious?!” Bucky’s voice boomed as he slammed the front door shut.

The sudden raise in his voice caused me to jump slightly and I turned on the staircase where I had only made it to the third step.

“It was stupid. The cop only arrested me because of who I was married to. He wanted to make a point,” I shrugged.

Bucky pinched his eyes in annoyance. “What the hell were you doing trespassing on someone's property across town in the middle of the night? Do you know how dangerous that was, especially because Steve or I weren’t with you.”

“I wasn’t alone,” I defended.

HIs shoulders went rigid. “John Walker? Really? Have you lost your fucking mind?”

I sliced him in half with my gaze. “I know what I’m doing, Bucky.”

“Did you forget what I told you about Walker?” He asked.

“I didn’t have a choice, Bucky. He’s the only one that can help me!” My voice was now raised, anger mixed with annoyance.

His brow raised in confusion. “With what? Breaking into someone's house?”

I hesitated, unsure if I should tell him the truth. He could see the way I resisted and I’m sure he could hear my heart hammered hard against my chest. Sweat began to form in my palms so I wiped them on my pants before taking a deep breath.

“I’ve, uh, been looking into my parents murder,'' I stuttered.

Bucky’s eyes softened. “Why, doll?”

“Because no one has had any answers! It’s been over a week and nothing!” I snapped. “If the cops won’t do anything then I will!”

“And you go to Walker for help?”

The hurt in Bucky’s voice didn’t go undetected and my heart dropped, realizing that maybe I should have gone to him in the first place; could have avoided an arrest charge.

“The John that I know is different from the one you do, Bucky. There was a point in my life where he would have done anything for me,” I defended my choice.

“You knew him, Y/N. He’s not the same anymore,” Bucky responded with a flat tone.

“How do you know?” I curled a brow. “Oh that’s right, you won’t tell me because it’s on the list of ‘secrets to keep from Y/N.”

I turned on my heels, ready to end this conversation, but Bucky followed close behind as I made my way to our room.

“You need to end this whole pretend cop nonsense.” Bucky said while shedding himself of his leather jacket, tossing it onto the couch in our room.

I chuckled dryly. “Haven’t you learned that you can’t tell me what to do?”

Bucky stepped in front of me as I tried to slip away from him into the bathroom.

“This is serious shit, doll. You can end up hurt or worse.”

I raised a finger to him. “I won’t stop until my parents' murders are either caught or dead. If I get hurt in the process, who cares.”

Bucky’s face fell. “Don’t say that.”

I shrugged. “You mean to tell me that you would be hurt if something happened to me? Bucky, this marriage was built on an arrangement between you and my parents. They’re dead so you can consider yourself off the hook.”

“Y/N,” Bucky’s voice cracked.

I ran a hand through my hair. “Look, I'm exhausted and just want to go to sleep. We’ll figure everything out tomorrow morning.”

I didn’t bother giving him time to respond as I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

#mob!bucky barnes #mob!bucky barnes x reader #mob!bucky barnes and reader #mob!bucky barnes x yn #mob!bucky barnes and yn #mob!bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes and reader #sebastian stan

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ponderingmoonlight · 2 years ago

Text

Gojo eavesdroping on his wife when she's talking about him

Pairing: husband!Gojo x reader

Word Count: 1,4k

Synopsis: While you kept your relationship with Satoru private, you always admire him when you meet at work. However, when your students ask you about your type in men, you can't help but describe the love of your life who hears every single word

Notes: This is sooo much fluff because I needed it today, thank you love @hitori979 for your great request 🤍 as always, I'm doing a happy dance when you leave a comment and show some love so please do 🤍 Tags: @lees-chaotic-brain @bakugosgf2005 @ourplehazeworld @niikkoollmm

It’s hard to keep your hungry gaze off him while being at work. He just looks so effortlessly breathtaking with his hands shoved in his pockets and that small smile on his delicate lips while talking to Megumi. The only thing that stops you from losing your cool completely is the pair of sunglasses that covers his mesmerizing orbs.

Your heart jumps up and down in joy. God, how much you love that man. You’ve been married for three years now without anyone knowing. And while you do enjoy your privacy, it hurts from time to time that you’re only able to admire him from afar at Jujutsu High. How nice it would be to run your fingers through his hair, to get lost in his arms, to flirt with him recklessly…

“(y/)-san, are you okay?”

Yuji’s concerned voice rips you out of your train off thoughts immediately, making you shake your head in disbelief. Damn, you really need to stop daydreaming.

“Yeah, sorry. I’ve got a little carried away…”, you mumble.

“Daydreaming again, (y/n)?”

Oh, just a look at him is enough to realize that Satoru knows exactly what he’s doing. You turn around to face him, a playful grin flatters your lips.

“Not about you, Romeo”, you remark sweetly.

He shakes his head while smiling into himself. Even though both of you agreed on keeping your relationship and marriage out of work and Jujutsu High, he can’t help but tease you from time to time. After all, you’re still his wife, right? Even if no one except Megumi knows.

“Now excuse me, I’m on my way to teach my students for real instead of just standing there and looking pretty for my money”, you tease him, fully aware of the fact that he’ll make you pay for every word this evening.

“Do you really think I’m pretty, (y/n)?”

Yes, the prettiest of them all. The words lie on the tip of your tongue, just about to leave your mouth when you stop yourself in time. No, this is not the place to flirt. You have a job to do. With one last glance at him, you turn on your heel and walk into the classroom.

The way he looks at you leaves you speechless every time. How is it even possible that a man like him is in love with a woman like you? While you are quite gorgeous, smart and strong yourself, there’s just nothing that compares to him. It’s like he put a spell on you, you are so utterly in love with Satoru Gojo that your heart hammers out of your chest just by this sweet little flirt. Even after all these years, even after knowing each other better than everyone else he still sends shivers down your spine.

“Right, (y/n)-san?”, Nobara suddenly questions.

Fuck, you were lost in thoughts again. What are you supposed to do?

“Sure”, you mutter.

“Sure” seems like an appropriate answer for many things, especially when it comes to Nobara. It seems like all she wants to know about is how you do your hair and makeup and why you look so snatched in your uniform.

“See, I just knew (y/n)-san is on my side with this one!”, Nobara cries out.

“Shut up”, Megumi hisses.

“Huh, what’s going on?”, you question.

“Fushiguro flirted with a girl yesterday!”, Nobara announces outraged.

You tilt your head to the side, amused by the discussion that lays itself out in front of you. Megumi is like your son, an important part of your life since you’ve met Satoru 8 years ago. Apart from Gojo and yourself, he is the only one who knows about your secret relationship. And while he doesn’t seem to mind it most of the time, he sometimes glances at you with disgust in his eyes when he caught you staring again.

“Nothing to be ashamed about, Megumi-chan. Just make sure to use protection”, you comment with a sly grin.

“Huh, you mean like an umbrella? But it isn’t even raining…”

“Are you really that dumb, Yuji?”

“Shut up you two, I only explained her the way to the cinema!”

“What about you, (y/n)-san?”

Nobara’s sudden question catches you off guard. What should be with you?

“What do you mean?”

She smiles at you unpromisingly, her eyes dark and mysterious.

“What’s your type?”

“You mean like her blood type?”, Yuji mutters behind his hand.

“No! I mean her type in man! How is this so difficult to understand? Did you take a too hot bath!?”

You swallow. Should you really talk about something like this with your students? You are their teacher after all. Yes, actually you are here today to explain how sealing works. Your mind drifts to Satoru again. Well, a little chit chat won’t hurt, right?

“He has to be tall.”

“Oh, I love tall man too”, Nobara groans.

Little does she know who you’re talking about.

“Gimme more”, she insists.

Satoru didn’t mean to spy on you on his way to Utahime. But the second his ears caught the question that left Nobara’s mouth and your precious answer, he just had to position himself next to the door discretly.

“Tall, huh?”, he chuckles to himself as warmth spreads through his chest.

“Probably handsome as hell. But not like some random Calvin Klein model. No, he has to be special in a unique way. A man of his words, a man with an aim. Probably a man that is serious when needed while being humorous at the same time.”

“Hmm, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say your describing Gojo-sensei”, Yuji speaks out loud, making your face redden in an instant.

“Ew”, Nobara cries out.

“(y/n)-san is talking about someone like Chris Pratt you idiot!”

“Who is Chris Pratt?”

So this is how you see him? His heartbeat picks up in an instant just thinking about the way your cheeks probably turned red at Yuji’s comment. Even though you have absolutely no idea that he hears every word you say, you still describe nothing but him alone.

“Bust most importantly, I want a man who stands by my side, who protects me from everything and loves me more than anything else.”

Oh, he does. Not only that, he is absolutely mesmerized and captivated by you. Your smile lights up the room, your sweet voice makes every bad word sound like a prayer, your stunning face is like a drug.

And he’s definitely addicted.

“The only man who’s able to protect you here is Gojo-sensei”, Nobara remarks.

You let out a hearty laughter. Little does she know how right that is.

-Bonus-

“Hey darling, how was your day?”, your tender voice echoes through the living room while you make your way to your husband.

He waits patiently for you to kiss his forehead before giving you a dirty grin and pulling you onto his lap so suddenly that you scream out.

“What are you doing!?”, you shriek, voice shaking in laughter.

Was has gotten into him this evening? Why is he in such a good mood?

“Oh y’know, I’m a man of my words”, he replies, hands teasing you in the most delicate way.

You narrow your eyes while your cheeks start to burn. This sounds like your description of him in the morning. But how…? No, impossible. Not even Megumi would have told him. This must be a coincidence.

“Oh yeah?”, you challenge him and wrap your arms around his neck.

“And I’m tall.”

Your heart skips a beat when realization hits you.

“You spied on me!”, you cry out in revolt.

His hands begin a merciless tickle attack that leaves you gasping for air between shaky laughter, teary eyes and aching ribs.

“And I’m handsome as hell!”, he announces proudly.

“Stop the crap”, you giggle, body fighting against his cruel hands.

“You haven’t used such flattering words on me for a long time. I liked that”, he purrs against your ear.

His hands stop their attack and begin to caress your sensitive skin instead. You can’t catch your breath, eyes darted towards the man you adore so much, the man you married three years ago.

“You have to earn that first”, you breathe out.

“Oh, nothing better than that. After all, I can be serious when needed.”

Your face turns another shade of red in an instant while you playfully smack his shoulder and hide your face in embarrassment.

“Would you please stop saying that?”

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modanisgf · 10 months ago

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001. TRAPHOUSE (WRITTEN)

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— IF y/n was sure about anything it was the fact that she was going to kill kang yunseo. the girl was giggling beside her as their manager told y/n about an upcoming awards show, and the fact that she would be an mc for it.

if this was any other day, y/n sure as hell wouldn’t have agreed but fortunately for her danielle from newjeans would be her partner. you would be lying if you said you hadn’t developed a liking to the girl, despite your limited interactions. yunseo knew this, causing her to tell their manager that y/n wanted the job badly without ever telling her.

the youngest member of saturnz was always starting some kind of trouble, so y/n couldn’t exactly be surprised. the girl let out a sigh as the two of them were finally excused from the meeting, y/n's eyes never meeting yunseo’s as she stared her down.

“are you mad?” she asks quietly, making the older girl shake her head.

“why would i be mad yun?” y/n says to the younger girl, giving her a small smile.

“this gives me a chance to talk to danielle, so thank you.” she says, a smile emerging on yunseo’s face at her words.

“yeah, don’t blow it y/n.” she says smirking, making y/n groan.

“we can’t ever have a sweet moment.”

—

y/n had always loved the sunset. it calmed her to see the bright orange circle set, ending the day, finally. she sat on the couch that was near the window, her attention fully turned to the sky as the sun set. it was sad y/n couldn’t go outside and see it, but she managed.

aera sits down next to y/n, the girl taking in the beautiful colors in front of her.

“it’s always so pretty,” aera says softly, whispering it in a low tone to her younger member.

“i know, it reminds me of home.” y/n responds before continuing to bask in the beauty of the sunset. a smile arose on her face, making aera smile.

"are you ready for tomorrow?" she asks, to which y/n nods.

"it'll help us, i hope.” y/n says quietly.

“y/n..”

“aera, we need any publicity we can get.” y/n states firmly, the thought of everything that had happened so far since debut irritating her.

aera nods silently, choosing not to fight with y/n today. the girl was determined to get her members and her out, she’d do anything for them.

the silence was loud as y/n’s head hit her pillow, making her wince at the hardness of it.

“jia, did you put something under my pillow again?” y/n says, glaring at her other member laying in a small bed next to her.

“oh yeah my bad, i forgot to get my walkie talkie from under there.” jia says, trying to suppress her laughter.

“are you serious?” y/n says, in disbelief.

“no! i don’t know what’s under your pillow?” jia says, appalled at her members stupidity.

y/n rolled over quickly, picking up the pillow to reveal a small box.

“how the hell did you miss that?”

“oh shut up!”

y/n took the box in her hands, opening it carefully as if it was an artifact. the box revealed a small bracelet, having letter beads on it. it spelt out ‘saturnz’, following a heart.

“aera.” y/n says softly, trying to hold back her tears.

jia sat up, looking at the bracelet with a smile on her face.

“she always knows how to make us happy.” jia says, looking at y/n now.

even if it was such a small gesture, it didn’t fail to make y/n smile. aera knew she felt down earlier, so she made her a bracelet to remind her of her members when she was out. y/n sighed, the girl was always so thoughtful.

“i wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

TAGS 🏷️ (OPEN): @neptunedayss @pandafuriosa60 @yeetaberry127 @yncoreee @hotluvlet @eccobe @sixflame438 @saysirhc @haerinkisser @gtfoiydlyj @audizbiass @starstruckgoateepuppy @gigislovergirl @airice @danilvrr @mimsiemoo @pminjucaptor @gayforalll @yjiminswallet @grahstumhurts @nwjnsloona @he------len

#newjeans #newjeans fanfic #newjeans smau #newjeans fluff #newjeans x reader #newjeans danielle #danielle x reader #danielle marsh x reader #danielle marsh #danielle new jeans #kpop x reader #kpop smau #kpop gg

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omnis-hostis-resurrexit · 7 months ago

Text

The Light of Absent Eyes

Vander has taken to visiting Ekko's mural on quiet evenings. Without the oppressive haze of the grey, Zaun's nights are colder than they used to be. Silco, ever observant, brings him his sweater. Sentimental shenanigans ensue.

Read on AO3

Rating: T for mild smut

Tags: Silco/Vander, S2 Utopia AU, Fluff, Old men being sappy and cute, Multiverse-Typical OOC

Word Count: 2110

Without early winter's chill in the air, Silco thought, this place would smell intolerably swampy. A few browning lilypads still clung to the surface of the pool, and a carpet of the giant ginkgo tree's shed leaves slid and squished under his boots as he made his way through the water. Dusk barely filtered down into the abandoned reservoir, and the only clear light came from a cluster of mismatched candles in front of the mural of a young woman's face. A young woman with fiery red hair and a fighter's wraps on her hands. A young woman whose expressions made her look by turns angry and angular, soft and smiling, and utterly at home in her own skin.

A young woman Silco had never met, and never would.

"Missed me that much, eh?" Vander was leaning against one of the mossy concrete pipes that littered the reflecting pool, and his voice echoed off the metal walls around them.

"Were you gone?" Silco asked with a mocking tilt of his head, slinging Vander's thick, much-mended cardigan off his shoulders and holding it out toward him. "You shouldn't be wandering around the fissures this time of night in your shirtsleeves."

"Yeah, alright, mum," Vander said with a good-humored roll of his eyes as he shrugged his arms into the sweater. In the poor light, Powder's riotously-colored darning washed out to a shadowy camouflage around the cuffs and elbows like flashes of unpolished ore emerging from the mud-brown yarn.

"I'm serious. Winter's getting colder every year since they redid the air filters," he said, wrapping his arms across his chest and burrowing his chin further into his scarf as he settled himself next to Vander on the concrete pipe. "Not that I miss the grey, mind, but I'm beginning to understand the topsiders' penchant for hats and gloves and twenty-seven petticoats at a time."

"Oh?" Vander reached over to twine a finger absently through the fringe on Silco's scarf. "Is that why a pallet of Shuriman cashmere shawls fell off the back of an airship straight into the upstairs storage closet?"

"Just reading the market, darling. Remember our deal," he said as he gently unwound Vander's hand and held it in his own. "You don't stick your nose into my perfectly legitimate import-export business, and I don't complain that you still don't put enough bitters in an Old Fashioned."

"I did agree to that, didn't I." He shook his head and settled his hand comfortably on Silco's knee. Wind sighed across the mouth of the reservoir far above, scattering a grace of golden leaves across them. Vander looked up into the branches, one fan-shaped leaf caught against his hair.

It pulled at something in Silco's chest, the thin thread between them that had been cut and re-tied against all better judgment, frayed and worn and haphazardly repaired again and again. Stronger at the mended places, he thought as he plucked the leaf between his fingers and quietly slipped it into his shirt pocket.

He didn't know how long Vander had been here communing with this uncanny vision of his dead child, older and more fully-formed than she'd ever been in life. His girl, his Violet, his fierce little firecracker, and Felicia's and Connol's before that. Never really Silco's. He was an infrequent visitor to their cramped little rooms under the old water tower, while her parents lived. And after? Forgiveness refused to be rushed, it took its own hard-bitten time, and time in Zaun always had casualties.

"She's definitely Connol's work, no mistaking that," he commented as he drew one leg up, perching on the dry moss. "The one on the far left? Tell me that's not exactly the scowl he'd give every scab who walked past us on the picket line."

Vander chuckled and shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Gods, he was a force of nature, eh? Always the quiet ones."

"Hmm," Silco nodded. "They made an odd pair. I always thought he grounded her a bit. Not always a bad thing." He pressed the side of his leg against Vander's warmth and felt him shift closer.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Vander gave him a brief sidelong glance. "What else is different over there. Who else might've…" He dropped his head slightly, and his grip on Silco's hand tightened.

"Been spared?" A corner of Silco's mouth contracted, and he squeezed Vander's hand in return. "We were children of Zaun when that meant even odds we wouldn't live to lose our milk-teeth," he said, his voice tempered by something like remorse. "Who knows if any of us survived to see her at that age?"

Vander made a soft grumbling sound in the back of his throat. "The way Ekko talked, sounds like I never did learn to give a good apology. The other Ekko, I mean. Her Ekko." He tilted his head toward the mural.

Silco tucked a strand of Vander's hair behind his ear and saw how the candlelight glimmered in his eyes. "Sounds like I was never smart enough to let you try until you got it right. I would have been a great fool to walk away and leave all this on the table."

His fingers strayed to the back of Vander's neck, warming under the smooth blanket of his hair. Every silver strand still felt like victory to him, a shining thread of resistance against the years of want and days of ash and blood.

Vander leaned into his touch, and his breaths deepened. "That your way of saying it's time to head home?"

"It is where we keep our bed, for better or worse," Silco murmured as he gently scraped his nails over the base of Vander's skull, just to feel him shudder.

Vander turned, placing himself between Silco's legs and sliding his hands slowly and firmly along them, pulling him closer. "Since when did we need a bed?"

Without waiting for an answer, he pressed his lips to Silco's with a gentle familiarity that did little to hide the underlying hunger. Silco clutched at him, hid his hands under the warm wool, strained to twine his calves against the backs of Vander's thighs. The cold air around them seemed to hone every exposed edge, every shirt-hem lifted, every collar drawn aside. It made the warmth of Vander's skin even more precious and ever more urgent.

They kissed like drowning men with something true to live for, lips and tongues a sliding, driven dance, Vander's hand at the small of his back, both increasingly ravenous for the other's heat. Vander bit gingerly at Silco's lower lip as he sucked it into his mouth, and Silco swallowed back the needy sound that threatened to leave his throat. He scraped a fingernail over Vander's nipple through his shirt, provoking a low and blissfully undignified whimper.

Never let it be said that Silco didn't give as good as he got.

Vander's thumb was toying with one of the brass buttons on Silco's trousers, making maddeningly patient little circles that just barely grazed the head of his cock through the stiff twill. "S'alright?" He breathed into Silco's ear, just a shade of hesitation in his words.

Silco's breath hitched, and he put his hand on top of Vander's, stilling them both. In an instant, Vander had gently tilted out of Silco's embrace and propped himself one hip against the mossy concrete, his other hand still resting on Silco's ribcage.

"Happy to take my time, you know," he offered. "You could wear my sweater if you're cold." He couldn't see the tentative smile on Vander's face in the dark, but he could hear it. He couldn't hear the concerned little line between Vander's eyebrows, but he knew it was there.

"No, it's not — it's fine, Vander. It's not you." He leaned forward and tucked his cold fingers under the waistband of Vander's trousers, nodding toward the mural. "I just can't shake the feeling we're being watched."

Vander let out a breath that sounded relieved, and clouded in the air. "Well, I can't say my knees aren't grateful," he said with a subtle lilt of laughter, dragging one heavy boot through the limestone gravel beneath it. He held one hand out, and Silco slid down from the concrete pipe into his arms.

"Don't go making them any promises," Silco said, pressing himself closer, hands flush with Vander's chest. "Plenty of dark and relatively dry alcoves between here and the Drop. You might get your chance yet." He patted one hand in joking reassurance and pulled away with languid steps, heading toward the tunnel mouth.

Vander's answering low laugh was a banked coal, deep in the belly. "Relatively dry, hm?" He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "You really know how to show a fella a good time."

"So you keep telling me," he said, the scars on his cheek straining against the slow, vulpine smile that overtook his face in the dark.

He stood at the edge of the water while Vander put out the candles under the mural, one gentle hand lingering on Vi's painted hair for a moment. Silco might have heard a murmured g'night, love in the gathering dark. He must have heard it. Nothing else explained the swell of sentiment that rose beneath his sternum for a breath.

Vander slung his arm across Silco's shoulders, and they fell into step as they sloshed back toward the tunnel. Its inky depth was broken only by a thin trace of glow-chalk on one wall — Powder's helpful contribution, a new invention she was justifiably proud of. Its light pulsed faintly in time with the hollow sound of their even steps.

And if their youngest cast a skeptical eye at the smear of chalk across the back of Silco's jacket, or looked askance at the mud on Vander's knees before he hid them conveniently behind the bar? Well. There were worse things out there than two old rabble-rousers having a nostalgic fuck in a forgotten corner of the infrastructure.

As Silco stood by the back counter and made them both a proper cocktail, still loose-limbed and supple with fading afterglow, he pondered over all his hard-won blessings. How many did the other Silco have? Useless thought, but there it was.

Had he already died an ignominious, lonely death? Died young? Been cut down in his prime, coughing up blood until he drowned in it, like so many of their comrades from the mines? Lived still, driven by spite and distrust, fighting for every scrap until a violent end became inevitable? It didn't bear imagining. Not standing here in the warm light of the Last Drop, two full glasses in his hands, gazing at his partner's broad back as he pulled another pint of lager.

"There you are, love." He sat one glass on the counter near the taps. "That one's yours."

Vander handed the pints off to Gert with practiced efficiency and picked up his drink, reflexively wiping a wet ring from the counter with the bar towel. Behind him, a table of academy students boisterously toasted Live forever!, leaving a careless shower of suds in their wake.

"Now that's a prayer for bad luck if I've ever heard one," Silco mused, swirling the liquid in his glass.

Vander gave him a thin smile and cast his eyes briefly over his shoulder. "At their age, anything feels possible. Even in Zaun."

Silco rested his drink against his breastbone, looking aside in a satire of shame. "Gods, what am I like. You'll tell me, won't you, if I become one of those hideous old men who can't stop going on about how the younger generation's gone soft? Just say the word, and I'll give Powder a length of piano wire and tell her I hate her haircut."

"Oh, now I definitely won't tell you," Vander replied, his smile broadening into something genuine and bubbling under the surface. "Besides, someone has to teach these young'uns what their city's made of."

Silco raised his glass. "Blisters and bedrock?"

There was a warm shadow in Vander's eyes as he clicked the worn gold rims of their glasses together and returned the age-old toast. He held Silco's gaze longer than usual, looking at him as if he was something Vander couldn't bear to lose, someone he couldn't imagine living without. And for a moment, Silco felt the terrible, dizzying weight of the trust he'd placed in this man. The other Silco — Vi's Silco — would no doubt scoff, and fume about the catastrophic foolishness of his choice. In any other timeline, he'd be right.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he said.

#zaundads #silco x vander #arcane season 2 spoilers #silco #vander #zaun utopia au

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magdalence · 9 months ago

Text

A MYTH OF DEVOTION CHAPTER TWO.

SEE MASTERLIST FOR TAGS + NOTES

pairing: sylus/mc | reader

rating: explicit (18+)

chapter word count: 6,689 words

“A complete and full resonance link comes at a steep price. Are you willing to pay it? Do you understand how much it will demand of you? How close you will have to get to me? I see how you look at me like I’m a nightmarish monster.” Sylus smirks, leaning in close enough that you can smell his perfume. Leather, metal, and gunpowder. At least, you think some of it is perfume and not just your attempt at his life.

You agree to try your best to resonate fully with Sylus. He agrees to let you go when you do. Both of you get more than you bargained for.

There’s a splinter of light in the distance, but not enough. Shadows crowd in around you, cradling you close.

As you blink to try and clear the fog out of your senses, Sylus crowds not only your line of sight, but all your senses: the scent, the touch of skin as he runs his knuckles along your cheekbones, the sound of a distantly familiar tune hummed.

The light is fading.

There is an otherness to him, an eldritch longing in his eyes, a feeling you don’t know what to do with. It’s so naked and vulnerable that it frightens you; it’s a weight lacing itself into your throat, burrowing down into your ribs, constricting your breathing. His thumb runs across your lips, gentle, until you have to suck in a gasping breath, lips parting, the tip of your tongue touching the pad of his thumb.

“Good girl,” he hums, voice deep and hot.

You want him to touch you more, want him to reach down your throat and hold your heart.

You suck his thumb into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and swallowing around it. His other hand rests at your throat, massing along the lines where his fingers bruised your skin as he choked you out, almost apologetic. It feels too good. It feels too real.

“Please…”

You don’t recognize your own voice as you cry around his thumb. You hardly even know what you are asking for, but you suspect you would take anything he gives you so long as his hands did not leave your being. He could mold you to his whims and as long as his hands stayed on your rearranged form, it would be enough.

The light goes out. Plunged into darkness, all you can feel is him surrounding you, his touch searing itself into your body. He is all around you and nowhere to be found all at once. Come closer, come closer, come closer… Follow me into the shadows when you’re willing…

With a start you wake up from the nightmarish dream, heart thudding loud in your throat – and a heavy arm curled around you.

“Slept well?” Sylus asks from close behind you. Too close. The more you come to, the more of his body you feel pressed against yours.

He is pressed up against you from behind, one arm around your waist, and with the vestige of the dream still lingering so clear and loud in your mind, you don’t exactly mind him there. You shake your head. Terrifying, how your body seeks to betray you from so little.

“What are you doing?” you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and clearing your throat, your mouth just as wet as it was in the dream.

“You started pulling on my arm in the middle of the night, and then began whimpering and whining when I resisted. It was easier to give in to you and shut you up.”

You hold out your hands, noticing that the link that tied your right hand to his is gone. For the better, no doubt.

“You can let go of me.”

“Not yet,” he murmurs, his voice low and deep. For a split second you wonder if he can read your mind even like this, with no eye contact, if he somehow heard or worse, saw what your traitorous fantasies conjured up.

He holds your hipbone, pinning it down with a light force, and a pressing thought passes through your head, an image of him holding your hips down like that as he’s pushing into you from behind. Your mouth goes dry. It’s not entirely unpleasant but it is sorely not what you need for dealing with him.

What you need is an iced coffee so you can chew on some ice and clear your mind of him. And your mouth of the feeling of his thumb inside it.

“What do you want from me?” You wriggle your hips, trying to scoot off the bed, but he holds you still, dragging you back towards him.

You don’t let up that easily though, making a second attempt, and he grabs your chin and turns your head to look at him.

“Is it that hard to be still for one minute?” His brow furrows in frustration, eyes narrowed, the pressure of his thumb on your chin pulling your lower lip down and exposing your teeth.

A loud pecking sound on the window pane makes you jump, and Sylus’ evol lashes out towards the window, liquid shadow crackling with red bursts of light cracking the window open. Mephisto flies in, and Sylus removes his hand from you, allowing the peculiar crow to perch on his hand.

“The assassin has been taken care of,” Sylus says after hearing out the odd noises of the crow, its robotic wings clicking. “I would recommend you avoid the garden for an hour or two until the body has been properly disposed.”

It takes a moment for you to process what he just said.

“You were just keeping me in bed to stop me from –”

“Setting foot in the middle of a matter Luke and Kieran were dealing with? Perhaps. Would that be so horrid of me?” He smirks, stroking Mephisto’s head with one finger. “You run very warm. Perhaps I was simply enjoying that. Who’s to say.”

You get out of bed, adjusting the robe you slept in to make sure you are as covered as possible. The spot on your hip burns hot when you skim your fingers over it and you clear your throat, swallowing hard.

He eyes you up and down once, his expression opaque, before flicking his finger as Mephisto flies off.

“Breakfast will be served in an hour,” he says, flexing the wrist of his hand that was anchored to you. “Do try to keep yourself under control, I have important business to attend to today.”

You grumble. It’s too early to be smart with him, and he’s enjoying the advantage it gives him, the bastard. Crossing your arms you turn to leave, but a movement in the garden below catches your eye.

Underneath a large, twisted oak tree lies a crumpled body, the limbs set at awkward angles. Despite all the bodies you’ve seen in your life, it still turns your stomach cold. Worse, as you look up at the tree, at the tangle of gnarled branches, you realize it’s at the perfect height and angle for a sniper to take a shot right into Sylus’ bedroom.

“Were you using me as bait?” you ask slowly, not turning around to face him. Calculating the distance goes slow in your head, but you know a spot when you see one.

The mattress moves, Sylus sidling up behind you, his hands on your shoulders.

“You’ll spoil your appetite looking.”

“Answer me,” you demand, a shivering string of ice underscoring your words.

“They would never have succeeded,” he whispers, smugly. “No bullet in this place will ever come near you as long as you have my protection.” But he dodges the question, his breath tickling your neck as he leans in closer. “My return has drawn out vultures. Your presence has made them hungry.”

“I don’t want to die for you,” you say, stepping away from him. The cold air of the room prickles your skin. “I’m not a toy to dangle in front of your enemies.”

Your heart lurches in your throat, and you turn on your heel to escape from the dual-edged gaze of his, praying under your breath that the resonance link stays dormant, that nothing shackles you to him, not now.

You slam the bathroom door, locking it before leaning against the hard wood panel and sliding down onto the tiled floor, holding your head in your hands. Between the dream, and the fact that he pinned your hips down in bed while waiting for an assassin to die within his field of vision… Between the way you can still imagine the skin texture of his thumb against your tongue, and his hand on your hip, and the chills down your spine as a sniper lay dying below…

If you could put a name to the feeling bursting inside you, you’d be able to conquer the world.

The days pass, Sylus not allowing you far from his reach. ”In case the link activates again,” he claims, but it never does.

You do wonder what would happen if you were in different parts of the mansion when it did. Would the pain be so overwhelming you’d be unable to move? Would it be so vicious it could kill you? Whenever you think about slipping away from Sylus and exploring on your own, pick a locked door, turn his drawers inside out, that thought flares up and you petulantly stay near him, unhappy to be this stuck.

Every morning and night, he grasps your hand, intertwining your fingers, and attempts resonance. Every time, he is sorely disappointed at the results.

He’s not making this easy on you, but then again, you are not intending to make it easy on him. Each time he tries to resonate, his fingers locking with yours as he holds your hand to his chest, you summon up all the spite and loathing you nurture in your heart for him: he doesn’t let you know anything of value, he watches you too closely, he smiles at you when he thinks you’re not looking. He used you for bait. He holds something against you. He’s a liar, a bastard, a cheat, a monster. Every petty annoyance, every tiny complaint, you blow them up until you can feel the resonance link withering.

And then immediately after, seeing his crestfallen face for a moment before he lets go of you and turns away, you feel a sting of guilt. Yes, you are making this harder for yourself than it needs to be. You feel the looming dread of months, years, spent in this place, spiting and goading a man who could kill you with a snap of his fingers.

He snipes you and you snipe back. You watch each other like stalking cats, and then you wince at yourself, annoyed that his way of seeing you is filtering into your frames. He has a finger on your pulse and you can’t deny it. Can’t deny him. It’s irritating to have a man who can wrap you around his finger just through a long look over the rim of his reading glasses.

At least he lets you sleep in a room of your own. Even if it is directly across the hall from his. He plays his records late into the night, the gramophone sounds haunting you into your dreams, and then he dares laugh as if he’s won when he catches you humming the tunes at breakfast.

After a week, he starts taking you with him when he has to go out on what he calls business. You protest, but as he firmly guides you into the backseat of whatever car he has in mind for the day, you find yourself enjoying the ride, much to your chagrin. Getting out of the house and seeing more of the N109 zone helps build a map of the place in your mind, and you start connecting roads and neighborhoods, recognizing shops and neon signs.

He doesn’t talk much during these rides, hands on the wheel, eyes glued to the road.

“You don’t make for a very good tour guide,” you comment, and he only scoffs in reply.

The meetings he drives you to all go the same way: he locks you in the car and comes back after five minutes.

“You call me kitten yet me leave me like this,” you say with an exaggerated pout at him after five days of this routine. “We call that animal cruelty in Linkon City.”

“Is that so, kitten?” He leans over the seat, his face dangerously close to yours – and pops open the glove compartment. “There is water in here. Do I need to add some glittery toys? Some treats?”

“Take me out with you,” you say.

You’d hate to see what he does. It would turn your mixed and messy emotions on him into clear-cut dislike, and it’d keep you imprisoned with him in his dark home forever. In these moments, with his face this close to yours, you think it’d be a boon to be able to hate him fully and completely and never be able to resonate with him. Spite, you tell yourself, almost convincing your fractured reasoning.

“You aren’t leash-trained enough. Some other time.” But he moves his hand, brushing against yours – and lowers the window just a crack, barely enough to fit three fingers. “Is that air fresh enough? I will only be gone a few minutes.”

“Five minutes,” you correct him. “I keep count.”

“I’m happy to hear you miss me that much.”

You clench your fists as he leaves and locks the car, waiting until he’s out of sight before you pound the dashboard once, twice, and then let out a loud groan.

He is never going to let you come out on top like this.

Still, you try to peer out the tinted windows of his sports car to get a sense of what he is up to. You can guess – shady deals, power struggle between crime lords, him demanding his dues – and it touches upon that complex swirl of emotions tangling inside you. Your morals have been skewing since meeting him, and you can’t go back to Linkon like this. You need to get your head and heart right.

A door flies open in the building and man runs out of it, pursued by the slithering shadows of Sylus’. He spots the car and slams against the passenger side, yanking at the door. You recoil from the door, distantly glad that Sylus locked you in proper as he pulls and begs for mercy.

As Sylus comes out, checking his cuff links as if he is not clad in shadows that snap and swell with lashing darkness, you begin to understand the man’s fear. He looks as terrifying as the day you met him.

“There is nowhere to run from your negligent crimes,” Sylus says slowly, pressing his fingertips together. “Do try not to scratch the polish. It’s new.”

The man catches your gaze through the crack. “Save me,” he begs, eyes bulging in fear. “Let me in, Sylus, he’s crazy, he’s dangerous, I’ll get you somewhere safe, my family can protect you, please –”

Sylus grabs the man by the collar, pulling him off the car.

“Close your eyes, kitten.”

You don’t.

You watch as the shadows seep into the man, as his eyes roll into the back of his head and all his blood vessels burst at once. You watch as Sylus’ power makes him scream in agony, and then: a surge of darkness — and nothing.

Your hands tremble and you grab the hem of your skirt, pulling down so hard your knuckles go white.

Sylus, seemingly entirely unbothered by what he just did, unlocks the car and climbs in.

“You should have looked away,” he says flatly, reaching his hand out towards you. On pure shock and instinct, you recoil, and a shimmer of sorrow passes by on his face before he chastises his expression into neutrality again. He stays his head, pulling it back, and starting the car pulls out of the alley.

After a few minutes of driving Sylus sighs, glancing your way. “Don’t want to needle me over what I do?”

“I’m trying to stay alive,” you reply, clamping down on the tremor in your jaw.

“Pity. I like hearing you mad at me.”

You bite down on your tongue, hard, not wanting to let anything slip. How can he do that? How can he joke after doing something like that? How can he slither in under your skin and undo all the fine control you have mustered up? How can he endear himself to you with just a few words?

“You killed him,” you say after a minute as you drive up on one of the highways, loathing the terrified shiver in your voice.

“I did, yes. Do you want to make any other obvious statements?”

“What is wrong with you?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “I see. You labor under the misapprehension that he was an innocent man.”

“He had a family.”

“Many do. Does that offset all the families he screwed over while I was gone? He went back on a contract we had, trying to line his pockets at the cost of those worse off. He tried to squeeze people who have no one to defend them. I will not stand idly by and watch that happen. Does that ease your heart? I can hear it pounding.”

“Mind your own business,” you say, ears turning embarrassingly hot.

“I am. You are my business. I wouldn’t want you to damage your heart prematurely.”

You turn to glare at him, and he reaches one hand over towards you again, but this time you don’t flinch. You open your mouth and bite his fingers, hard, then spit them out triumphantly when he hisses.

“Fine,” he says, taking a turn so hard you sink back into the seat, his hand quickly wiping away something from your nose. “There. He got blood on you.”

“Oh.”

“I guess it’s my fault. They say you shouldn’t corner a scared cat.”

“I am not scared of you.”

“You can lie to me,” he says, a dark edge to his voice despite the smirk on his face as he grabs your wrist and presses his thumb against the inside of it, “but your body does not. I can feel your pulse, sweetie. Unless you find that kind of thing exciting? Do they hire adrenaline junkies as Hunters now?”

You pull your hand back from his grip, determined to not let his words get to you. Not that he makes it easy for you, so quick to read and pin you down as if you were an open book.

You lick your teeth and shudder. His fingers tasted exactly like they did in that dream that haunts your waking moments.

After a dinner so silent it makes you feel starved for conversation, Sylus waits for you to get up first and trails behind you. Nothing unusual, and frankly, you get it. The risk of the resonance link ruining your day trumps how unnerving he is to be around, all things considered, but you don’t have to be happy about it.

Most nights, you ask to watch a movie. Tonight, you opt for the library. He has a grand one, filled with shelves from floor to ceiling, ladders on wheels that slide along the walls with nary a sound. You aren’t in a reading mood, though. Well, unless the reading is him. You want desperately to turn the tables on him, even a little.

You beeline for the drink bar. “Do you want a drink?” you ask, uncorking a tumbler and sniffing the contents. Smoky, wooden alcohol tickles your nose, heavy and heady.

“What’s the occasion?”

You put the plug back in and turn over the many bottles, looking for something lighter.

“I feel like you owe me some fun.”

“Do I? How exciting.” He comes to stand next to you, opening a hidden cabinet and pulling out a soda. “Looking for this?”

“Fine. I don’t like them as strong as you do. What of it?”

“Nothing. Endearing, maybe.” He pours you two drinks, holding them out for you to sample and pick which one you prefer. “Now what sort of fun did you have in mind? Finally going to try and actually like spending time with me?”

“In your dreams,” you mutter, deciding on the left drink and taking it from him. No, you have something else in mind. It’s a child’s game. A game you played with boys and girls when you were teens, stomach a black hole of desire and fear to be kissed on a dare. But now as an adult, you hope to turn it into a clever trap to get what you want from him: information. Answers.

And you need a little liquid strength to face whatever attempt at humiliation he no doubt will put you through for it.

“Let’s play a game,” you say, plopping down on the couch and folding your legs under you. “One question, one sip, one answer. We take turns.”

He nods as he pours himself a drink, humming. “And if we cannot answer?”

“You mean don’t want to.”

“Oh, I’m sure I could ask things you’d storm out of this room over. So we need a mutually acceptable out, otherwise the game lacks fairness.”

“Okay. Dares then. Like, take a shot of vodka. Or…” You gesture, sighing. “Kiss, I don’t know, make it a reasonable thing we can do in this room.”

“A kiss, huh? Is that where your mind goes near me? How scandalous, miss Hunter.”

You glare at him as he sits down on the couch opposite you, dropping his cufflinks on the table and rolling up his shirtsleeves.

“And don’t use that eye on me.”

“Very well,” he says, looking at you smugly. “Keep in mind I will match you ask for ask, dare for dare.”

You run a finger along the rim of the wine glass, picking from the questions you have. It's a veritable garden of possibility aflame in your mind.

“What do I mean to you?” you begin, and raise your glass to take a sip.

“Right now, you are a poorly behaved kitten reaching for things out of her grasp.”

You swallow the mouthful of the drink, grimacing. “And before?”

“Ah ah.” He wags his finger. “My turn. What did you dream about that night we shared a bed?”

You blush, and the way his red eye glows in the dim light – oh. Oh the scoundrel. “You planted it.”

“Now how would I be able to do such a thing? What a horrid accusation.” He thumbs the glass of whiskey, smiling. “Did you at least enjoy it?”

Yes. “No.”

“Such a shame.” He knocks it back, smugness unruffled. “And I even got two answers out of you. It would seem that you are not good at this game.”

Your nose twitches, annoyed. Even if he has a point about you reaching above what you can have, you would never back down near him – and never admit to as much.

“Why did you want me so bad you were willing to kidnap me?”

He clicks his tongue, watching intently as you take a sip. “I think I will pick the dare option.”

“Fine. Show me your worst scar.”

He undoes the top button of his shirt, peeling it back to reveal what looks like nothing, just shadows playing over the divots on his chest. You lean in, squinting. “What am I looking at?”

“The most terrible scar anyone has ever inflicted on me,” he says, running a finger along a divot that begins just under his Adam’s apple and down between his pectorals, and as he does, you see it. The skin puckers oddly, the skin looks raw and tender.

“Did it hurt?”

He shakes his head. “That is another question, and you have not yet earned it.”

An urge to touch it comes over you and you slump back in the seat, watching as he buttons the shirt up. You exhale through your nose, trying to keep your head clear in the game.

“My turn.” His eyes glint viciously. “What’s your taste in men?”

“Dare,” you blurt immediately. The last thing you want is to unpick that chain of thought right now.

“Come sit next to me.” He gestures at the empty spot on his two-seater couch.

Fine. You can do that. It’s hardly bad enough to warrant the withering glare you shoot him as you settle down, crossing your legs and turning towards him. There’s enough space between you to fit a third person. Maybe. Either way, it’s absolutely, perfectly fine.

“You are wearing that perfume,” he comments. “Did you sneak in and steal some?”

“Maybe,” you shrug, but it is exactly what you did. The scent feels oddly like home, even though you can’t name why, just the stirring of an emotional whirlpool, too dark to peer to the bottom of.

“Be honest,” he demands.

“Yes. Okay. Yes, I did. Happy?”

“The way you fluster when caught, yes, it does entertain me.”

You pinch your nose, trying to grab one of the questions you had in mind just minutes ago, now flitting away too fast. “What do you think will happen when we resonate?”

He sits quiet for a minute, running his finger along the side of the glass.

“Well?”

“Dare,” he says finally, heavily, and you regret allowing for that clause in the game. At least if you give him a horrid enough dare, he might change his tune.

“Rub my calves,” you say, putting your feet on his thigh, pressing down to flex them. “They are so tight. Or you can answer the question.”

He clicks his tongue, flicking a finger against your ankle. “Bold.” And then he does it anyway, and you didn’t know a massage could feel this good but he has a way of making it not hurt or tickle, the tense muscles slowly easing up as he drags his knuckles against them, rolling out the knots.

“You are awfully good at that,” you mutter, satisfied with the sensation and deeply dissatisfied with how he managed to evade your questions once more.

“Thank you. I have never heard any complaints from others.”

From others. A stab of jealousy lacerates your heart and you remove your feet from his lap, retreating to your corner of the couch before you can act cool and above that. Why do you care? It’s not like you want to be that close to him, right? But the way your gut clenches, you’re starting to sense a drift into the shadowy unknown.

“My turn. Have you grown fonder of me yet?”

He plays a dangerous game. Lethal. By all reason, you should be loathing him with ever fiber of your being, the way he snags on all your edges, the way he is like a splinter driving himself in at a blunt angle underneath your skin. So why is there a part of you enjoying this? Why is there a part of you begging to escalate? You can’t even blame the drinks, which makes all of it even worse.

“No.” And so you lie, again.

“You are a very poor liar.” And he catches you, flicking his finger against your arm.

“Dare,” you hiss, dodging the question, a blush burning across your chest.

He pats his leg, and dread clenches in your chest as you realize what it is he wants.

“Come sit on my lap then, if you don’t want to answer.”

And you really, really don’t. You knock back the last of the bright red wine and stand up, your knees knocking together as you assess his legs. They’ll hold you, no doubt. They have before, when he tried to wrench a resonance out of you. (When you shot him.) It feels more tangled now. Like a choice you almost want to make.

He presses his foot between your legs, parting them and nudging the back of your heel. “Don’t be shy. You’ve been here before.”

You straddle his lap, trying to sit as far away as possible, but it still is not enough space.

Perhaps dread isn’t the right word for what this position does to you, you amend, smelling the whiskey on his breath and the perfume at his neck. Anticipation, which in many ways is outright worse.

“Comfortable, kitten?”

“Not exactly.”

“As they say, proximity makes the heart grow fonder.” He tilts his head, lopsided smile playing on his lips as he adjusts you on top of his legs, pulling you forward a little. It is far more comfortable, his muscles tensed just enough to support you.

“They clearly never spent time near you.” You shift carefully, trying to reach your glass only to find it empty.

He holds up his drink as an offering. Turning it over until you find a spot with no lip marks or droplets, you take a tiny sip, shuddering at the taste – strong, but oddly pleasant. A taste that suits him, reeking of expensive state and quiet luxury.

Emboldened, and a little infuriated, you tap his clothed chest. “Who gave you this scar?”

His gaze darkens, expression curdling. “Dare.”

“Stop evading my questions.”

You slap your hand against his chest, and he grabs your wrist with a bitten-back sound, holding it away from himself.

“You set the rules. Are you displeased with how your little game is unfolding?”

“If you didn’t want to tell me anything, why did you even agree to it?”

“Is it so bad if I want to watch you squirm?”

You pull your wrist free, glaring. “Here’s my dare: let me touch your scar.”

He sets his jaw hard, but to your surprise he parts the shirt once more, peeling back the fabric to reveal it. Now that you have seen it once, you can never not notice it, the ridges, the tell-tale healed tissue, the way shadows catch on each bump and divot. In a way, that ancient deep way that rushes deep inside you, it speaks to you, a secret yours to pry open: the intoxicating rush of owning some part of him.

You hold your fingers against the ice cube in the glass, and his chest heaves once, twice, gaze turning just as cold as your fingertips. As you bring them to the lowest point of the scar, you think you hear him draw in a shaky breath. Or maybe it’s you. It’s hard to tell with how close the two of you are, your hearts beating a disharmonious rhythm.

He chokes a noise in his throat as you touch the scar, dragging your finger up slow and steady. As you get halfway, he moans, and you lick your lips, mouth going dry. A part of you is screaming, terrified of what you are opening up, and another part can’t back down. Not from a fight. And not from him.

“Careful,” he whispers, his voice tight.

It would have been better for him if he hadn’t.

Twisting your finger you drag the nail along the final inches of skin, and he winces underneath your touch, almost bucking up against it. It’s electrifying, how responsive he is, how this scar awakens a side of him just like that. A side you haven’t seen. A need you haven’t dared to conceptualize. Not until this shivering moment.

Shaking your head, you try to get control of yourself again, rushing the final inch and scratching him so hard his skin goes shiny pink. You curl your finger away from him, leaning back as he catches his breath through gritted teeth.

“Was that all you thought it’d be?” he asks. He pointedly does not button up his shirt.

“It’s your turn,” you say quietly, offering him the glass. The spell hangs in the balance between the two of you, but where it leads you can’t follow.

“Do you want me?”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But you also can’t lie convincingly enough.

“Dare," you reply, voice rough and husky.

“Put your arms around my neck.”

You curl your fists tight, glaring at him as you follow his command, making sure not to let your hands touch any part of him, just barely resting your wrists on his shoulders.

“Closer,” he says, but you shake your head.

“It’s my turn. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Casting about for a question, you try to pull at all the threads between you, all that makes him, finding anything that can save you from the darkness you are sinking into. And like that, a life buoy lands in your mind’s eye, crystal clear and dreadful.

“Do you enjoy killing?”

His upper lip twitches, amused.

“Sometimes, yes. If the person has caused enough problems, why shouldn’t I?” He toys with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around his fingers. “Haven’t you ever wanted to kill someone because you know it’d feel so good?”

“For a moment, you... You made me feel like that.” The confession burns, hot and shameful. Never before in your life, never before him, and yet a molten core inside you was so close to tipping over and rendering you a completely different person when he reached inside you. It felt like being cracked open. It felt... “It felt so good to hurt you.”

“You have a talent for it.” He tugs at the lock, bringing your face closer to his with a sweet sting searing your scalp. “Now answer my question: if I used my eye on you in this very moment, what desire would it make you confess to? Wanting to kill me? Or –”

“Dare,” you whisper, cutting him off. Not that it saves you. In fact, his eyes narrow, as if he has won.

“Kiss me.”

You scowl. He has won. Your choice is to answer a question which, you’d rather die than giving him that satisfaction. Or you leave, which is humiliating. You have never backed down from a game before and you know he’d mock you endlessly for the cowardice.

So instead you shift on his lap, leaning your head in to kiss him quick. If you keep it a mere brush of the lips then it’s bearable enough. A quick peck, and nothing more. You barely even feel his lips, but you do feel slightly disappointed, like you are robbing yourself from tasting a pastry right in front of you.

But as you pull away, he grabs your chin.

“No,” he says, tsking, his thumb pulling at your lower lip. “Make it a proper one, miss Hunter, or you’ll be hurting my feelings.”

“As if you have any to wound,” you whisper against his mouth, but you give in – despite knowing better, despite loathing him, despite every shred of resentment you have stoked against him.

It’s soft at first, but with your hands on his shoulders and the heat of being so close, the hunger compels you to be more insistent, more desperate. His lips part, and so do yours. Your hands move first, to weave through and tug at his hair, but his follow suit to settle on your hips. You have given in, allowing yourself this indulgence, but as hunger grows, one of his hands pressing at the small of your back, you come back to yourself as though ice shoots through your veins.

You should not be doing this. You shouldn’t be here anymore. It’s too much.

You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. It’s a desperate mantra you have to believe as you wrench yourself away from him and scramble to your feet. You have to get out of here, get outside and breathe in fresh air, anything but him.

Fearful of him pulling you back in, tugging you back onto his lap and wearing down at your senses in a way that would have you continuing to give in to this horrible ugly want twisting your stomach asunder, you rush to the door on unsteady feet. You cannot keep playing games with him. You cannot let him toy with you any longer.

It might have been hours, it might just have been minutes – it’s hard to tell how long you have been out on the rooftop terrace. You blink up at the blood red sky of the N109 zone, light pollution obscuring the stars in the sky. Or should it be a sun? You can’t tell. The air isn’t fresh enough to calm your nerves, so you have been letting your eyes rove over the skyline, the skyscrapers, counting windows, following what happens in the lit up windows.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, a wave of humiliation and cloudy wants washing over you again. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You rub at your lips again, hoping to get rid of the feeling of his mouth against yours, but it still lingers. Everything about him does, because you’re stuck with him, because you tried to angle a stupid deal.

Groaning, you slump forward, resting your folded arms on the balustrade.

What are you even hoping to achieve here? Tangle your feelings up in a crime boss? Rot to old age in the N109 zone?

The door opens and closes behind you, and you keep your eyes focused on a distant building, not wanting to engage with him.

“Of course we’ll be there,” Sylus says dryly behind you. “No no, it will be our pleasure. I’m sure. Bye.” He hangs up on the call and comes to stand next to you, far enough away to feel respectable, though nothing about following you around like this is.

“Business, I take it,” you say airily. “Must be more murders you’re aching to commit.”

“In a way,” he hums, sounding amused. “We have been invited to a party.”

“We?”

“People here are curious about the woman I keep, or so Luke and Kieran tell me. As for myself, I have heard you spoken about as my kidnapped bride to be,” he says wryly, folding his hands. “They say our wedding will have you dressed in black for mourning, and that I will have your wrists chained to a bouquet of crimson roses.”

“Is this all a joke to you?” Frustration has coiled tight in you for weeks, and finally a thread snaps. Not all of it, not at once, but he has run your nerves ragged and for what? A laugh? Watching a prey exhaust itself in front of him? You wish he’d just strike and bite if that is what he intends.

His voice turns sharper, underscoring his words. “I am putting in effort, I am making attempts. Are you?”

You refuse to face him, digging your fingertips into the rough stone surface worn down by acidic rain. It hurts, but you can’t risk looking directly at him.

“And is any of it sincere? Because all your efforts lack meaning without it.”

He raps his knuckles against the balustrade, annoyance tensing his entire body up.

“I want resonance,” he says tersely. “I am doing what must be done.”

“Seduction will wear thin very quickly. You do know that I hate you, right? You won’t be able to change that through a kiss alone.”

“I see.”

Silence sinks in between the two of you, his gaze weighing heavy on your body. You remain resolute, staring out over a place that might be your home, your life, your future tomb, and you will yourself to feel nothing.

You lose track of how long the two of you stand there, immersed in silence, him looking at you, and you refusing to meet his eye. The sky’s hue changes once, twice. You are both so very, very stubborn.

“The way your knuckles are going white, I am beginning to wonder if you intend to jump.”

“No,” you say, suppressing a smile with all your might. “But what would you do if I did? Watch it?”

“Ah. You wouldn’t fall far, dear. I would not let you.”

His phone rings, and he checks the screen, hesitating for a beat, two, before picking up and leaving you alone.

The horrid, traitorous part of you wishes he’d stay just a little longer, and while you should tamp down on it, silence it before it gets traction inside of you, you instead let it linger as you think of his lips against yours. If you close your eyes a little, you can even taste him: smoky liquor, leather perfume, warmth. It’s so easy to betray yourself, and a dark part of your heart wants more. Of his kisses, of his teasing. Of him.

#sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads fanfiction #lads sylus #love and deepspace fanfic #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x mc #sylus x reader #sylus x you #l&ds sylus

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sycamorelibrary754 · 5 months ago

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Guardian Angel

Chapter 15: Where There is Smoke, There is Fire

Summary: Billy and Tommy join you at the Candy Bar during Christmas break, but life-threatening dangers lurk in the shadows. Your parents are determined to force you back into the family business, no matter the cost.

Warnings: Fire, near-death-experience

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: This angst has been a long time coming; we’re about 2/3 of the way through the series!

Guardian Angel Masterlist

“Come on, boys, let's go—” you called up the stairs, but your voice trailed off as you caught a glimpse of Billy and Tommy in the kitchen, fully dressed, ready for the day.

It shouldn’t have surprised you. Since Christmas break began, they’d been practically counting the minutes to their daily pilgrimage to the Candy Bar.

“Well, I see you two are eager beavers this morning! Why can’t we get this kind of enthusiasm for school?” you teased, leaning against the doorframe.

“Because school isn’t a candy shop,” Tommy smirked back.

“Exactly,” Billy agreed, “Plus, we don’t get to be the official taste testers for new desserts.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Wanda said from the kitchen, her chaos magic gently lowering Sparky’s food dish filled with breakfast onto the floor for the hungry pup. “You’d both be bouncing off the walls even more than usual.”

With a chuckle, you grabbed your car keys from the bowl on the counter and tossed your satchel over your shoulder.

“What’s on your agenda today?” you asked the redhead.

Wanda leaned in slightly. “I thought I’d get a jump on the Christmas shopping. It’s so much easier without the boys tagging along,” she confided, lowering her voice so Billy and Tommy wouldn't hear.

You couldn’t help but smile. “I can only imagine! Okay, have fun,” you replied, kissing her lips softly.

“See you later, sweetheart,” she called after you, her smile warm.

As the boys bounded toward the door, Wanda hugged them tightly. “Alright, my little tornadoes, behave yourselves, and remember—try not to spoil your appetite today,” she urged.

*^~^*

The short ride to the Candy Bar had always been a peaceful affair, but with Billy and Tommy joining you this past week, it had transformed into a lively adventure. As you cranked up the volume on Sirius XM—another thoughtful gift from Tony when he decked out your new car—the three of you erupted into song, belting out the lyrics to "Lose Control" by Teddy Swims.

I lose control

When you're not next to me

I'm fallin' apart right in front of you, can't you see?

I lose control

When you're not next to me, mm-hm

Yeah, you're breakin' my heart, baby

You make a mess of me

Pulling into the Candy Bar's parking lot, the boys took the keys from the middle console and rushed to unlock the shop's doors.

“Alright, team! Who wants to refill the candy jars, and who wants to join Harper in whipping up some delicious fudge?” you asked, donning your colorful Candy Bar apron with a flourish.

Tommy's eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’m in for the fudge!” he declared.

Billy grinned, already plotting his candy jar strategy. “I’ll tackle the candy jars!” he announced.

As the boys turned to leave, you called out to them, “Wait a sec! I have something special for you.” You pulled out two crisp white nametags, each adorned with their names elegantly scripted in gold.

“Whoa, this is awesome!” Tommy exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with surprise.

“Thanks a ton, Y/N! This is so cool!” Billy added, grinning from ear to ear.

As soon as Harper arrived, you started working on new soda flavors for the fountain. You immersed yourself in the vibrant colors and enticing scents that swirled around the kitchen. Now and then, you glanced over at the boys, who were deep in their tasks. Tommy stood at the stove; his brow furrowed in concentration as he expertly stirred the rich, chocolatey fudge mixture, the sweet aroma wafting through the room. Meanwhile, Billy busily filled and organized the candy jars, his hands deftly arranging the colorful confections with an artist's touch, showcasing the rainbow of treats.

*^~^*

Back at the compound, Yelena sat at her desk, her laptop glowing in the dim light as she adjusted her headphones, fully immersed in the audio from the bug Scott had planted at Onyx Petroleum Headquarters. It had been a long week of enduring your parents' endless complaints about their employees, and with each passing day, her hope that this bug would uncover something worthwhile dwindled. Just as she contemplated a much-needed break and was about to pester Kate Bishop into joining her for a trip to Shake Shack, she heard your father’s voice cut through the static, and her interest was instantly piqued when he began talking about you with a man who's voice she didn't recognize.

“Did you see her?” your father asked, his voice laced with tension.

“I did,” the mysterious man responded, a hint of disdain. “She was in the park, surrounded by the freak’s two kids, all laughing and playing with some scruffy mutt that looked like it had seen better days. It seems she’s shacking up with Maximoff.”

“All the more reason for us to act quickly,” he murmured, his voice low and tense. “We must eliminate this absurd distraction before it derails everything we’ve worked for.”

"It's in motion," the man assured.

"And your associates," your father began cautiously, weighing his words, “they can ensure this looks like an accident?”

The man chuckled, a sinister edge to his laughter. “They have plenty of experience,” he said, grumbling with malice. “Trust me, just a little snip here and there, and your daughter’s shop will be nothing more than a mound of ash.”

The color drained from Yelena’s face as she absorbed their words. Her heart raced, and she sharply commanded, “FRIDAY, get everyone in here—now! This is an emergency.”

*^~^*

After the morning rush slowed down, you hung the “Be back after lunch” sign on the door, a smile playing on your lips as you watched the boys fill up custom bags with candy you swore to keep from Wanda. In the cozy back kitchen, you, Billy, and Tommy lounged around, eagerly anticipating Harper’s return from the downtown deli with lunch—specifically, the turkey club that had practically become the highlight of your work day.

As you pictured the delicious sandwich, the bell above the shop door jingled, breaking your thoughts.

“Wow, that was fast! Bring on the turkey club!” you called out, rubbing your hands together in anticipation. But instead of Harper’s cheerful response, you were met with silence.

“Stay put, guys,” you instructed Billy and Tommy as they savored their candy; they barely registered your words, too wrapped up in their sugary haul.

Curiosity prodded you to step out to the front of the store. As you ventured into the aisles, a strange unease settled over you. The shop was empty—no sign of Harper. Just as confusion began to creep in, you spun around, nearly colliding with a bearded man who stood frozen in place, a storm of intensity in his gaze. He wore a leather jacket, and a baseball cap was pulled low, casting a shadow over his face.

With a startled gasp, you looked up and smiled nervously. “Umm, hello. The Candy Bar is closed for lunch now, but I would happily serve you if you return in about an hour.”

The stranger only smirked in response, sending a chill racing down your spine.

“Look, I need you to leave,” you said, your voice steady but laced with an edge of urgency.

“I’m not going anywhere.” he retorted, a defiant glint in his eyes.

Just as you were about to respond, a sudden impact struck the back of your head, sending you crashing to the ground. Darkness began to creep in, swallowing the world around you.

*^~^*

“Do we have any leads on the other voice in the recording?” Steve asked, his brow furrowed. The team huddled around the audio equipment, listening to the bugged conversation.

“FRIDAY, initiate voice recognition,” Tony commanded. His eyes were fixed on the screens displaying the audio waveforms.

“Right away, Boss,” Friday replied promptly as she scanned the sound files. “The other voice has been identified as Dominic Karofsky, a former Hydra operative turned hitman.”

“Son of a bitch,” Bucky muttered under his breath, his fists clenching slightly as FRIDAY projected Karofsky’s profile onto the central screen, revealing a collection of images and pertinent details about the man.

"Do you know him?" Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, a hint of disdain creeping into his voice. “Karofsky was Hydra’s muscle on the ground, always lurking in the shadows, ready to do their dirty work.”

Nat paced back and forth, glancing at her phone for what felt like the hundredth time. “Y/N still isn’t answering,” she admitted.

Clint's expression shifted to one of determination. “Let’s go. I’ll drive,” he said, already moving toward the door.

*^~^*

Your head throbbed like a relentless drum as you slowly regained consciousness. As you sat up gingerly, the stark realization hit you—you were inside the stock room.

A familiar voice pierced through the fog in your mind. “You’re awake!” Billy exclaimed, relief flooding his tone.

“And you’re not dead,” Tommy chimed in, only to be hit in the arm by Billy in response.

“Are you both alright? Are you hurt?” Your voice shook with concern as you scanned their bodies, desperately searching for any sign of injury.

“We’re fine,” Tommy reassured you, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of fear.

“Who were those guys?” Billy pressed, his brow furrowed.

You rubbed the back of your head, trying to shake off the lingering dread. “I have no idea,” you admitted, glancing back at the door.

You tugged at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Fear clawed at you with no phones and no way to call for help, but you took a deep breath, forcing a calm smile for the boys’ sake. “It’s okay. I’m sure those men have moved on. They were probably just after some quick cash. Harper will be back soon, and she’ll let us out of here.”

You plopped down on a nearby milk crate, ignoring the stock room's oppressive closeness. Panic fluttered in your chest as you fought to conserve every ounce of oxygen; small spaces were your nemesis. As you settled into the anxious quiet, a loud bang shattered the stillness, jolting your senses.

“Do you smell that?” Billy asked, his brow furrowing in concern.

“Whoever smelt it dealt it!” Tommy shouted with bravado.

“No, you moron, it smells like smoke!” Billy shot back, his eyes wide with worry.

As you approached the door, intense heat radiated from the other side, enveloping your hand as you pressed against it. Your shop was on fire.

*^~^*

“Step on it, birdbrain!” Yelena shouted, her voice slicing through the tension in the car as Clint gripped the steering wheel, determination etched on his face. In the back seat, Bucky frantically tried to reach you and the boys, his phone ringing unanswered.

Outside, the roar of Natasha's motorcycle echoed as she expertly maneuvered through the tightly packed traffic, her figure a blur against the backdrop of honking horns and screeching tires. Above them, Tony soared through the sky, a streak of red and gold chrome against the blue expanse, as he raced ahead.

As they approached, a dark plume of smoke began to billow into the air, growing thicker and more ominous. Soon, the scene unfolded: flames danced hungrily from the interior of the Candy Bar, illuminating the surroundings with an eerie glow.

“The shop is on fire!” Tony shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. “FRIDAY, engage water artillery and alert emergency services!”

Across town, Wanda stood at Macy's checkout counter, her arms filled with shopping bags, when a sudden, chilling vision pierced through her thoughts. She saw Billy and Tommy, their faces twisted in fear as they called for help. Panic surged through her as the scene shifted, revealing you desperately pounding on the door of the stockroom, smoke billowing ominously beneath it. The redhead dashed out of the store without a second thought, abandoning her car and forgetting purchases. With a sudden exhilaration, she launched herself into the sky, racing through the wispy clouds toward the Candy Bar with the wind at her back.

Clint and Natasha sped into the parking lot, their tires screeching against the asphalt as they came to a sudden halt, leaving dark skid marks behind.

Tony unleashed his repulsor rays, dousing the roaring flames that danced dangerously atop the shop's roof. Meanwhile, Clint was a blur of motion, launching arrows that exploded with a splash of water, targeting the most prominent hotspots with pinpoint accuracy.

Natasha, Yelena, and Bucky charged through the front door, weaving through fiery chaos and narrowly escaping the weight of falling beams. The shop sprinklers were losing the battle against the flames. Keeping low to the ground, they searched every shadowy corner of the shop, their hearts pounding—still no sign of you or the boys.

“Help!” Tommy and Billy cried desperately, their voices strained and hoarse from the thick smoke that choked the air around them.

The heat was becoming unbearable, a living thing that pressed in from all sides. In a frantic bid for freedom, you slammed your shoulder against the stock room door again and again, your desperation mounting as it stubbornly refused to give way. Relentless coughs echoed through the air as all three of you struggled to breathe. Time was running out, and every second felt like a lifetime.

“Check the back!” Yelena shouted, desperately pulling her shirt up to her face to shield herself from the thick, choking smoke that filled the air.

The fire crackled ominously around them, drowning out nearly all sound. Yet, amidst the chaos, the distinct sound of shouting pierced through the blaze.

“Y/N?!” Natasha's voice broke through the mayhem, laced with urgency.

“We’re in here!” you cried, your heart racing.

Yelena and Natasha struggled to force the door open, but the heat of the flames had warped the wood, making it nearly impossible.

“Move!” Bucky barked, his voice commanding. “Y/N, get the boys away from the door!”

“Come here, guys,” you said, trying to steady your trembling hands as you beckoned Billy and Tommy to you. You gathered both boys in your arms, holding them close against you.

With unwavering resolve, Bucky gripped the doorframe with his metal arm and wrenched the door from its hinges, hurling it aside as if it were nothing more than flimsy styrofoam. Natasha darted toward you while Yelena and Bucky swiftly lifted Billy and Tommy into their arms. The front of the shop was now engulfed in flames, blocking your escape. The only way out was through the back door, and with the fire closing in, you moved quickly.

As you burst into the dimly lit alleyway, the acrid smell of smoke clung to the air, swirling around you like a dense fog. Your gaze quickly locked onto the uniformed firefighters, their faces smeared with soot, determination etched into their furrowed brows. Nearby, paramedics moved with purpose, their bright blue uniforms contrasting sharply against the darkened surroundings. They beckoned you forward, guiding you toward the waiting ambulances parked under the flickering lights of the parking lot.

Wanda arrived at the scene just as the paramedics were carefully fitting the three of you with oxygen masks in the cramped interior of the ambulance. She could see the terrified expressions on your faces, illuminated by the flashing red and blue lights outside. You all struggled to catch your breath, fighting the smoke in your lungs.

“Oh my God,” Wanda exclaimed, her voice trembling as tears cascaded down her cheeks. She hurriedly approached the three of you, her eyes wide with panic and relief. “Are you alright? My sweet boys!” She cradled Billy and Tommy’s faces, searching their eyes for signs of distress.

“It was terrifying, Mom,” Billy managed to say, his voice muffled slightly by the mask covering his face. His eyes were wide and shimmering with the remnants of fear.

“The fire was so close,” Tommy said, his words tumbling out in a rush, “but Y/N kept us safe until your friends arrived to rescue us.” His voice held both gratitude and awe.

“Yeah, Aunt Natasha and Yelena found us!” Billy added eagerly. “Then Uncle Bucky just—bam!—ripped the door off the hinges!” He mimicked the action with his hands.

Wanda stifled a laugh to mask her tears as she wrapped her arms tightly around her sons. Sobbing and smiling all at once, she kissed the tops of their heads, inhaling the familiar scents of their hair as relief washed over her. After a moment, she turned towards you.

“Y/N, oh my God,” Wand cried as she scanned your face, her eyes wide with concern. She gently embraced you, tears streaming down her cheeks.“Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

You were still reeling from the chaos, but the words spilled out, barely coherent. “Two guys... they burst into the shop during lunch and hit me over the head. When I came to, the boys and I were trapped in the stock room,” you struggled to explain, a cough escaping you as the acrid smoke filled the air. Wanda’s hand found your back, soothingly rubbing circles. “I have no idea how the fire started.”

“I think I have the answer to that,” Tony said, his Iron Man mask sliding off his face with a soft hiss as he approached the ambulance. Nat, Clint, Yelena, and Bucky followed closely behind him. “FRIDAY ran a causal analysis,” he continued, his voice steady but edged with urgency. “They cut the wires to your stove, exposing a live electrical charge. The shop went up like a firework.” He turned to you, his gaze softening with empathy. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

The emotions surged like a tidal wave as you looked at the charred remnants of The Candy Bar, now a ghostly silhouette of what had once been a vibrant sanctuary of joy and laughter. The colorful awning, now tattered and gray, fluttered weakly in the breeze. This place had been your sanctuary, your saving grace during the stormy times when your parents’ toils left you adrift. Yet now, it lay in ruins, the sweet scent of nostalgia mingling with the smell of smoke and despair. Tears streamed down your cheeks as the weight of loss enveloped you, and you could barely breathe, shaking with despair as Wanda enveloped you in her steady embrace, offering the only comfort you could cling to in this heartbreaking moment.

“Y/N! Y/N!!” You recognized Harper's frantic voice cutting through the chaos as you looked up to see her struggling against the grip of a policeman, desperate to get to you.

“Let her through,” Clint interjected, his tone firm.

In an instant, Harper broke free and sprinted toward you, tears streaming down her face. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! Are you okay? What happened?” Her panicked gaze darted between you, Billy, and Tommy, searching for answers.

“It’s gone,” you managed to whisper, your heart heavy with the weight of grief, the words barely escaping your lips amidst your uncontrollable sobs.

Without hesitation, Harper enveloped you in a tight embrace, letting the flood of emotions wash over you as you cried together. All the Avengers—your family—could do was stand helplessly by, their hearts heavy as they shared in your sorrow.

“Just to be safe, we want to take them to the hospital for a check-up,” one of the paramedics leaned in and whispered to Wanda, his voice steady yet urgent.

Wanda nodded, her face set with determination. “Absolutely,” she said, her voice steady as she wiped away the tears that had streaked her cheeks.

“That’s not necessary,” you replied, trying to stand up and tugging at the oxygen mask.

“Oh yes, it is, Y/N,” Wanda insisted, her grip gentle yet unwavering as she gently but firmly pushed you back by your shoulders.

“If Y/N isn’t going to the hospital, then neither are we,” Tommy declared, crossing his arms with a defiant glare.

“Yeah!” Billy nodded vigorously in agreement, his eyes shining with loyal determination.

“That’s enough!” Wanda's voice cut through the tension, her Sokovian accent slipping out under stress. “If you want to avoid the hospital, all three of you are heading straight to the Med Bay, and I don't want to hear another word about it!” Her tone left no room for debate, a fierce determination radiating from her as she stood her ground.

“I’ll ride with you so Wanda can ride with Billy and Tommy,” Harper suggested, glancing back with a determined smile.

With a nod of agreement, you watched Tony slip a couple of crisp hundred-dollar bills into the hands of the paramedics. “Get them to the Avengers Compound, not the hospital,” he instructed, his voice steady and commanding.

“We’ll be right behind you!” Nat shouted after you, her tone reassuring as she followed the vehicle with her eyes.

Turning to Tony, Natasha's gaze was steely. “When do we break the news that her parents were behind this hit?”

Tony heaved a sigh, the weight of the situation evident in his voice. “Not tonight. We must sort this out first—there's too much at stake.”

*^~^*

After your examination with Dr. Cho, you found yourself lying in your old room—Wanda's old room, to be precise. The soft bed felt strangely familiar and comforting. Fortunately, the blow to your head turned out to be just a mild concussion, and the treatment for smoke inhalation had worked wonders on your breathing. Still, Helen had firmly insisted on some much-needed rest. Just then, Wanda entered the room with an ice pack in one hand, gently pressing it against your aching head. The other hand offered a glass of water, refreshing and cool against the dryness in your throat. "You need to take it easy," she reminded you softly, her eyes filled with concern.

Emotionally exhausted, you felt too drained to debate with her, so you nodded in silence, letting the weight of the situation linger. After a moment, you finally found the strength to ask softly, “How are the boys?”

Wanda’s gentle hand glided through your hair, her touch bringing a small measure of comfort. “They’re doing fine,” she replied, her voice soothing yet tinged with concern. “They’ve finished their smoke treatments and are now curled up on the couch, watching a movie with Morgan. I think they’re still in shock.”

You sighed, rubbing your hands over your face as the fatigue settled deeper within you. “That makes three of us,” you murmured.

Wanda paused, her breath catching in her throat. “They told me what you did—how you tried to keep them calm and protected. Thank you, my love. For saving them.” Tears brimmed in her eyes.

You reached for her, wrapping your arms around her and pulling her close. “I would save those boys a million times over,” you said, your voice filled with unwavering conviction. “They're my world, just as you are.”

Wanda gently caressed your cheek; her eyes, reflecting a mix of compassion and concern, searched your face for signs of pain. “The Candy Bar was your world, too. I can’t begin to express how sorry I am for what you've lost, honey,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, resonating with empathy.

Once again, all you could do was nod for fear you would start to cry again. “I don't know what I'm going to do now,” you said, at a loss.

“Whatever happens, I’m here for you, Y/N. You know that, right? I love you,” Wanda said softly, her gaze locking onto yours.

“I love you too, Wanda,” you replied, feeling a surge of warmth at her words.

The redhead settled beside you, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you close. “I think we should stay here for the night, and Helen can check on you three again in the morning,” she suggested.

“Whatever you say, love,” you replied, turning onto your side to fully face her. “Where is Harper, though?”

Wanda smirked. “Oh, Bucky drove her home. I could practically see the heart eyes she was making at him the whole way back,” she teased, laughter bubbling in her voice.

A soft giggle escaped your lips at the thought. “That sounds about right.”

*^~^*

“She wasn’t supposed to be there, you idiot!” your father roared at Karofsky, his voice echoing against the walls. “I told you to take care of the shop, not put my daughter in danger!”

Karofsky leaned back casually, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “You should have been more specific, Y/L/N,” he replied nonchalantly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Now all you’ve done is put us squarely on the Avengers’ radar,” your father hissed, fury radiating from him.

With a flick of his wrist, Karofsky extinguished his cigarette against your father’s desk, a smoldering stain left behind. “Look, we did what you asked. Your daughter and those two brats are safe. Now, how about you pay up?”

“You’ll get your money, Dominic.” Your father’s tone shifted, laden with an iron threat. “But remember, I can make one call and have you thrown back into the Raft where you belong.”

Karofsky stormed out of your father’s office just as your mother entered, her high heels echoing sharply against the polished marble floor. A shiver ran down her spine as the door clicked shut behind him. “I can’t believe you hired that Neanderthal,” she exclaimed, disbelief and frustration mingling in her voice.

“He may be a fool, but he gets results,” your father replied, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a determined glint in his eye. “Now, let’s shift our focus to phase two. The witch has what we need.”

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