#everything gone cold and damp and dark

[dappermouth]

Cold October afternoon - Spanish Fork, Utah

[carnalcrows]

LAVENDER'S BLUE

summary: You weren’t supposed to be seen. But one night, one dance, and one stolen look from a boy you didn’t know was a prince changes everything. Now the kingdom is looking for you—and you have to decide if you’re brave enough to be found.

pairing: prince charming! gojo saturo x cinderella! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + p in a), bottom male reader, signs of abuse, reader has chronic back pain, rats.

word count: 9.0k --- spotify playlist

best viewed in dark mode

There’s a quiet to the attic that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the house.

It settles after midnight, when the girls are done with their games and their laughter has thinned to silence. When your stepfather’s footsteps stop echoing through the halls. When the fire burns low and the wine is gone, and there’s no one left to perform cruelty for.

It’s only then that the house exhales—and you can breathe.

You sit on the floorboards beside the bucket you haven’t emptied yet. The rag in your hands is damp, skin-roughening with soot. It’s not a real task, not something that anyone told you to do. You just needed something to keep your hands busy. Something that gives shape to the hours between darkness and dawn.

Your fingers are raw. Your knees ache. There’s ash on your sleeves and a splinter in your thumb, but you don’t mind. The attic is cold, yes, but it’s yours. Or at least—it's the one place no one else bothers to climb. That counts for something.

You glance toward the slanted window tucked beneath the roofline. The sky is silver. Cloudless. The moon stares back at you like it knows something you don’t.

You lower your eyes before it can say anything out loud.

⋆｡°✩

There are mice in the attic. They keep their distance.

You’ve never named them—not out loud—but they come and go often enough that you’ve started to recognise them. One of them is missing a patch of fur behind the ear. One always carries crumbs bigger than its body. One skitters in tight circles before settling, like it needs to outrun its own shadow.

You think they must be cold too. Winter came early this year, and the insulation in the upper floors is barely more than memory. The girls have fireplaces and velvet robes. You have a blanket that smells like dust and the long sleeves of your mother’s old shirt, which you’re not supposed to wear but do anyway, under your tunic. Hidden. Just for warmth.

Sometimes, the mice come closer when you hum under your breath. You pretend it’s a coincidence.

⋆｡°✩

The house used to be warm. You remember it that way—brief flashes of your mother’s hands kneading dough in the kitchen, her voice humming off-key while she watered the herb pots by the windows. Back then, the floors didn’t creak like they were grieving, and sunlight used to touch the corners of the room without shame.

Now, it’s Geto’s house. Not in name, maybe, but in power. His daughters move through the rooms like they were born from silk and contempt. They call you by your name when they need something scrubbed, but otherwise, you’re “him.” Or worse.

You used to try to win them over. You tried for a long time.

And then you stopped.

Now you keep your head down and your back straight. You work quickly, quietly. You sleep with your door locked. You speak only when spoken to, and not even always then.

There is safety in silence.

⋆｡°✩

The announcement comes over burnt toast and tea that tastes like bark.

You’re not meant to sit at the table, but Mimiko was too distracted by her own reflection this morning to complain, and Geto likes to pretend he doesn’t see you unless he’s scolding you. You’ve learned to drift along the edges of the room—quiet, invisible, but still useful.

“There’s to be a royal ball,” Geto says, flipping the parchment open with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Every eligible noble and commoner invited. Apparently, the prince is looking to marry.”

You don’t react. You butter the toast without looking up.

Nanako lets out a delighted gasp. “A royal ball! Father, we’ll go, won’t we? We’ll need gowns. Jewels. A carriage—”

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Geto replies, folding the parchment again. “There’ll be time.”

“He shouldn’t go,” Mimiko chimes in suddenly, her voice sickly sweet. “He’ll be there. Can you imagine?” She turns to you with a sharp smile. “You, in the presence of royalty? You’d embarrass the kingdom.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the moment to sting.

You don’t look at her. You nod, eyes fixed on your plate. You’ve become good at that—at swallowing down every little hurt before it blooms.

“That’s settled then,” Geto says, as if he were the one being mocked. “He stays home.”

You don’t ask who’ll clean the house before they leave. You already know.

⋆｡°✩

That night, you find yourself standing at the attic window again, forehead pressed to the glass.

It’s a habit you picked up as a child—watching the moonlight slip across the world while you imagined someone, anyone, looking back.

You used to tell yourself that one day, someone would. That someone would see you and know you. Not as a servant. Not as an afterthought. But as a person with a name, and a voice, and a heart that beats just as loudly as anyone else’s.

You don’t really believe that anymore.

But you watch the moon anyway.

Just in case.

The morning after the announcement, the house becomes unbearable.

There are fabric samples strewn across every chair. Shoeboxes lining the hallway. Perfumed letters arriving by raven—twice, even thrice a day. Mimiko and Nanako move through the rooms like glittering tornadoes, screeching over colour palettes and necklines, screaming at seamstresses who pretend not to flinch.

You scrub the floors while they argue about lace.

They barely notice you anymore. You’re just the shape that keeps the house polished. A pair of hands. A name they speak only when something’s spilt.

You try not to mind.

You’ve had practice.

⋆｡°✩

Geto brings in a mirror the size of a door and installs it in the dining room. “For fittings,” he says, waving off the servants as if he weren’t one once himself.

He stands behind his daughters as they twirl and pout, appraising them like fine art he expects someone else to purchase. He corrects posture. Adjusts wrists. Tells Mimiko she’s standing like a peasant. Tells Nanako she’s gaining weight.

You fold linens in the corner and try not to breathe too loudly.

He never looks at you. But you feel his disapproval anyway. It clings to your skin like ash.

⋆｡°✩

The day of the ball arrives like frost.

You wake before the sun, dress in silence, and sweep the staircases before anyone else opens their doors. There’s a rhythm to it now—scrub, rinse, repeat. The ache in your spine is familiar and comforting in its own small way. Pain, at least, is consistent.

By noon, the house smells like citrus oil and powdered sugar. The dresses are hung. The carriage is polished. Everything is perfect.

Except for you.

You stand by the front hall with the box of hairpins still in your hands as Geto makes his final inspection.

He nods once, satisfied. Then turns to you.

“You’ll stay here,” he says flatly. “Don’t open the windows. Don’t leave the house. And for heaven’s sake, stay out of sight.”

You nod. Of course.

The carriage pulls away.

And just like that—you’re alone again.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t cry.

You’re not a child anymore. You don’t believe in being rescued, and you don’t believe in magic. This world is a hard, cold thing, and there’s no use wishing it weren’t.

Still.

You wander through the empty rooms with the kind of quiet you imagine the dead must carry. Your hands drag across polished bannisters, past doorknobs and glass and velvet cushions that were never meant for you.

In the sitting room, a single slice of cake sits abandoned on a tray.

You don’t touch it.

Instead, you climb the stairs. Past the bedrooms. Past the locked study. All the way up to the top. To the attic. To the place you belong.

And when you close the door behind you, the weight settles over your shoulders like it always does—familiar and heavy.

But tonight, it feels just a little bit heavier.

Maybe because you let yourself imagine it.

Just for a moment.

⋆｡°✩

The sound comes just before nightfall.

A knocking—no, not quite. More like a sharp pop, a crack of air and wind and something older than both. It echoes, muffled, through the floorboards beneath your feet.

You freeze.

It happens again. Then silence.

You step cautiously toward the window, half expecting thunder, or maybe fireworks from the palace.

But the sky is clear. The world is still.

And the only thing staring back at you is the moon.

⋆｡°✩

The sound doesn’t come again.

You wait for it. Still, as the dust motes floated in the dying light. Ears strained. Eyes fixed on the floor, as if the silence might shift again, rupture again, give you some kind of sign.

But there’s nothing.

Just your own breath. Just the wind outside, curling soft fingers against the attic window. Just the ache in your knees, the sting in your wrists. The familiar weight of another evening with nowhere to go.

You stand there for a long time.

You think—maybe you imagined it.

Maybe that’s just what happens, when hope slips through the cracks of your ribs and you don’t catch it in time.

You move to sit down.

That’s when the second knock comes.

Not from below. Not from outside. But from within the attic.

From behind the wall.

You freeze.

Not a ghost. You don’t believe in those.

Not a thief. What kind of thief breaks into the attic?

There’s a creaking, low and almost…exhausted. Like the wood itself is trying to speak. Like something ancient is being disturbed, pulled awake by the wrong hands.

And then—

A sigh.

You swear you hear a sigh.

Soft. Dry. Slightly annoyed.

“Alright,” comes a voice. Flat. Unimpressed. “That’s enough dramatics. Move.”

You backpedal so fast you knock over the bucket.

The rag hits the floor with a slap. Water spills into the cracks between the boards. You don’t even look at it. You’re too busy staring at the corner of the attic that had definitely been empty before.

It isn’t empty now.

There’s a woman.

Or—at least you think she’s a woman. Her robes are a little too long and mismatched, and there’s a cigarette tucked between her fingers despite the fact that the chimney doesn’t reach this far. Her boots are muddy. Her expression is somewhere between world-weary and mildly inconvenienced.

She looks like she’s been late to every appointment she’s ever had and hasn’t felt guilty about a single one.

And she’s standing in your attic like she owns it.

You open your mouth to speak.

She beats you to it.

“Don’t scream,” she says, not unkindly. “You’ll scare the mice.”

You don’t scream.

You don’t move either.

Which is probably for the best, because she’s already walking toward you like this is normal. Like you’re the one intruding.

“I was aiming for the cellar,” she mutters. “But nooo, the magic said ‘aim for the heart of the house,’ and look where that got me. Dust in my lungs and you looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You finally manage to find your voice. Sort of.

“Who—”

“Shoko,” she says, waving a hand as if that answers anything. “Let’s skip the dramatic introductions, yeah? I’m on a deadline.”

You stare.

She exhales through her nose, then gives you the same look someone might give a plant that’s taking too long to grow.

“You’re him,” she says, lighting the cigarette with a flick of her fingers. No flint. No match. Just…fire, like it was waiting for her.

You don’t answer.

“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t look at me like you’ve never seen someone make a dramatic entrance before. I thought all you attic-dwelling waifs lived for theatrics.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know who you are.”

Shoko tilts her head.

“Well, no,” she says. “Not yet.”

⋆｡°✩

“You’ve got the look,” she says, nudging a cobweb out of the way with the back of her hand. “The quiet sort. Watches windows. Hums to keep from screaming.”

You’re still not speaking.

She sits down without asking. Cross-legged right on the attic floor like she wasn’t conjured into existence five seconds ago. Her cigarette smoke spirals toward the beams and settles around her like a crown of ash.

“I know what this is,” you finally say, voice quiet. “You’re a dream.”

Shoko snorts. “God, I wish.”

You don’t answer. The bucket of water seeps closer to your heel, a cold bloom against the wood. You stare at it. At her.

She doesn’t blink.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she says, softer now. Not gentle, but closer. Like she’s trying. “I’m here to help.”

You shift your weight. Not quite toward her. Not quite away.

“Why?”

She flicks ash from the tip of her cigarette. It disappears before it hits the ground.

“Because you deserve it.”

You blink.

She goes on. “I’m not saying that in the philosophical, vague-fairy-tale sense. I mean it in the plain, unromantic, real-world way. You’ve done the work. You’ve survived. You’ve kept your heart from going sour even when it would’ve been easier to let it rot.”

You laugh. It’s small and brittle.

“I don’t think anyone would call me kind.”

“I didn’t say kind,” she says. “I said whole. You still have a piece of yourself that no one’s broken. That’s more than most.”

She says it so casually that it takes you a second to understand she meant it as a compliment.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You sit, slowly. She watches, but doesn’t comment.

The floor creaks beneath you. The attic is very still.

She speaks again. “Do you want to leave?”

It’s such a simple question.

Do you want to leave?

You stare at her. Your tongue feels thick.

“I can’t.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t ask if you could.”

You swallow.

“I want—” you start, then stop. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Sure you do,” she says, ashing the cigarette onto nothing. “You’ve just been taught not to say it.”

Your hands twist in your lap. She waits.

You say it like it hurts.

“I want to go. Just once. I want to be in a room where no one looks at me like I’m something to step over. I want to be wanted, just for a night. I want to know what it feels like to be seen.”

Shoko nods.

You stare at her. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” she says. “That’s a wish.”

⋆｡°✩

The air shifts.

It’s subtle—but you feel it. Like the attic exhales again, but this time with purpose. Something loosens in the walls, in the dark, in the shadows that have been your only company for years.

Shoko stands.

She snuffs out her cigarette on her palm. No mark. No burn.

When she speaks again, her voice is something older.

Not louder. Not deeper. But ancient. Measured. Like the moment you speak it aloud, it’ll echo.

“Then let’s give you your night.”

⋆｡°✩

She doesn’t wave a wand.

There’s no burst of glitter, no chorus, no sudden wind that tosses your hair back and makes your heart race. Nothing theatrical. Nothing pretty.

Instead, Shoko simply raises one hand—palm open—and exhales.

And the attic breathes with her.

The shadows bend first. Not away from the light, but toward it, curling like they’re waking up from a long sleep. The corners of the room soften, then blur, then ripple like heat above flame. Your breath catches in your throat.

There’s a sound, like thread pulling from cloth. And then—

Light. Dim at first. Then rising, warm and heavy like honey poured slow over your skin.

You don’t flinch.

You can’t.

It wraps around you. Not tight. Not painful. But thorough. Like it’s measuring. Weighing. Choosing.

Your shirt dissolves at the cuffs. Not burns—dissolves, the fabric unspooling into the air like mist. You lift your hands, startled, and they don’t feel like your hands anymore.

Shoko hums. “You’re lucky. Some people resist it. You—you’re letting it in.”

You blink at her, mouth dry. “Letting what in?”

She looks at you then, really looks, and says:

“Yourself.”

⋆｡°✩

The clothes build themselves, stitch by stitch.

It starts at your collarbones—warmth, pressure, then silk. Deep charcoal, almost black, but edged in silver so fine it could be moonlight. It fits perfectly, even before it finishes forming. Like it knew the shape of you before you did.

The sleeves wrap next—long, smooth, elegant. A flash of something translucent near the cuffs. Not ruffles, but something more fluid, like smoke in fabric form.

A jacket follows. Trimmed with silver thread, small accents that catch the dying light from the attic window. The kind of detail no mirror would ever see, but someone who was looking at you—really looking—might.

Your boots reform around your feet. Soft. Sleek. Practical enough to run in, but elegant enough to be remembered.

You don’t know how to breathe.

Shoko watches.

The final piece is a brooch—small, just over your heart. A pin in the shape of a crescent moon. Not garish. Not royal. Just… honest.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur, voice catching.

She doesn’t smile, but her voice is kind when she answers. “You don’t have to. Just wear it like you do.”

⋆｡°✩

The light fades.

The attic returns.

But you don’t.

You’re still you, but taller somehow. Straighter. Shoulders set. Like the weight hasn’t disappeared—but you’ve finally grown strong enough to carry it.

Your hands shake.

You press them against your chest. The fabric beneath your fingertips is real.

“I’m not supposed to be there,” you whisper.

Shoko flicks her cigarette back into her fingers and lights it with a snap.

“You’re supposed to be wherever you want to be,” she replies. “And tonight? You’re going.”

⋆｡°✩

You turn toward the attic stairs.

“Wait,” she says, and you freeze.

She tosses something into your hands.

Shoes.

Polished leather. Silver-buckled. Sleek, precise. The kind of shoes made for palace floors, not soot-stained attics. You run your thumbs over them. They’re real. Solid. One is slightly warmer than the other, like it’s holding onto something the world hasn’t seen yet.

“Enchanted?” you ask softly.

Shoko exhales smoke through her nose. “One of them.”

You blink. “Just one?”

She shrugs. “You only need one to be remembered.”

⋆｡°✩

The carriage waits at the edge of the estate.

It wasn’t there before. You would’ve heard it. Seen it. But now it sits beneath the moonlight like it’s always belonged—quiet, waiting, wheels perfectly clean despite the muddy road.

You don’t ask questions.

Shoko didn’t explain where it came from, and you didn’t ask.

You step down from the attic, cross the now-silent halls in a suit that doesn’t touch the floor when you move. The house doesn’t know you anymore. The wallpaper doesn’t sneer. The stairs don’t groan in protest. Even the silence has changed—it watches you now, instead of swallowing you whole.

You don’t look back.

Not at the staircase. Not at Geto’s study. Not at the kitchen where you used to stand barefoot and bleeding. That life still lives here, but you’ve stepped out of its skin.

For one night.

The coachman doesn’t speak. He tips his hat. The door opens. You climb in.

And the wheels turn toward the palace.

It’s farther than you thought.

You’ve seen it only from a distance—sharp spires against the horizon, gold-glass windows catching the sun like a promise. But up close, it’s something else entirely. Too large. Too luminous. The kind of place that exists outside time.

You step out into torchlight and laughter.

Music filters through marble arches. Strings and woodwinds. A swell of something grand, something old. People in silks and satin flow up the staircase like water—gloved hands, high collars, laughter polished and practised.

You shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And no one stops you.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom doors are wide open.

No guards. No fanfare. Just an invitation in the shape of light.

You cross the threshold on steady legs.

The floor is mirrored marble. Chandeliers drip crystal firelight. The ceiling stretches into a painted sky—cherubs and constellations you don’t recognise.

No one looks at you.

And somehow, that’s worse than the mocking would’ve been.

You drift along the edges at first. One step. Then another. A glass in your hand that you didn’t ask for. A compliment tossed over someone’s shoulder, not meant for you but close enough to sting.

And then—

He enters.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t see his face at first.

Just the way the room bends.

People part. Eyes turn. Laughter softens into interest. Not fear. Not awe. Just something deeper. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then he steps forward, and you understand.

White hair, sharp-cut and careless. A smile that looks carved into something ancient and shining. His coat is midnight blue, collar open just enough to be casual, cuffs rolled as if he’s already done dancing and plans to do it again.

There are jewels on half the people here. Gold on everyone else.

But he doesn’t need either.

He is the light in the room.

You don’t know his name.

You don’t even realise he’s looking at you until it’s too late to look away.

⋆｡°✩

You try to look away first.

That’s your mistake.

Because now he knows.

You’re not sure how you know he knows—but you do. It's in the tilt of his head. The slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. Like your gaze didn’t just find him, but called him.

And he’s answering.

He moves through the crowd like it was always meant to part for him. Not fast. Not eager. Just easy. Certain. As if he’s done this a hundred times before and always ends up here.

At you.

Your throat is dry. Your hand tightens around the glass you never drank from.

He stops in front of you.

Up close, he’s worse. Or better. You can’t decide.

His eyes are bright—too bright. The kind of blue people write songs about and then spend the rest of their lives trying to forget. His hair is a mess of silver and moonlight, and his smile is almost too much. Like he knows it is, and uses it anyway.

He glances down at your untouched drink.

Then back up at you.

“Not your thing?” he asks, voice low, amused. Not mocking. Not yet.

You manage a reply. “Wasn’t thirsty.”

“Lucky me,” he says. “Neither was I.”

He reaches out. Takes the glass from your hand. Places it on a passing tray without looking.

Then he holds his hand out to you.

Just like that.

As if you’ve already said yes.

As if you’ve always said yes.

“Dance with me.”

Not a question. Not quite a command. Just an expectation. A possibility.

You stare at his hand. At the long fingers. The pale wrist. The soft flash of a silver cufflink shaped like a star.

“I don’t know how,” you say quietly.

He leans in, just slightly. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I do.”

⋆｡°✩

The music isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

He walks you to the centre of the room like it’s normal. Like every person isn’t watching. Like the marble floor doesn’t ache under your feet, trying to whisper, this isn’t for you.

But he holds your hand like it is.

And when you move—when your feet remember how to follow, when your body remembers joy—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t lead you like you’re fragile. He lets you catch up. Lets you breathe.

And when you do—

You start to smile.

Not wide. Not bright. Just a little. Just enough.

But he sees it.

His smile answers yours.

And the world keeps spinning.

⋆｡°✩

The music fades into something slower.

Your chest is still rising too fast, but his hand is steady at your back. He hasn’t let go. Not once.

Every step, every turn, he watches you like there’s no one else in the room. Like this isn’t a palace. Like this isn’t a dance among royals. Like you’re not somewhere you shouldn’t be.

Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice low, just under the violin swell.

You glance up. His smile is soft now. Tilted. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“I didn’t know it would be this easy,” you say.

He raises a brow. “Dancing?”

“Being seen.”

He doesn't laugh. Doesn't look away. Instead, he slows you to a stop, right there in the middle of the floor.

His hand slips from your waist to your wrist.

“Come with me,” he says.

⋆｡°✩

He leads you out through the back hall, past open doors and gilded arches, until the palace swallows its own noise. The music fades behind columns. The warmth of the crowd falls away.

You step into a quiet corridor, and then—

A garden.

Not the one guests passed through. This is smaller. Older. Half-forgotten. Wild vines along the stone. A cracked marble bench. The scent of lavender and something sweeter underneath—like sugar left in the sun.

It’s moonlit and hidden and yours.

You inhale, and it fills your lungs like a prayer.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod.

He lets go of your wrist but stays close. Too close. You feel his breath near your temple. He’s taller than you’d realised on the dance floor.

“Do you bring all your dance partners here?” you ask, not meaning to sound like anything—but it comes out softer than expected. Curious.

His smile quirks, lazy and real. “Only the ones I want to keep a little longer.”

Your heart kicks once. Stupid thing.

“I’m not exactly... worth remembering.”

He looks at you then, full and unguarded.

“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was just thinking the opposite.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Brief. Barely there.

But your breath stutters anyway.

You want to close the space between you.

He’s already leaning in.

His voice is barely a whisper now.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate. You’d almost forgotten that you hadn’t given it.

“I—”

DING.

The first chime hits like a stone to the chest.

DONG.

You flinch.

He pulls back, startled.

DING.

“No,” you whisper.

The air shifts. Your jacket tightens. Something in the fabric shudders like it’s remembering itself.

You take a step back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait—” he starts, reaching for you.

DONG.

“I have to go,” you say, already turning.

“Wait! At least tell me who—”

DING.

You’re gone.

The night is breaking, and the magic is pulling you with it.

You run.

Not elegantly. Not the way you danced.

This is a stumble-sprint, half-flight down the corridor, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to get back to him. The marble floors blur. Gold columns, oil paintings, half-turned faces in distant rooms—none of it matters now. Only the ache in your chest and the way the air grows heavier with every step.

The magic is unravelling.

You feel it in your sleeves first. The seams loosen. The silver edging at your cuffs begins to smoke and vanish, the way dew fades from a blade of grass. You press your hands to your chest like you can hold it all together—but the fabric keeps melting under your fingers.

The music is gone. The laughter behind you is too far to matter. All that exists is the echo of your boots—no, just one boot now—against the floor.

You don't remember when it happened.

Just that you turned a corner too sharp. That your foot slipped. That something caught for a second and then gave way.

You look down.

Your right foot is bare.

The enchanted shoe is gone.

You double back.

It’s lying on the stairs.

You don’t go back for it.

You can't.

DING.

The ninth chime.

The gold embroidery at your hem vanishes mid-step. The jacket fades, thread by thread, until all you’re left with is the thin, patched tunic underneath—too short now. Yours, but not yours anymore. The magic never fully disguised your body. It just made the weight feel lighter.

You grab the stair railing as the garden doors disappear behind you.

The tenth chime echoes off the stone.

You’re almost at the exit.

You think you hear your name.

Not your real name. Not the one Geto calls you with disdain. But yours. The one only someone who sees you might say.

But it’s too late.

You hit the gravel outside barefoot, panting, lungs burning with cold air and regret.

The eleventh chime splits the sky.

You don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩

Somewhere behind you, he stands at the top of the staircase. His gloves are in his pocket. His coat is unbuttoned. He’s not looking at the crowd.

He’s looking at the stairs.

And the single shoe left waiting.

⋆｡°✩

The twelfth and final chime rings out.

Midnight has come.

And you're already disappearing into the dark.

You wake before the sun.

You always do, but today it feels different.

Not because your body hurts—though it does. Not because the air is cold—though it bites.

But because something inside you is too quiet.

Like your chest has been scrubbed hollow.

The attic doesn’t look any different.

The boards still creak when you shift your weight. The frost still kisses the corners of the glass. The mice still rustle softly in the wall like they don’t know anything has changed.

But it has.

You sit up slowly, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket that isn’t warm enough. Your knees are sore. Your palms sting. The magic’s gone, and it didn’t leave anything for you to hold except—

Your breath catches.

You look down.

There it is.

Nestled at the foot of your bed.

One shoe.

Not both.

Just the right one.

Silver-buckled. Unscuffed. A quiet gleam to the leather that doesn’t belong to this world.

The matching pair had vanished with the rest of the suit. But this one stayed.

Of course it did.

You don’t touch it.

Not yet.

You just stare.

Your chest tightens slowly, like the ache has to rebuild itself from the edges in.

You replay the night in pieces.

The ballroom. The music. The boy with the moonlight grin and the storm in his eyes. The garden. His hand on your back. His voice, soft and certain, asking for your name like he’d keep it safe.

You wonder if he’s looking for you.

You wonder if he’s still at the top of those stairs.

You wonder if he’ll know you now, in patched sleeves and soot-stained soles.

If he’d want to.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest, hard.

Just to feel something.

⋆｡°✩

Far from the attic, in a palace where the candles never burn low, a king lies dying.

Not with drama. Not with blood or fury or breathless speeches. Just… slowly.

Quietly.

Gojo sits beside him.

He’s not dressed for grief. Still in the same half-wrinkled clothes from the night before—collar askew, hair a mess, the ghost of the ballroom clinging to his shoulders.

He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t moved since the garden emptied and the last guest was sent away.

He hasn’t spoken.

Not until now.

“I met someone,” he says softly.

The king doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth twitches. Barely there.

“A noble?” he rasps, voice like dry paper.

Gojo almost laughs. “Not even close.”

The king hums. A tiny sound. “Thank god.”

That earns a real smile. Faint. Brief.

Gojo leans forward, fingers curled tight over the blanket. “I didn’t get his name. Didn’t even ask. He ran. Lost a shoe.”

The king’s chest rises slowly. “Romantic.”

“Frustrating,” Gojo says. “He was real. Not… shiny. Not faked. I think he looked right through me and still stayed.”

The king doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then—

“Then go,” he says, hoarse but sure. “Go find the one who saw you.”

Gojo’s throat closes.

The king’s eyes stay shut.

“You’ve carried this crown too long,” he murmurs. “Go be loved, Satoru. Don’t let this place kill that part of you.”

There’s silence.

Then Gojo bows his head.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

The king dies two days later.

The mourning bells toll across the city. The gates are draped in black. The court dons solemn silks and speaks in hushed tones.

Gojo buries his father quietly.

No fanfare. No grand declarations. Just a hand pressed to the coffin and a whisper no one hears.

He returns to the throne room with quiet thunder.

No coronation. No applause. Just a man in mourning with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders and something softer clenched between his hands.

A single shoe.

Silver-buckled. Clean as memory. The only piece of the night that didn’t vanish.

The court hushes when he steps to the dais.

He speaks without ceremony.

“I’m not here to celebrate a title,” he says. “I’m here to honour a promise.”

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd.

Gojo lifts the shoe for all to see.

“This,” he says, voice steady, “was left behind by the person I danced with at the royal ball.”

Murmurs rise. Names, questions, whispers like wind.

Gojo’s next words cut straight through.

“I don’t know their name. Or where they came from. But I know how I felt.”

Silence now. Even the courtiers lean forward.

He breathes in. Then:

“Find them.”

The prince’s men arrive two days later.

They come in pairs—one to carry the shoe, one to carry the threat of a sword.

Some houses greet them with fanfare. Others slam the door. But in every room, they kneel before the hopeful, the desperate, the delusional, and ask them to try it on.

None of them fit.

None of them feel right.

⋆｡°✩

Toji doesn’t really want to be here.

He’s already threatened to eat the shoe twice. Nanami pretends not to hear him.

“You’re not putting it in your mouth,” Nanami says flatly as they stand in front of a bakery.

“I wasn’t gonna put it in,” Toji replies. “Just, you know. Scare the kid a little.”

“No.”

“They’ve got sugar tarts in there.”

“We’re here for the shoe.”

“I can multitask.”

Nanami sighs and knocks.

⋆｡°✩

Three houses later:

“This is a waste of time,” Toji mutters.

“It’s a royal command,” Nanami answers, like that means anything.

They’re standing in front of a weeping blacksmith.

“I swore I saw the mystery person,” the blacksmith says, tears in his beard. “They were in my dream. Had wings. Glowed.”

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.

Toji offers him a handkerchief. “We’ll send word if we find them, yeah?”

The blacksmith sobs louder.

Toji pats him on the shoulder.

“You tried, champ.”

⋆｡°✩

Back at the estate, the air has changed.

You don't notice at first. You're doing laundry. Small, quiet motions. Wrists in soap, eyes on the window.

But when you climb back up to the attic, the door is open.

That’s not right.

You never leave it open.

You step inside.

Geto is waiting.

He’s holding something in his hand.

It takes you a moment to register it. To understand what you’re looking at. To realise it’s yours.

The other shoe.

The one the magic didn’t claim.

Geto doesn’t look angry.

Worse.

He looks resigned.

“I knew,” he says, voice low. “The night you came home. I knew it was you.”

You don’t speak.

There’s something brittle in your chest. Like glass.

Geto turns the shoe over in his hand. “It was supposed to be Mimiko or Nanako. Anyone else. Someone who could give this family something back. But you—”

He shakes his head.

“I married your mother for love, you know.”

You flinch.

“I was a servant. Just like you. She didn’t care. She saw me. She chose me. And then she died. And I got stuck. In this house. With bills, and mouths, and nothing to show for it but my hands and my daughters.”

He looks at you then, sharp and quiet.

“You think I hate you,” he says. “I don’t.”

You want to speak. You don’t know how.

“I envy you,” he finishes.

Then he drops the shoe.

And before you can move—before you can breathe—he steps on it.

It doesn’t break.

Of course it doesn’t.

The magic’s long gone.

So he picks it up instead.

And throws it out the window.

You hear it hit the gravel outside.

And then—

Click.

The door locks behind you.

Geto’s footsteps fade down the stairs.

And you’re alone again.

Trapped. Silenced.

But not invisible anymore.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t move right away.

You hear Geto’s footsteps fade, one by one, until the house swallows them whole. Until the only sound left is the wind against the glass, and the beat of your pulse behind your eyes.

The lock clicks again in your mind. Sharp. Final.

And then—

Nothing.

Just quiet.

You sit.

Not gently. Not with grace.

You drop straight to the floor, legs folded awkwardly, palms flat on the cold wood. The air smells like old wood and soap. Like sorrow dried into the beams.

Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt. Not to hide. Just to feel something.

The window glows with late morning sun. Too bright to pretend it’s still night. Too soft to call this anything but cruel.

You swallow.

You whisper to no one, “It wasn’t supposed to matter.”

The words hang there.

And then—

A scritch.

Then another.

Soft and quick, like tiny feet against the baseboard.

You blink down.

Yuji, the one with the torn ear, darts into view. He stops near your feet. Sits up on his haunches like he’s checking on you.

You offer him your palm.

He noses it once. Then skitters away to the corner where Megumi and Nobara have already gathered.

There’s a scrap of ribbon there. Frayed. Half chewed.

And a single wooden spool.

You don’t know how they found it. Or why they’re bringing it to you.

But they do.

You exhale.

“I’m not making a new shoe,” you say quietly.

They freeze.

You soften. “...Thank you, though.”

Yuji does a little hop. You can almost hear him say you’re not done.

You lean back against the wall.

You look at the door.

The lock is still in place.

The window is still too small.

Your limbs are still tired.

But something in you is standing up.

You’ve never asked to be found before.

But now— Now you know what it felt like to be seen.

And you’re not letting that disappear without a fight.

Bang bang bang.

Not a gentle knock.

Not the kind nobles use.

The door shakes in its frame.

Mimiko shrieks from somewhere down the hall, “Father—!”

“Coming,” Geto calls, voice too smooth, too fast.

He brushes dust from his sleeves and opens the door with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Nanami doesn't smile back.

Toji doesn’t look like he’s ever smiled at all.

The taller one—Toji, in dark military trim and boots that leave real dirt on the clean floor—looks over Geto like he’s furniture. Nanami, perfectly pressed and sharply polite, holds a velvet-lined box in his hands.

Inside it, nestled like a relic, sits the shoe.

The room tightens.

“We’re here on royal command,” Nanami says, calm as a cut. “Every household within the capital must comply.”

Geto’s smile doesn’t falter. But his fingers twitch at his sides.

“Of course,” he says. “My daughters will be thrilled.”

⋆｡°✩

The twins are anything but.

They stumble into the drawing room in matching silks, half-dressed and sweating.

Mimiko tries to charm. Nanako tries to lie. Both try on the shoe.

The shoe does not fit either of them.

Not Mimiko, who tried to stuff her foot in sideways, biting her lip like pain might be mistaken for grace.

Not Nanako, who screamed at the guards and insisted it was her shoe—until Nanami calmly pointed out it would have to be her right shoe, and she’d shoved her left foot in.

Both of them are red-faced now. Geto looks pale.

Nanami closes the velvet box with finality.

“That’s all,” Geto says quickly, stepping between them and the door. “Thank you for your time, but as you can see—”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Nanami says, already half-turned. “We’ll be on our way—”

And then— CRASH.

Not subtle.

Not small.

Wood shatters. Something heavy hits the floor above. Then a thud. A clang. Another loud bang, like someone’s trying to tear a room apart.

All three men freeze.

Geto doesn’t blink.

“Old house,” he says lightly. “It groans.”

Nanami narrows his eyes.

Toji’s already turning.

“It came from upstairs,” he says.

“No need,” Geto says quickly. “We told you, it’s just—”

“Storage,” Toji finishes, stepping forward.

And then—

A fourth voice speaks, smooth as silk:

“Open it.”

The knights turn sharply.

So does Geto.

Because one of the guards—the one who had been silent this entire time, helmet shadowing his face, standing too still in the corner—steps forward.

And removes his helmet.

White hair falls loose.

Eyes like the end of a sky.

It’s him.

The prince.

No coat. No crown. Just a low voice and a gaze that could slit a throat with kindness.

“Check the room,” Gojo says.

Toji doesn’t hesitate.

He moves toward the stairs.

And Geto?

Geto stops breathing.

⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, upstairs—

You’ve already broken a chair.

The window’s too high, and the door won’t give, but fury moves faster than fear.

You threw the table against the wall. You shattered a glass jar. The room is in chaos.

Not because you thought someone would hear you.

But because if you’re going to be locked away again—this time, the walls will remember you were here.

And downstairs, they just did.

⋆｡°✩

The door gives way with a shudder and a kick.

Toji steps inside the attic like he’s seen a thousand rooms like this—and hates every one of them. He doesn’t speak at first. Just scans the broken chair, the shards of glass, the boy standing in the middle of it all like a storm passed through him and didn’t finish the job.

You square your shoulders, fists tight.

“I’m not going quietly,” you say.

Toji raises a brow.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Not until you try on the shoe.”

⋆｡°✩

You’re still stunned when you’re led down the stairs.

The house feels different now—seen, somehow. You don’t flinch when Geto glares. You don’t look at the twins when they hiss your name like it’s a curse.

Because all you see is him.

Gojo.

Not in a dream. Not behind a mask.

Just him.

And he’s looking at you like you invented music.

⋆｡°✩

“I didn’t know,” you say softly.

His smile curves at the edges. “Good.”

You blink. “What?”

“I wanted to be seen as me, not as—” He waves a hand. “Royal disaster. Golden boy. Walking headline.”

“You’re still ridiculous,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he says, “but you danced with me anyway.”

⋆｡°✩

Nanami brings the shoe.

It still gleams like it remembers the night better than you do.

You kneel.

Your fingers tremble.

You fit your foot inside.

It slides in like it never belonged anywhere else.

A quiet settles over the room.

Nanami exhales, almost like relief.

Toji nods once.

The twins make some sound between a gasp and a wail.

And Gojo?

He takes two steps forward.

Then drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No ceremony.

Just him.

And you.

And the weight of everything you both carried here.

“I don’t know your name,” he says. “But I’d like to learn it every day.”

You swallow.

His hand is warm.

“Will you marry me?”

You stare at him.

Then, slowly, like something new is blooming in your chest—

You smile.

And take his hand.

The palace feels warmer now.

Not because of the sun. Or the gilded windows. Or the three-tiered cake that someone dropped during the reception and tried to blame on the reindeer.

But because of him.

Gojo stands beside you on the balcony, arm loose around your waist, his thumb brushing idle circles against your side like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You’re both still in partial wedding attire—him with his jacket tossed over a chair somewhere, you barefoot, crown lopsided, shirt collar unbuttoned and clinging just a little to your throat. You should probably be inside. The court is probably looking for you.

But the garden below is quiet.

And the air tastes like late summer and the end of something you never thought would happen.

⋆｡°✩

“What happened to them?” you ask, leaning into him just enough to be smug about it.

He hums. “Geto’s under investigation for falsifying noble status. Pretty sure he’s banned from the capital for life. Last I heard, he’s trying to sell spiritual healing potions out of a cart in the countryside.”

You snort. “And the twins?”

“Assigned to community service. Fifteen years of it.”

You blink. “What do they do?”

“Paint fences. Clean royal kennels. Muck out stables.”

You try to look sympathetic.

You fail.

⋆｡°✩

The sky is peach-gold now.

You lean back against the railing, one hand braced behind you, and Gojo’s eyes trace the line of your neck like he’s memorising it.

“What?” you ask, smirking a little.

“You’re too pretty for this world,” he says easily. “I might have to exile you just to stop fights.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not exiling me. You married me.”

He steps in closer.

“I did, didn’t I?”

His hand settles just under your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His smile turns softer.

Hungrier.

“Wanna kiss your husband?”

You grin. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t wait for permission.

⋆｡°✩

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice like velvet warmed in sunlight.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers trail down the line of his collarbone, slow and curious, feeling the heat beneath his skin. You’re still a little dazed from it all—the ceremony, the kiss, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the kingdom.

Maybe the world.

Gojo watches you with a softness that doesn’t match the grin tugging at his lips.

“Still thinking about saying yes?” he teases, tilting his head.

You hum. “I’m thinking I want to kiss you again.”

“Be my guest.”

You lean in. He meets you halfway.

The kiss starts gentle—lazy, even. But there’s something under it now. Something hot and restless curling between your ribs. Your fingers move to his jaw, then to the back of his neck, dragging him just a little closer. He obliges with a pleased sound, deepening the kiss, mouth parting just enough to catch your breath between his lips.

He tastes like sugared wine and strawberries, and you swear you could drown in him.

By the time you break apart, you’re breathing harder than you expected. Your eyes meet, close enough to feel the words before you say them.

“I want you,” you whisper.

It comes out raw. Honest.

Gojo stills. Just for a moment.

Then—

“Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Rougher around the edges. “You sure?”

You nod.

“Then come here.”

⋆｡°✩

He lifts you before you realize he’s moving. Hands strong, steady, one at your back, the other beneath your thighs. You yelp softly, laugh against his throat, and he huffs out a breathless chuckle that turns into something deeper.

The doors to your chambers are already cracked open. He kicks them wider.

The room beyond is quiet. Candlelit. Fresh linens, tossed shoes, and half a glass of wine still left untouched on the bedside table. You don’t see any of it.

Just him.

He sets you down gently, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache.

You sit on the edge of the bed as he leans in, hands braced on either side of your thighs, lips ghosting over your cheek, then your jaw.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and warm.

You reach up. Thread your fingers into his hair.

“Kiss me like you did that night,” you say. “And don’t stop.”

He grins against your mouth. “Gladly.”

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

The world falls away the second his lips meet yours again.

There’s no crowd here. No music. No kingdom watching. Just the sound of his breath and yours, the rustle of fabric as fingers drag slowly down your back, and the warm press of his palms against your skin like he’s memorising every inch of you.

You pull him closer. He goes willingly.

The kiss deepens. His mouth is hot and sure, moving with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. His tongue brushes yours, and you gasp into him—your fingers clutching the back of his shirt, your legs parting slightly as he slots himself between them.

He presses you gently back onto the bed.

The sheets shift beneath you—soft, crisp, faintly perfumed—and his weight follows, settling against you with a slowness that feels like worship.

His hand cradles your face as he kisses you again, slower now. Lingering. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Still sure?” he asks, voice hoarse at the edges, lips brushing your cheek.

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I want you.”

Gojo exhales like he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life.

“Okay,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

⋆｡°✩

He doesn’t rush.

He undresses you carefully, easing your clothes from your body piece by piece, always watching, always touching, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His hands trail down your arms, your ribs, your hips—every inch of your skin kissed, touched, praised.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, not like a compliment, but like a fact.

His own clothes fall away soon after, and when he kneels above you, bare in the candlelight, you forget how to breathe.

He’s strong. Slender. Scars across his stomach, down his hip—each one traced gently beneath your fingers. His eyes darken when you touch him, a low sound humming from his chest as you explore him with quiet wonder.

He kisses your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thigh. Each press of his mouth is tender, reverent. You shiver when his lips ghost lower—when he parts your legs with one slow sweep of his hand and settles between them like he was always meant to be there.

When his tongue touches you, your fingers curl in the sheets.

He’s slow. Gentle. Languid.

Learning you. Reading every twitch of your hips, every gasp, every whispered plea. He hums when you moan, the sound low and satisfied.

You arch when he wraps his arms under your thighs and pulls you closer.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice rough and thick with want.

And he does.

With his mouth, his fingers, his voice—coaxing you open, unravelling you gently, turning heat into warmth into fire.

By the time you come undone, you’re panting, legs trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

He doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t pull away. Just presses slow kisses to your skin and climbs up to meet your mouth again, breath catching as he feels you cling to him.

You reach for him. Trace the line of his jaw.

“Take me,” you whisper.

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

He enters you slowly, carefully, stopping when you tense, kissing your throat until your body melts into his again. His hand finds yours against the pillow, lacing your fingers together as he presses deeper.

It’s intense. Full. Your breath stutters, and his does too.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He starts to move, and it’s overwhelming.

His weight on you, his breath on your neck, the way your bodies move together—every thrust angled with care, every sound he makes pressed against your ear like a secret. He moans when your hips rise to meet him. Groans when you say his name like you mean it.

He doesn’t look away. Watches you fall apart underneath him. Watches your lashes flutter, your mouth part, your breath hitch.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he says, voice wrecked.

You pull him down, kiss him hard, gasping against his lips as heat blooms low and deep in your core.

He speeds up—just enough.

The sound of skin on skin, the headboard creaking gently, the rhythm of his hips, your hands in his hair—it all builds into something slow and bright and utterly consuming.

You fall apart first, back arching, thighs clenching around his waist.

He follows with a gasp, pulling out just in time, his hand stroking you through it as he spills onto your stomach with a trembling groan.

⋆｡°✩

After, he’s quiet.

He wipes you down gently, kisses your chest, your temple, your knuckles.

Then he pulls you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, his thumb stroking slow circles into your spine.

You’re half-asleep when he whispers, “I’m never letting you go.”

You smile.

“You better not.”

Later, as the sun dips below the rooftops, you’re sprawled together on the balcony, limbs tangled, cheeks flushed, breath finally slowing.

He presses his forehead to yours.

You close your eyes.

The world is quiet again.

Until—

Scurry scurry.

You open one eye.

Yuji. Then Megumi. Then Nobara.

The mice dash across the stone railing, tails twitching, feet fast, all three heading for the figure standing just beyond the edge of the light.

Shoko.

Still in her boots. Still in her long coat. Still impossibly cool.

She holds out one palm.

The mice leap into it without hesitation.

She glances at you and Gojo, sprawled out and glowing like kings in love.

“Cute,” she says.

You sit up. “You stayed?”

She lights a cigarette with a flick of her fingers.

“Nah,” she says. “I just came to collect my assistants.”

Gojo squints. “Assistants?”

“They picked you,” Shoko says, looking directly at you.

You blink.

She exhales a thin ribbon of smoke into the sky.

“My job’s done.”

And then— She vanishes.

Just like that.

⋆｡°✩

You sit there for a moment.

Gojo’s hand finds yours.

The stars come out.

And this time—

You don’t wish on any of them.

You already have everything you asked for.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[kysstar]

SWEETHEART | KIM HONG JOONG

pairing: kim hongjoong x fem!reader

synopsis: you’re a skilled pickpocket who unknowingly steals from hongjoong, the ruthless mafia leader. the next thing you know, you’re dragged into the mafia world.

genre: mafia au, cat-and-mouse, reluctant alliance.

warnings: blood-shed, violence, panic attack, kissing, cliche stuff like yk the dress and heels thing (forgive me)

word count: 16.4k

[series masterlist]

—The crowd moves like a river, thick with tourists and businessmen, all too absorbed in their own lives to notice you. Perfect. You slip through the bodies with practiced ease, brushing against a man in a suit just lightly enough to slip your fingers into his coat pocket. Your touch is quick, ghostlike. By the time he takes another step, his wallet is yours.

You don’t stop walking. Rule number one: never stop. Casually, you slip the wallet into your jacket and veer into a side alley. Only then do you let yourself exhale. Flipping it open, you scan the contents—credit cards, an ID, a few hundred in cash. Easy. Routine.

The thrill is always the same, a sharp rush that hums under your skin.

But you’re not done.

You step back onto the main street, eyes scanning for the next mark. That’s when you spot him.

A man stands near a sleek black car, phone pressed to his ear. His suit isn’t just expensive—it’s power wrapped in fabric. The kind of power that turns heads, that makes people step out of the way without thinking. His dark eyes flicker up, sharp and unreadable, before dismissing everything around him. He’s focused on the call.

A passing group provides perfect cover. You slip in close, your shoulder barely brushing his as your fingers work. The weight of the wallet slides into your palm so smoothly it almost feels too easy. Your heart pounds, but your face remains impassive as you keep walking, melting into the sea of people.

It takes fifteen minutes before you check your prize.

You’re perched on the steps of an old building, half-hidden in the shadows, when you pull out the wallet. It’s heavier than most. Your fingers flip it open, expecting cash, cards—maybe something extra.

What you find instead makes your blood run cold.

Black leather. Minimalist. Inside, an ID stares back at you. The name is one you’ve only ever heard in hushed whispers, in stories told between thieves who knew better than to try their luck.

Kim Hongjoong.

You don’t need to read the rest. Your fingers are already shaking. The emblem on the card is enough—a symbol of the underworld, of power beyond money. A name that commands fear.

You just stole from the most dangerous man in the city.

Your pulse is hammering now, cold dread settling in your stomach like a stone. You’re good—one of the best—but even you know there are lines you don’t cross. Kim Hongjoong isn’t just another rich bastard flashing wealth like a target on his back. He’s the kind of man who has people dragged off the streets for less than this.

And you just made yourself his problem.

Your first instinct is to return it. Just slip back through the crowd, drop it at his feet, walk away before he even notices. It wouldn’t undo what you did, but maybe—just maybe—it’d buy you a few extra seconds of life.

Before you could turn around and fix your mistake, you hear footsteps. Not the usual aimless shuffle of the street.

"She must’ve gone this way."

A voice, low and sharp, cutting through the noise of the city.

"Spread out. Don’t let her slip past."

"Hyung said not to make a mess. Just get her."

They’re already looking for you. Your pulse spiked, your body moving before your mind could catch up. Without hesitation, you tossed the wallet onto a rusted barrel near the alley’s entrance and bolted.

Your feet hit the ground hard as you sprinted down the alley, boots skidding slightly against the damp pavement. A pipe jutted out from the wall ahead—low enough to grab. Without breaking stride, you jumped, gripping it tight, muscles straining as you hoisted yourself up. You swung over, landing on a fire escape, the metal groaning under your weight.

A second later, footsteps thundered into the alley you’d just been in.

"Fuck—where did she go?"

"Check the sides. She couldn't have—"

"Up there!"

Shit.

You climbed the fire escape two steps at a time, your breath coming in sharp exhales. The city stretched out before you as you reached the roof, neon lights bleeding into the night sky. No time to admire the view. You took off, your legs burning as you sprinted across the rooftop.

Behind you, the sound of pursuit. Metal rattling. Footsteps heavy against concrete. They were following. You could hear their curses, the way they moved with precision.

You leaped to the next building without hesitation. The drop between them was sharp, an alley yawning below, but you barely felt it. Your hands hit the edge, fingers scraping as you pulled yourself up. The moment your feet touched the rooftop, you ran again, weaving between rusted vents and old signs, each movement instinctual, each decision made in the space of a heartbeat.

Another gap ahead. Wider this time. You forced your legs to push harder, faster. The city blurred, wind cutting against your skin as you jumped.

Your foot barely caught the ledge. You scrambled, fingers digging into the rough surface.

"She's over there!"

Damn it. They were still behind you. But you had distance. You could still make it—

A gunshot rang out.

Your body reacted before your mind did, dropping low just as a bullet sparked against the metal vent beside you. They weren’t aiming to kill. Not yet. A warning shot. A reminder that you were running out of time.

You had to get off the rooftops. Fast.

You spotted a lower building to your left, a stack of crates leading down. Without a second thought, you veered off course, sliding down the side, your boots landing hard against the wood before jumping to the next level. The moment you hit the ground, you took off into the maze of alleyways.

The streets twisted and turned, shadows stretching long under flickering streetlights. You weaved through them, ducking behind dumpsters, slipping between narrow gaps between buildings. The sound of pursuit never faded. Heavy footsteps. Low voices barking orders. They weren’t giving up.

You turned a sharp corner, only to halt. A figure stood in your path.

The dim light barely illuminated him, but you saw the way he stood—calm, patient. Not out of breath like you were. He had been waiting for you.

Dyed red hair, catching the faint glow of the streetlamp. You couldn’t see his face in the shadows, but it didn’t matter. The way he held himself told you everything you needed to know. He worked for him.

Your body reacted before you could think. You spun on your heel, ready to bolt in the other direction—

But then another figure emerged from the darkness.

He was tall, dark hair tousled from the chase, sharp eyes burning with something dangerous. His presence was heavier, more imposing, like a wall of sheer force. The way he carried himself was different—broader shoulders, longer strides. Even standing still, he looked like he was hunting.

Your instincts screamed at you to move, to fight, to do anything but stand there like a deer caught in headlights. You turned sharply, ready to try your luck past the first man, but the second you stepped forward—

Something struck the side of your head, and the world tilted. Your vision blurred, the edges darkening. You barely registered the way your knees buckled, the sensation of the cold pavement meeting your skin. The last thing you heard was the sound of footsteps drawing closer, then darkness.

—The first thing you felt was the ache. A deep, pulsing pain at the side of your head, radiating down your neck. The second thing you felt was cold—metal biting into your wrists, the sharp edge of a chair digging into your back.

You blinked. The world came back in pieces. Dim lighting. A concrete room. A single table in front of you, sleek and empty except for a glass of water placed just within reach. Your hands—chained. Thick metal cuffs locked around your wrists, fastened to the table.

Panic clawed at your chest, but you forced it down.

Then, the door creaks open. Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through the room. You knew who it was before you even looked up.

Kim Hongjoong.

He walked in like he owned the air in the room, like the walls themselves bent to his presence. Sharp suit, rings glinting under the dim light. He didn’t sit right away. Instead, he leaned against the table, tilting his head slightly as he studied you.

"You gave my men a bit of a workout," he said casually.

You didn’t answer. He sighed, almost amused, and finally lowered himself into the chair across from you. He moved slowly—not out of laziness, but control. Like a man who knew he had all the time in the world.

"You know who I am," he continued, tapping his fingers against the table. "That makes this easier. Saves me the trouble of introductions."

He exhaled through his nose, noticing you were quiet, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Smart. You’re not talking. That’s good. Means you’re thinking."

Your fingers curled slightly against the cuffs, but you didn’t break eye contact. Don’t let him see weakness. Don’t give him anything.

Hongjoong leaned forward. The scent of expensive cologne and something darker—gunpowder, blood, smoke—lingered around him.

"You stole from me," he said. "You ran. You made my men chase you. So tell me—why shouldn’t I put a bullet in your head right now?"

He said it so easily. Like he was asking what was for dinner. Like your life was just another business decision.

When you didn’t answer, he hummed lightly, dragging his fingers across the table. A small, absent-minded movement, as if he were thinking of a hundred different ways to break you.

"You’re not dead yet," he continued, tilting his head slightly. "That means I see value in you."

You forced yourself to hold his gaze. "And if I don’t want to be of value to you?"

A slow smile spread across his lips. "Then you’ll be of value to the bottom of the Han River."

A chill ran down your spine. There was no malice in his voice. No anger. He meant every word.

Hongjoong exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "I’ll give you some advice," he said. "People who sit in that chair? The ones who talk too much usually end up screaming. The ones who talk too little?" He tilted his head. "Well. They usually don’t get a second chance."

His fingers tapped against the metal cuff on your wrist. "But you?" His voice dropped lower, softer.. "You’re different, aren’t you?"

He let the words settle, watching you. Then, he leaned back, exhaling like this was all just mildly inconvenient for him. "So. Let’s get to the point."

"You’re good," he said. "Too good to waste. That little stunt you pulled? Impressive. Cost me time, men, resources." He shook his head slightly, clicking his tongue. "Which means you owe me."

You have two choices," he continued, completely unfazed. "You work for me."

He smirked. "Or I put you in the ground."

The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. You barely heard the faint drip of water somewhere in the distance.

"And before you think about the third option," he added, smiling slightly, "let me remind you. No one gets away from me. You run? I’ll find you. You fight? You won’t win."

You swallowed, fingers flexing slightly against the cuffs. His eyes darkened, amusement flickering into something colder.

"I don’t need an answer now," he murmured, standing up. "I’ll let you think about it."

He moved to the door, pausing just long enough to glance back over his shoulder.

"But don’t take too long, sweetheart."

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the cold, empty room—with the weight of your own inevitable decision.

You stared at the metal cuffs around your wrists, the skin beneath them raw from how tightly they were fastened. The cold from the table seeped into your bones, and despite how still you were sitting, your pulse hadn’t slowed since Hongjoong walked out that door.

There were no cameras you could see, but you weren’t stupid enough to think they’d leave you completely unwatched. They were waiting. Letting you stew in your own thoughts. Letting you understand exactly how trapped you were.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think, to plan.

Escaping was impossible.

You didn’t know where you were, didn’t know how many people were guarding the place, didn’t even know if you were still in the same part of the city. Even if by some miracle you managed to slip out, Hongjoong made it painfully clear—you wouldn’t get away.

He had an army. Resources. Eyes everywhere.

And you?

You had bruises, a throbbing headache, and a death sentence hanging over your head.

You could try running anyway. Disappear. Change your name. Burn your fingerprints off if you had to. But men like Hongjoong? They didn’t forget. Didn’t forgive. They would hunt you down, and when they find you—because they would—it wouldn’t be pretty.

Which left two options.

Option one. You refused. You died. Simple.

Option two? You worked for him.

Got tangled in the very world you spent your whole life avoiding.

The underworld didn’t let people walk away. The only way out was a body bag. Once you were in, you belonged to them. No freedom. No future. Just the slow, inevitable march toward a violent end.

You didn’t want to die. Not today, at least.

And that meant—

The door opened again.

Hongjoong stepped back into the room, looking exactly the same—untouched, unfazed, as if the last conversation had been nothing more than a casual business deal.

He sighed, stretching slightly as he sat back down across from you. "I was hoping you’d try to run," he mused. "Would’ve been fun to chase you again."

You didn’t rise to the bait. His lips twitched, amused. "Nothing? You’re no fun, sweetheart."

The word was drenched in sarcasm, and yet the way it rolled off his tongue made your skin prickle.

He leaned forward, resting his elbow against the table. "Have you made up your mind, or are we going to sit here all night?"

Your throat felt dry. Your fingers curled against the cuffs, nails pressing into your palms.

You knew what you had to say. You just hated saying it.

You swallowed once, then forced yourself to give a small nod.

He smiled. "Smart girl."

He stood, moving around the table, and you tensed instinctively as he reached for the cuffs. The metal clicked, and just like that, you were free.

Hongjoong stepped back, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"Welcome to the family, darling,"

—The meeting room was too fancy.

Dark oak table, expensive leather chairs, dim lighting that cast long shadows along the walls. It wasn’t what you expected from a place run by men who could kill without blinking. It looked more like a CEO’s office than a mafia hideout.

But the tension? The tension gave it away.

You could feel it the moment you stepped inside. Eight men sat around the table, and the moment they saw you, everything shifted.

Seonghwa leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his sharp eyes flicking over you like he was trying to read something between the lines. San and Wooyoung, sitting side by side, exchanged looks before Wooyoung smirked and muttered something under his breath. Yunho was drumming his fingers against the table absently, but his eyes weren’t relaxed.

Mingi, the one who knocked you out, was watching you with an unreadable look, while Jongho’s gaze was sharp, suspicious. He wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he didn’t trust you.

And then there was Yeosang. Sitting off to the side, legs crossed, scrolling through an iPad like he couldn’t care less if you lived or died.

Hongjoong strolled past you, heading straight for the head of the table. "Relax, boys," he said casually. "If I thought she was a threat, she’d already be dead."

"She’s still a thief," Jongho muttered, arms crossed. "I don’t trust her."

"Same," San added, though his tone was more amused than serious. "What’s stopping her from running the second we let her out?"

"Us," Hongjoong said simply.

You didn’t miss the way a few of them smirked at that.

Right. Running wasn’t an option.

Hongjoong settled into his chair, fingers tapping against the table. "I want to see what she’s really capable of," he said. "A test, if you will."

"The casino job," he continued, glancing around at the others. "She’ll do it alone."

The reaction was immediate. Wooyoung laughed. "You’re joking."

"You can’t be serious," Jongho muttered, eyes narrowing.

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Yunho just exhaled, shaking his head slightly.

"She’ll have backup," Hongjoong said smoothly. "We’ll be watching. But I want to see how she handles herself."

Yeosang didn’t even look up from his iPad. "If she screws up, I’m not covering for her."

"I don’t expect you to," Hongjoong replied, unimpressed.

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the way they were talking about you like you weren’t even there.

"What exactly do you want me to do?" you finally asked.

Hongjoong’s lips curled into a smirk. "Steal something for me."

Of course.

"A casino in the city has something I want. A small USB drive—valuable information on it." He leaned forward slightly. "It’s kept in a private security room, heavily guarded. But I have a feeling you’ll figure something out."

"Try to pull anything," he added, "and you won’t make it out of the casino’s parking lot. Understood, sweetheart?"

You exhaled through your nose. "Crystal clear."

—The inside of the van was dimly lit, the glow from multiple screens casting an eerie blue hue over the space. You sat in one of the chairs, back straight, fingers tapping idly against your thigh as Yeosang secured an earpiece for you.

"Try not to break it," he said handing it to you.

Behind you, Yeosang settled back into his seat, eyes flicking over the monitors like he couldn’t be less interested in what was happening in real life. Meanwhile, Hongjoong stood near the front, buttoning up his suit jacket, adjusting the cuffs like he wasn’t about to send you straight into the lion’s den.

"Listen carefully," he said, his voice smooth but firm. "For you to get inside the security room, you’ll need a passkey." He met your gaze, eyes sharp. "Only the personal bodyguard of the casino’s owner, Seojun, carries one. That means you’ll need to wait for Seojun to arrive—then get close enough to his guard to lift it."

"Once you have it, you’ll head to Seojun’s private office. The drive will be in his safe—somewhere behind the bar shelf. We don’t know the code, but we do know he’s a cocky bastard who keeps it written somewhere in the room."

Hongjoong straightened his tie. "Get the drive. Get out. Simple."

You scoffed. "Not as simple as you make it sound."

He smirked. "No. But I trust you’ll manage, sweetheart."

You exhaled, shifting slightly in your seat. The black dress they’d given you clung to your skin, sleek and elegant—perfect for a casino setting. Terrible for escaping.

"If you expect me to run in this," you muttered, tugging at the fabric slightly, "you should’ve given me a proper dress."

Hongjoong chuckled. "I think you'll manage, darling."

Easy for him to say.

A small beep echoed through the van as Yeosang pressed something on his tablet. "Alright, we’ve got eyes inside," he said lazily. "Seojun isn’t here yet, but the others are already in position."

Hongjoong nodded, then turned to you. "Time to go."

You took one last deep breath before stepping out of the van.

The casino loomed ahead—bright lights, luxury cars pulling up to the entrance, security stationed at every door. You slipped in smoothly, moving with the kind of ease that only came from experience. The moment you crossed the threshold, the noise hit—laughter, the chime of slot machines, the low murmur of expensive deals being made.

Mingi and Yunho near the bar, pretending to be absorbed in their drinks. Wooyoung at a poker table, laughing too loudly at something San had said. Jongho standing near the entrance, arms crossed, watching.

You were in. Now, all you had to do was get the job done.

—You had been winning.

That was the real tragedy here.

The game wasn’t even interesting anymore, but the rush of flipping the right card, the glint of irritation in the dealer’s eyes—it was fun. And you were raking in chips like you were born for this.

Then, just as you were about to go all in, Hongjoong’s voice crackled in your ear.

"Seojun just arrived. You’re up, sweetheart."

You sighed, tapping your fingers against the pile of chips in front of you. "Damn shame. I was on a roll."

The dealer looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to play your turn. You flashed him a lazy smile. No use getting greedy.

With calculated ease, you leaned back in your chair, letting your eyes drift toward the entrance.

Seojun strolled inside like he owned the place—which, technically, he did. A sharp navy-blue suit, rings glinting under the casino lights, an arrogant smirk plastered across his face. But your attention wasn’t on him.

It was on the man walking beside him.

Broad shoulders. Black suit. Cold expression. The personal bodyguard. And more importantly, the passkey clipped discreetly to his belt.

Simple in design, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking for it. But you were.

"Try not to drool," Wooyoung’s voice cut in through the earpiece, amused.

You didn’t miss a beat. "Try not to cry when I outdo you, pretty boy."

Mingi’s low chuckle hummed through the comms. Wooyoung scoffed. "Yeah, yeah, just hurry up and do your thing."

You smirked, but your attention stayed on your target.

Seojun was already moving toward the VIP section, his guard following like a shadow. You pushed back from the table, grabbing your winnings, and made your way toward the bar instead.

The moment Seojun stopped to greet another guest, you moved.

One of the waitresses passed by, carrying a tray of expensive cocktails. You bumped into her—just slightly—just enough to send one of the glasses tipping. She gasped, catching it before it spilled completely, but the motion sent her staggering right into the bodyguard.

A sharp inhale as cold liquid spilled down his sleeve. He turned, annoyed, swiping at his jacket as the waitress flustered out apologies.

You moved then. A step forward. A brush of fingers. The passkey slipped free from his belt and into your sleeve in less than two seconds.

A slow smirk tugged at your lips. "Passkey secured," you murmured under your breath, already making your way toward the back.

"Show-off," Wooyoung muttered.

—The office was too clean. Rich mahogany desk, sleek leather chairs, an expensive globe that definitely had some hidden contraption inside. But your focus wasn’t on any of that. Your focus was on the safe.

It was exactly where Hongjoong said it would be—behind the bar shelf. A high-tech model, sleek steel, keypad glowing in the dim light. You crouched in front of it, exhaling slowly.

"Alright," you muttered to yourself, scanning the room. "If I were an arrogant bastard, where would I hide my secrets?"

You started with the desk—flipping through papers, checking drawers. Then the liquor shelf—bottles arranged in obnoxiously perfect symmetry. Nothing

You clenched your jaw, heart pounding a little faster. You didn’t have time for this.

"Hurry it up," Hongjoong’s voice crackled in your ear.

"Yeah, I totally wasn’t planning on taking my time and sipping some whiskey while I’m at it," you snapped back. You could hear Wooyoung laughing in the background.

Then, just as frustration was starting to creep in, your eyes landed on a small, glass plaque on the desk.

Seojun’s name, etched in gold. You picked it up, flipping it over and there it was. A small, handwritten note, barely noticeable.

7482.

You grinned. Idiot.

Moving quickly, you punched in the numbers, the safe letting out a soft click as it unlocked. You pulled it open, snatching the small USB drive from inside.

Done. Easy.

Then, Footsteps. Right outside the door.

Your stomach dropped. "Shit," you whispered.

"What?" Hongjoong’s voice came sharp through the earpiece.

"You said the guards weren’t supposed to check this floor for another two hours."

A groan. "They weren’t."

"Then tell me why they’re right outside the damn door?"

Then Jongho’s voice, cursing. "Where the hell is Mingi?"

Seonghwa gritted his teeth, "Gambling."

You almost choked. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Are we even surprised?" Wooyoung said, voice dripping with amusement. "I told you not to bring him to the casino. He always gets distracted."

"Shut up and get her out of there," Yunho muttered.

You weren’t listening anymore. The voices outside were getting closer.

Your eyes darted across the room, searching—anything. And then—

A window.

You ran towards it, pushing it open, cold air immediately slamming against your skin. The city lights stretched out below, cars honking, the distant murmur of life continuing completely unaware that you were about to risk breaking your neck.

Clutching the USB drive in one hand, you gripped the edge of the window, stepping onto the thin ledge. The wind was brutal, cutting through the fabric of your dress. Your heels scraped against the ledge as you tried to steady yourself—you stumbled, catching yourself at the last second.

A series of very creative curses spilled from your lips. Yunho scoffed. "Never heard anyone swear this much before."

San’s voice, slightly amused. "Where are you?"

You took a shaky breath, gripping the pillar beside you as your balance wavered.

"One step away from death."

—The team was already waiting by the van, gathered in a loose semicircle under the dim glow of the streetlights. The tension was thick, but not because they were worried. But because they were arguing.

"I told you—don’t bring Mingi to the casino."

"Okay, but in my defense—"

"There is no defense!" Seonghwa snapped, arms crossed, looking dangerously close to smacking Mingi upside the head. "You were supposed to be watching for security! Not—not placing bets on a damn poker table!"

Mingi shrugged, completely unbothered. "I was winning."

"You—!" Seonghwa inhaled sharply, turning away like he needed a moment to pray for patience.

Wooyoung, meanwhile, was losing it. Laughing so hard he had to lean against Yunho for support. "You were right, hyung. This is why we don’t bring him here."

"Like watching a child," Jongho muttered, shaking his head.

Yeosang, who had been silently scrolling through his iPad the entire time, finally looked up. "Where is she?"

"Maybe she sold us," San suggested, only half-joking.

Jongho scoffed. "Or maybe she got caught."

"Or maybe she died," Wooyoung added, grinning like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Jongho tilted his head, considering. "Honestly, I’d prefer that over the first option."

"Wow, thanks," came a hoarse voice from behind them.

All eight of them turned in perfect sync.

There you were, leaning heavily against a metal pipe, completely disheveled. Hair a mess, dress wrinkled, breathing like you just ran a marathon.

Hongjoong blinked. "What the hell happened to you?"

You glared, lifting your hand. The USB drive dangled between your fingers. "I got the damn drive," you said, voice dry. "And almost died in the process, by the way. In case anyone cares."

"Nope," Jongho said immediately.

"Not really," Wooyoung added, smirking.

You rolled your eyes, shoving the drive into Hongjoong’s hand. "Next time, if you’re gonna send me on a mission, don’t let the walking skyscraper near a poker table."

"Hey," Mingi muttered. "It was a good game."

Hongjoong turned the USB over between his fingers, watching the way the dim light reflected off its smooth surface. He looked too pleased with himself, like he was holding a winning card no one else had seen.

You were still catching your breath when he finally spoke. "You know," he mused, voice casual, "this drive is useless."

Your heartbeat, still erratic from your near-death stunt, stumbled. "What?"

Hongjoong smirked, tapping the USB against his palm. "There’s nothing in it. It was a test."

Your body stiffened, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. A test? Your fingers curled at your sides as you processed.

The impossible ease of this mission. The predictable guard patterns. The fact that Hongjoong never seemed remotely concerned, even when you almost got caught.

"You’re telling me," you said slowly, voice colder than before, "that I just risked my life… for a test?"

Hongjoong gave a small tilt of his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. "The casino belongs to us. Seojun works for me."

You felt stupid. A slow, creeping anger slithered into your chest. How did you not see it? It made sense. Too much sense.

"Don’t look so shocked," Yeosang muttered from behind his iPad, not even bothering to look up. "It was necessary."

"Yeah," Wooyoung chimed in, arms crossed, grinning. "We had to make sure you wouldn’t run or sell us out the second you got the chance."

Jongho let out a short laugh. "Would’ve been funny if she tried, though."

San shook his head, smirking. "Nah. She’s not that dumb."

"You sure?" Yunho teased. "She did almost break her neck back there."

A sharp, burning frustration coiled in your stomach. You wanted to lash out, to snap something reckless—but you bit down on your tongue.

They were still the men who kidnapped you.

But at the same time… you couldn’t exactly blame them. It was smart. If you had been in their position, you might’ve done the same thing.

"You all suck," you muttered, narrowing your eyes.

Wooyoung grinned. "On the bright side, you’re not dead."

You inhaled slowly, forcing yourself to calm down.

"You got anything else planned for me?" you asked, voice clipped.

Hongjoong just smirked, slipping the USB into his pocket. "We’ll see."

With those two words, the conversation was over. The others started piling into the van, still amused by your reaction. You, on the other hand, were doing your best not to show just how embarrassed you were.

Without a word, you headed straight for the first seat—the one nearest to the door but furthest from them.

The van was huge, almost a mini-bus, with rows of seats stretching all the way to the back where the seven men sprawled comfortably. Too comfortably. Meanwhile, you sank into your seat, arms crossed, staring out the window like it personally offended you.

The van started moving.

Streetlights blurred past as you glared outside, jaw clenched. You still couldn’t believe it.

A damn test.

Every risk, every second of near-death, the whole mission—just one elaborate way to see if you’d run. And the worst part? It made sense. You were angry at them, but you were even angrier at yourself for not seeing it sooner.

A small scoff broke your thoughts.

You turned slightly—just enough to see Hongjoong leaning over the seat beside you, arms folded against the backrest, smirking.

"You look pissed," he mused.

"You don’t say," you muttered.

He chuckled, but instead of replying, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out.

Antiseptic cream.

You blinked at it before realizing—your palms. You hadn’t even noticed, but the skin was scraped raw, a painful souvenir from your little stunt on the pipes.

You hesitated, but then snatched the tube from him without a word.

Hongjoong didn’t move. Just stayed there, watching as you carefully applied the cream, the slight sting making you wince.

Finally, he spoke. "You handled yourself well tonight."

You scoffed. "Yeah, because I love almost dying for no reason."

Hongjoong hummed, clearly amused. "Don’t be so dramatic, sweetheart."

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, you finished applying the cream, shoving the cap back on a little too aggressively before tossing it back to him. He caught it easily, rolling it between his fingers.

Just when you thought he was finally going to leave you alone, you saw him shrug off his suit jacket.

You barely had time to process it before he threw it at you. You blinked, staring down at the expensive black fabric now draped over your lap.

"You’re shivering," he said simply, pushing himself off the seat.

"I’m—" You stopped. Okay, fine. Maybe you were cold. The dress you were given was meant to look nice, not keep you warm.

Still, you rolled your eyes. "What, suddenly feeling generous?"

Hongjoong just smirked. "Don’t get used to it."

And with that, he turned, heading back to the others.

You exhaled, glancing down at the jacket in your hands. It smelled like cologne and gunpowder.

For a second, you considered leaving it there. But then you sighed and pulled it on, letting the warmth sink into your skin.

—The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the silence.

For a split second, you forgot where you were. The bed beneath you was too soft, the air too still, the faint scent of expensive cologne and leather lingering in the sheets. Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through the heavy curtains. The room was unfamiliar—but not in a way that made you panic.

Right. Hongjoong had given you a room.

Now that you were technically part of the team, you weren’t stuck in a cell anymore. The room wasn’t extravagant, but compared to some of the places you’d slept in before—abandoned buildings, dirty motel rooms, street corners when things got bad—it was more than enough. A clean bed, fresh clothes, a door that locked from the inside. That was already more than you ever had.

But your moment of peace didn’t last long.

A loud knock on the door made your body jolt into high alert, your instincts snapping back into place. Before you could even sit up properly, the door swung open.

"Wake up," a voice said flatly.

You blinked. Yeosang stood in the doorway, looking as unbothered as ever, one hand gripping an iPad, the other resting against the doorframe. His expression was unreadable, sharp eyes scanning you like he was making sure you were still alive.

"Excuse me?" you muttered, voice rough from sleep.

He raised an eyebrow. "Hongjoong says to meet him at the practice arena. I’m just the messenger."

You frowned, trying to push yourself up, still groggy. "The practice what now?"

Yeosang sighed, clearly already over this conversation. "Training grounds, whatever you want to call it. Get up. He’s waiting."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked off, not bothering to make sure you followed..

You groaned, running a hand through your hair before dragging yourself out of bed. If you had any hope of keeping up with these people, you couldn’t afford to waste time.

Fifteen minutes later, you found yourself stepping into what could only be described as a personal fight club.

The underground practice arena was bigger than you expected—high ceilings, concrete walls, various training equipment scattered throughout. A boxing ring sat in the center, but what caught your attention was the man standing near the weights, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted the wraps on his hands.

Hongjoong.

He wasn’t in his usual expensive suits today. Instead, he wore a loose black tank top and sweatpants, his toned arms on full display. He looked relaxed.

His gaze flicked up when he heard you approach, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Took you long enough."

You folded your arms, giving him a look. "I wasn’t exactly expecting an early morning brawl."

He chuckled, motioning for you to step closer. "You’re going to need to learn how to fight properly. Pickpocketing and running won’t always save you."

You huffed but stepped forward anyway. "I do know how to fight."

"Sure," Hongjoong mused, tilting his head. "But I want to see it for myself."

He gestured toward the ring, and you sighed, stepping inside. The second you did, the atmosphere shifted. It was just the two of you now.

"You think you can take me?" he asked, rolling his shoulders.

You smirked. "I think I can surprise you."

"Then try."

Your feet barely made a sound as you closed the distance, aiming straight for his ribs with a sharp jab. But Hongjoong wasn’t just fast—he was anticipating you. He sidestepped smoothly, barely shifting his weight before he was behind you.

"Too slow," he muttered.

You spun around, adjusting your stance. Fine. If speed wouldn’t work, you’d try something else.

This time, you faked a punch, using the momentum to aim a kick at his side instead. It almost landed—but Hongjoong caught your ankle with ease, his grip firm but not crushing.

"Clever," he mused, tilting his head. "But predictable."

He shoved your leg away, throwing you off balance. You barely caught yourself before hitting the mat, breath coming a little faster now. But you weren’t done.

Your fist shot toward his jaw, only for him to duck effortlessly, his body moving like he had all the time in the world. And then—before you could react—his foot hooked behind your ankle, and your world tilted.

A sharp thud echoed as your back hit the mat.

You barely had time to process before Hongjoong was on top of you, pinning you down with one knee pressing against your thigh, hands gripping your wrists. His face hovered dangerously close, eyes glinting with something between amusement and control.

"Not bad," he murmured. "But not good enough."

You swallowed hard, refusing to look away. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He smirked, clearly enjoying this.

"You rely too much on speed," he continued, voice unhurried, as if he wasn’t holding you down effortlessly. "And instinct. It works on amateurs. But against someone trained?" His grip tightened slightly before he let go. "It’ll get you killed."

The second he released you, you rolled onto your feet, muscles aching from the fall. You expected him to gloat, but instead, he simply dusted off his hands, tilting his head slightly.

"You want to learn?"

You hesitated for only a second before giving a small nod.

"Good."

He grabbed your wrist, yanking you forward. You barely had time to react before your chest nearly collided with his, breath hitching at the sudden proximity. His grip was firm, but not crushing. Guiding. Before you could flinch away, he spun you around, pressing your back to his chest, his arms looping over yours in a controlled lock.

"Lesson one," he murmured, his breath ghosting against your ear. "Control."

Your muscles tensed on instinct. His hold wasn’t painful, but you couldn’t move. Every shift of your body pressed you further against him, the heat of his skin impossibly close through the thin fabric of your clothes.

"Getting caught in a hold like this means you’re already losing."

You swallowed hard, fingers twitching at your sides.

"Now," he continued, voice almost amused, "let’s see if you can get out."

You clenched your jaw, shifting your weight, trying to maneuver an escape. But Hongjoong’s grip was calculated—his arms tightening just enough whenever you tried to break free.

"Struggling won’t work," he murmured, his lips close enough that you felt every syllable. "Use their hold against them."

Instead of fighting his grip head-on, you shifted your stance, leaning into him rather than away. It was enough to make his weight shift, just barely—and in that split second, you twisted, slipping out of his grasp.

You stumbled back, chest rising and falling as you turned to face him.

Hongjoong just smirked. "Better."

You barely had time to catch your breath before he moved again.

This time, he came at you directly, his palm pressing against your shoulder to push you off balance. You caught yourself before falling, swiping at his legs in retaliation—but he jumped back smoothly, anticipating you again.

"Too slow," he taunted.

Your frustration flared, and you lunged again—only for him to catch your wrist mid-motion.

Before you knew it, he had twisted your arm behind your back, pressing you forward until your chest nearly touched the mat. His hand rested just above your hip, keeping you trapped in place, while the other held your arm firmly in position.

"You're fast," he murmured, low, almost mocking. "But you let yourself get frustrated. That’s a weakness."

You glared at the floor, lips parting slightly as you exhaled sharply through your nose. He was right. And that irritated you even more.

But before you could retaliate, Hongjoong suddenly let go. The second his grip loosened, you spun around—expecting him to step back.

He didn’t and you were suddenly too close. Your chest almost brushed his as you stopped abruptly, your breath catching in the tight space between you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unreadable.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

Hongjoong wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t laughing. He was just watching you, his gaze dark and steady, his breathing even. He was close. Too close. The weight of his body was warm, grounding, a sharp contrast to the chill of the gym air against your sweat-damp skin. Every small movement made you aware of just how little space there was between you.

You weren’t sure how long you stood like that—seconds, maybe longer.

"Get some rest," he murmured, stepping back. "We’ll try again tomorrow."

—The night was quiet—too quiet. Missions like these never went as planned, but tonight, something felt off from the start.

You stood with the others in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse, the air thick with gasoline and metal. The plan was simple: retrieve a shipment that belonged to them but had been stolen by a rival gang. Get in, grab it, and get out. No unnecessary bloodshed.

At least, that’s what you thought.

"Keep your comms open," Hongjoong murmured, adjusting the sleeves of his black jacket as he surveyed the surroundings. His voice was calm, but you’d been around him long enough to recognize when he was on edge.

Seonghwa was the first to move, his steps silent as he disappeared into the shadows. Yeosang stood beside you, scrolling through something on his damn iPad, completely unbothered. Jongho checked his gun, casting you a skeptical glance.

"Try not to mess this up, darling," Wooyoung teased through the earpiece, earning himself a smack from San.

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the hidden blade strapped to your thigh. You didn’t need weapons. Your hands were fast enough. But something told you tonight might be different.

Then, just as Yunho signaled that the coast was clear, everything went to hell.

Gunfire. Loud, sharp, and too close.

"Fucking hell," Mingi cursed, diving behind a stack of crates as bullets rained down on you. The rival gang had been waiting. You had walked straight into a trap.

"Get down!" Hongjoong barked, shoving you behind a metal container as more bullets whizzed past. The others were already fighting back—Jongho and Seonghwa taking out enemies one by one with brutal efficiency.

You could handle yourself in a fight. You had to. Years of surviving on the streets made you quick on your feet, a ghost when you needed to be. You weaved through the chaos, using your knife to disable anyone who got too close.

But then you saw him.

A man—one of the rival gang members—cornering Yunho, gun raised. You moved before you thought.

You ran, tackling the man before he could pull the trigger. The impact sent both of you crashing to the ground. Your knife was against his throat in an instant.

The man’s eyes were wide, terrified. His breathing was ragged, a silent plea forming on his lips. Kill him. That’s what Hongjoong would expect. That’s what everyone would expect.

But you couldn’t.

Your grip faltered. The hesitation lasted a second too long.

Pain exploded in your side as the man’s fist collided with your ribs, knocking the air out of your lungs. You stumbled, hand flying to your waist—he had a knife. You barely had time to react before he was on you again, and suddenly, you weren’t the one in control anymore.

A gunshot rang out. You flinched, but the bullet wasn’t meant for you.

The man collapsed, a clean shot to his skull. Hongjoong stood behind him, gun still raised.

Your chest heaved as you stared at the body, your mind racing.

Hongjoong’s jaw was tight as he grabbed your wrist, yanking you to your feet. His grip was bruising, fingers digging into your skin as he dragged you away from the fight.

"Move," he snapped, shoving you toward the exit.

The others were still fighting, but Hongjoong didn’t care. His priority was getting you the hell out of there.

The second you were inside the van, you ripped your wrist from his grip.

"What the fuck was that?" you spat, eyes burning with anger. The rest of the boys filed in behind you, panting, bruised, but alive. Wooyoung took the driver's seat, starting the engine.

Hongjoong turned to you, and for the first time since you met him, he looked furious.

"You hesitated," he said, voice dangerously low.

"I’m not a fucking killer," you snapped back, still breathing hard.

Hongjoong let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You think this is a joke?"

"I think you knew exactly what I was before you forced me into this mess," you shot back. "I’m a thief. I don’t kill people."

"You almost died," he growled, stepping closer. "Because you hesitated."

"It’s my problem," you hissed.

He was in front of you now, too close, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

"You," he said, voice like a blade against your throat, "are my problem."

"You don’t get to choose which parts of this life you accept," he continued, voice softer now but no less threatening. "If you’re with us, you do what’s necessary. Or you die."

You clenched your jaw. "I won’t cross that line."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair. Then, he chuckled—not amused, but something else.

"Then you better get faster, sweetheart," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your skin. "Because next time, I might not be there to save you."

—The second the van stopped, you shoved the door open and jumped out first, ignoring the weight of their stares burning into your back. You could still feel Hongjoong’s words curling around your throat like a noose. You’re my problem.

No, I’m your damn thief.

Your boots hit the pavement harder than necessary as you stormed inside the building. The hallway was dim, only a few overhead lights buzzing faintly, casting long shadows against the walls. You barely registered the familiar space—just another reminder that you were here now. Trapped.

You reached your room, pushing the door open with too much force, and slammed it shut behind you.

Your breath was still ragged as you sat down on the bed, palms pressing into your thighs. The adrenaline was wearing off now, leaving behind the weight of what had just happened.

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping the sheets as you tried to steady yourself. But no matter how many deep breaths you took, it didn’t erase the fact that you had frozen. That in this world, hesitation got you killed.

Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed shut.

Hongjoong.

Probably in his office, brooding like the dramatic bastard he was. You weren’t surprised. He was pissed, and for once, so were you.

A knock at your door snapped you out of your thoughts.

You didn’t answer. You weren’t in the mood. Didn’t matter. The door creaked open anyway.

Yunho.

Unlike the others, he didn’t lean against the frame with a smirk or crack a joke to lighten the mood. He simply walked in, calm and steady, shutting the door behind him before crossing the room and leaning against the dresser.

"You okay?"

You scoffed. "Do I look okay?"

Yunho didn’t react to the bite in your tone. He just crossed his arms, watching you for a moment before sighing.

"You’re lucky to be alive."

You let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, thanks to Hongjoong’s great aim."

Yunho tilted his head slightly, as if debating what to say next. Then, he pushed off the dresser and sat down beside you on the bed.

"You know he cares about you, right?"

You rolled your eyes. "He cares that he’d lose his best thief."

Yunho huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. "Maybe. But that’s not all."

Silence stretched between you. You refused to look at him, eyes trained on the floor, on your hands—anything but the truth in his words.

Yunho sighed again, running a hand through his hair. "Look. I get it. I know what it’s like, the first time you hesitate." He paused. "The first time you have to make that choice."

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the fabric of your pants.

"I don’t want to make that choice."

Yunho let that sit for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. "You will."

You turned to look at him now, finally meeting his eyes.

"Because if you don’t," he continued, "you won’t survive here."

The words sat heavy in your chest.

"Just… think about it," Yunho murmured, standing up.

He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "You’re good at what you do," he said, turning back to you. "But Hongjoong won’t always be there to save you."

Then, without another word, he left.

You sat there for a long time, staring at the closed door, feeling the weight of everything settle on your shoulders.

—The room was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the desk lamp casting sharp shadows against the walls. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat beside Hongjoong’s hand, his fingers tapping against the polished wood in a slow, irritated rhythm. His jacket was discarded over the chair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he leaned back, jaw clenched.

Seonghwa stood near the door, arms crossed. Unlike the others, he didn’t hesitate before speaking. "You’re being too hard on her."

Hongjoong exhaled through his nose, not even looking up. "No, I’m being realistic."

"You’re being an ass."

That finally made Hongjoong glance up. His dark eyes glinted under the light, amusement flickering for a second before fading just as fast. "She hesitated, Hwa. Almost got herself killed. Almost got us killed."

Seonghwa sighed, stepping further into the room. "She’s not a killer, Joong. She’s a thief."

"And thieves who hesitate get caught. Or worse." Hongjoong’s voice was sharp, the words laced with frustration. He picked up his glass, swirling the amber liquid before taking a slow sip. "She needs to learn."

"She is learning." Seonghwa’s voice was firm, unyielding. "But you don’t train someone by throwing them into the deep end and getting mad when they drown."

Hongjoong didn’t respond right away, but the way his fingers gripped the glass just a little tighter didn’t go unnoticed.

"She’s not ready," Seonghwa continued, softer this time. "You and I both know that."

Hongjoong sighed, tilting his head back slightly, eyes closing for a moment before he finally set the glass down with a dull clink. "And what? I go easy on her?" He scoffed. "That’ll get her killed even faster."

"She’s strong."

"She’s stubborn."

Seonghwa gave him a pointed look. "So are you."

Hongjoong let out a dry chuckle, rubbing his temple. "She pisses me off."

Seonghwa smirked slightly. "Because she doesn’t bend to your will?"

Hongjoong opened his mouth, then shut it, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him.

Seonghwa sighed, finally taking a seat across from him. His voice was quieter now. "You saw what happened today. She couldn’t do it. And I don’t think it was just fear. That��s not who she is."

"And that’s exactly why she won’t survive here," Hongjoong muttered.

Seonghwa tilted his head. "Or maybe that’s why she will."

Hongjoong let those words hang between them, the weight of them settling in his chest. He didn’t respond, just reached for his glass again, taking another slow sip.

Seonghwa stood up. "Just… ease up a little." Hongjoong didn’t look at him.

"Why do you care so much?" Seonghwa pressed.

"I care about all of you." His voice was firm, immediate.

Seonghwa scoffed, shaking his head. "That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it." He took a step forward, eyes locking onto Hongjoong’s. "You don’t react like this with any of us. When one of us messes up, you get mad, sure, but not like this."

Hongjoong’s hands clenched at his sides, his shoulders squared, his expression unreadable.

Seonghwa took that as his cue to leave. But just as he reached the door, Hongjoong spoke again, voice quieter this time. "She needs to understand that hesitation is the difference between life and death."

Seonghwa glanced over his shoulder. "She will." A small pause. "But don’t push her to the point she stops trusting us altogether."

Then, without another word, he walked out, leaving Hongjoong alone with his thoughts.

—The knock on your door was sharp, deliberate—the kind that didn’t wait for an invitation. You barely had time to roll over in bed and groan before the door swung open, revealing Hongjoong standing in the doorway, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but you could still feel the weight of last night’s argument lingering between you.

"Get up," he said flatly.

You buried your face in your pillow. "Go away."

"You’re not getting a choice in this, sweetheart."

Your muscles tensed. You hated that nickname. It was never sweet—always mocking, always sarcastic. You sat up with a scowl, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "What do you want?"

Hongjoong leaned against the doorframe, the dim morning light casting shadows across his face. "If you refuse to kill, fine," he said. "But you need to learn how to shoot."

You frowned. "I have a knife."

His brow arched. "And if someone has a gun?"

You clenched your jaw. You hated that he had a point.

"Five minutes," he said before turning on his heel and walking off. Like he already knew you’d follow.

The shooting range was at the edge of the compound, hidden beneath an old warehouse that looked abandoned from the outside but was anything but. The space smelled of gunpowder and metal, the walls lined with various weapons. Hongjoong stood beside the table, checking the ammo in the pistol before sliding the magazine into place with a practiced ease.

You stood stiffly beside him, arms crossed, still annoyed that he’d dragged you here.

He handed you the gun, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. "You ever shot before?"

You snorted. "Do I look like someone who’s shot before?"

His lips twitched. "No. But it’d be nice if you surprised me for once."

You rolled your eyes and took the gun, but the second you raised it, he let out a sharp exhale.

"Wrong," he muttered. Then, before you could react, he was behind you.

You stiffened as his hands settled over yours, guiding your grip. He was warm—too warm. His voice was low near your ear, calm but firm.

"Loosen your shoulders," he said. His fingers ran along your arms, adjusting your stance. "You’re too stiff. You won’t hit shit like that."

Your jaw tightened, but you followed his lead. "Feet apart," he continued, nudging your foot slightly with his. "Bend your knees a little."

You exhaled slowly, adjusting yourself.

Hongjoong hummed in approval, his hands lingering a second too long before he finally stepped back. "Better," he said. "Now aim."

You lifted the gun again, trying to focus on the target ahead, but the weight of his stare was distracting.

"Relax your grip," he murmured. You adjusted your hold.

"Pull the trigger gently. Don’t jerk it."

You inhaled, bracing yourself before squeezing the trigger. The shot rang out, echoing through the range.

You missed. You groaned, lowering the gun.

Hongjoong clicked his tongue, stepping forward again. Too close again. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, adjusting your aim. You could feel his breath against your cheek.

Your eyes flickered to his, only to realize he was already looking at you.

The space between you was barely there, his hand still over yours. The world outside the shooting range felt like it didn’t exist. For a split second, neither of you spoke.

Then, just as quickly as it happened, Hongjoong cleared his throat and stepped back. "Try again," he said, voice carefully neutral.

You swallowed, gripping the gun a little tighter.

The shot rang out. This time, you hit the target.

Hongjoong smirked. "See? You might not be useless after all."

You glared at him. "Careful. I’m armed now."

He chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the table. "You’re still a long way from being dangerous, sweetheart."

You scowled. But when you turned back to the target, your hands weren’t shaking anymore.

—The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. You sat at the far end of the long conference table, arms crossed, staring at the blueprint of a luxurious penthouse sprawled across the surface. Another mission. Another mess you were being dragged into. The rest of the team was already gathered, some leaning against the walls, others sitting lazily in their chairs.

Hongjoong stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, rings glinting under the low lighting. "We need the ledger," he started, tapping his finger against the blueprint. "It’s in Kang Jisoo’s private office. Second floor, past security, locked behind a biometric safe."

You frowned. "That sounds impossible."

"It is," Yeosang muttered, scrolling through his tablet like he couldn’t be bothered to be here. "Which is why you two are going in as his guests."

You blinked. "Who’s ‘you two’?"

Hongjoong didn’t even look up. "You and me."

"Wait, wait, wait," Wooyoung cut in, barely holding back a grin. "You’re telling me she and Hongjoong are going undercover as a couple?"

Your stomach twisted. "No way."

"You don’t have a choice," Hongjoong said smoothly, finally looking up at you. "Kang Jisoo only trusts couples. He has a soft spot for rich, in-love guests with money to burn. Any solo operatives would immediately raise suspicion."

San whistled, leaning back in his chair. "This is gonna be fun."

You ignored him, focusing on Hongjoong. "There has to be another way."

"There isn’t."

You gritted your teeth, heart pounding in frustration. This was the worst idea imaginable. You barely trusted Hongjoong, and now you were supposed to pretend to be some lovestruck couple?

Wooyoung nudged Seonghwa. "Oh, this is gonna be hilarious."

Seonghwa shot him a warning look. "Stay focused."

Ignoring the others, Hongjoong pushed a sleek black envelope across the table toward you. "Inside are the details. Our identities, our backstory, and everything Kang Jisoo needs to believe we’re the real deal."

You hesitated before picking it up. Your new name was printed neatly on the first page. Below it, in elegant cursive—‘Spouse: Kim Hongjoong.’

You wanted to burn it.

"How long do we have before we go in?" you asked tightly.

"Three days," Jongho said, arms crossed as he leaned against the table. "Enough time to get your story straight and make sure neither of you slip up."

You exhaled through your nose. "This is a terrible idea."

Hongjoong smirked. "It’s an effective one."

Across the room, Yunho sighed. "Try not to kill each other before the mission starts, yeah?"

No promises.

—You sat stiffly on the couch, flipping through the file in your hands for what felt like the hundredth time. Across from you, Hongjoong lounged in an armchair, legs crossed, looking completely at ease. Of course he was. He wasn’t the one about to get grilled like a schoolkid cramming for an exam.

The others were scattered around the room, some leaning against the walls, others perched on furniture, all of them way too excited about this.

"Alright, lovebirds," Wooyoung grinned, spinning a pen between his fingers. "Let’s see how believable this marriage is."

You groaned. "This is ridiculous."

"Ridiculous would be getting caught because you don’t know your own husband’s birthday," Yeosang muttered, still scrolling through his tablet.

You scowled at him, then flipped to the section labeled ‘Personal Details’. You were supposed to be married to Hongjoong for three years. Met at a gallery in Paris. He proposed on a yacht. All the details were laid out, but they felt foreign—like wearing someone else’s skin.

"Let’s start easy," Yunho said. "What’s your anniversary?"

You glanced down at the file. "April 14th."

Hongjoong hummed. "Good. Where did we go for our honeymoon?"

"Maldives," you answered smoothly.

Jongho leaned forward. "What’s his favorite drink?"

You paused. Shit. You had skimmed that part, assuming it wouldn’t come up.

Seonghwa sighed. "If you don’t even know that, how are you supposed to convince Kang Jisoo that you’re in love?"

You clenched your jaw, taking a wild guess. "Whiskey?"

"Wrong," Hongjoong said, tilting his head. "Negroni."

You glared at him. "Who even drinks that?"

"I do," he said smugly.

Wooyoung snorted. "This is gonna be a disaster."

"Alright," Seonghwa finally cut in, probably to save you from having a mental breakdown. "We should wrap this up. But you two need to get better at this. You slip up once, and the whole operation goes to hell."

"You memorized everything already, didn’t you?" you asked, narrowing your eyes at Hongjoong.

He merely smirked, tapping his temple. "I don’t like losing."

You swore under your breath. This was going to be a long mission.

—The morning of the mission, you were rudely awakened by a sharp knock on your door. You groaned, turning over in bed, pretending you hadn’t heard it. Maybe if you ignored it long enough, whoever it was would go away.

No such luck.

A second later, the door creaked open, and Seonghwa’s voice cut through the quiet. “Get up.”

You cracked open an eye to glare at him, only to groan again when you saw the bundle in his arms. A neatly folded, expensive-looking gown draped over his forearm.

“Oh, hell no.” You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “I am not wearing that.”

Seonghwa raised an unimpressed brow, stepping further into the room. “You’re infiltrating a high-profile event as Hongjoong’s fiancée. What did you expect? Jeans and a hoodie?”

“That would be ideal.”

Seonghwa sighed, tossing the dress onto the bed beside you. “You have twenty minutes to get ready.”

You scowled. “And if I don’t?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Then I’ll let Wooyoung come in here and dress you himself.”

You visibly shuddered at the thought. Wooyoung was many things—loud, irritating, way too smug for his own good—but above all, he was shameless. The last thing you needed was for him to burst into your room, waving around a curling iron and critiquing your ‘lack of class.’

“Fine,” you muttered, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “But if I break an ankle in this thing, I’m haunting all of you.”

Seonghwa just smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

The dress Seonghwa had given you was beautiful, sure—but it was also ridiculously difficult to put on. The deep emerald silk hugged your body perfectly, the slit high enough to allow movement but still elegant. The problem? The damn zipper.

You had been wrestling with it for the past five minutes, twisting your arms at unnatural angles, but it wouldn’t budge past the middle of your back. And, of course, in a house full of trained mafia members, none of them were exactly the kind of people you’d casually ask for help zipping up a dress.

You let out a sigh, debating if you could maybe just leave it halfway up when the door suddenly swung open without warning.

"You're taking forever," Hongjoong's voice came lazily as he stepped in, fixing his sleeve. "The car's ready, and—"

He stopped mid-sentence. You froze too, your bare back exposed to him as you stood in front of the mirror. Your hands instinctively gripped the front of the dress as if that would help, your breath catching in your throat.

His gaze locked onto yours through the reflection, his movements stilling completely. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

His tie matched your dress. You noticed it then, how the color blended perfectly, how intentional it felt.

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. His hands, usually so confident and sure, were unmoving at his sides.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. "Zip me up?"

For the first time, he hesitated. Then, as if snapping himself out of it, he stepped forward. His approach was slow, almost cautious. The heat of his presence behind you made your spine stiffen, every nerve hyperaware of how close he was.

His fingers brushed your shoulder lightly as he reached forward, gathering your hair and sweeping it over one side. His touch was gentle—so unlike the Hongjoong you were used to. No calculated moves, no teasing smirk.

You shivered, though you weren’t sure if it was from the chill or the sudden proximity.

He caught that, his lips quirked up for just a second before he reached for the zipper.

His knuckles skimmed against your spine as he pulled it up, the touch feather-light but enough to send an unfamiliar heat crawling up your neck. You kept your gaze locked onto the mirror, watching as his eyes followed the path of the zipper, his face unreadable.

When he reached the top, he didn’t step away immediately. His fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary before he finally let go.

"You’re done," he murmured, voice lower than usual.

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Hongjoong met your eyes in the mirror again, something unreadable flickering behind his usual sharp gaze. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving you standing there, heart hammering in your chest.

—The van was gone. Instead, a sleek black car sat waiting in the driveway, its polished surface gleaming under the dim streetlights. Hongjoong stood beside it, leaning against the passenger door, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other toyed absentmindedly with his cufflinks.

"You take longer than I expected," he mused as you approached, opening the car door for you.

You didn't respond, still reeling from the moment in the room just minutes ago. Instead, you slid into the passenger seat, smoothing the fabric of your dress as you adjusted yourself. Hongjoong walked around to the driver's side, settling in with a practiced ease before starting the car.

The engine purred to life, and with a smooth motion, he pulled out onto the road.

The silence stretched between you, tense and unspoken. You kept your gaze fixed on the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of neon lights and dark alleys. The entire drive had an eerie stillness to it—something about being in a car alone with Hongjoong made the air feel heavier, charged in a way you couldn’t explain.

After a few minutes, he finally broke the silence. "Nervous?" His voice was casual, but there was an edge to it.

You turned to look at him, expression neutral. "Should I be?"

He let out a quiet chuckle, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. "You tell me."

You rolled your eyes and went back to staring outside. The drive stretched on, the atmosphere shifting between charged silence and occasional glances from Hongjoong that you pretended not to notice.

At a red light, he leaned back in his seat, tilting his head toward you. "This is your first mission as playing the role of my lover." His lips curled into a smirk. "Try not to look so disgusted by the idea."

You scoffed, crossing your arms. "I’d rather not think about it at all."

His smirk deepened. "You're a terrible liar."

You didn’t have a response to that, mostly because he wasn’t wrong. The idea of pretending to be his lover wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but admitting that was out of the question.

The car slowed as you approached the mansion’s long, winding driveway, the wrought-iron gates parting as if they had been expecting you. You took a deep breath, straightening your posture as the reality of the mission settled in.

"Just follow my lead," Hongjoong murmured, his voice lower now, more serious. "And don’t forget—we’re supposed to be madly in love."

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "I’ll try not to die from the excitement."

He just chuckled under his breath, pulling the car up to the grand entrance. "Welcome to the show, sweetheart."

The mansion loomed ahead, bathed in golden light that spilled from the massive chandeliers inside. The grand entrance was framed by towering marble pillars, and beyond the open doors, the warm glow of crystal chandeliers reflected off polished floors.

Couples dressed in the finest attire flowed effortlessly into the event, their laughter and hushed conversations blending into the soft melody of a live orchestra. The scent of expensive perfume and aged whiskey filled the air, wrapping around you like a second skin.

The second the car came to a stop, a valet stepped forward, bowing slightly before Hongjoong flicked the keys in his direction. "Don’t scratch it," he said smoothly, barely sparing the man a glance. The valet nodded, quickly taking the car and pulling away.

As you stepped out, the cool night air hit you, making you shiver slightly. The dress Seonghwa had picked was stunning, but practical? Not in the slightest. The slit ran high, teasing too much with each step, and the fabric clung in all the right ways, but the biting chill didn’t care about aesthetics.

Hongjoong rounded the car and came to stand beside you, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves before extending his arm. "Shall we?"

You hesitated for half a second before slipping your hand into the crook of his arm, fingers grazing the smooth fabric of his suit jacket. It was meant to be a simple gesture, something natural for a couple walking into an event like this. But the second your hand settled, he pulled you closer—so close you stumbled, your heel catching on the stone pavement.

Before you could react, Hongjoong steadied you with a firm grip, his other hand coming up to press lightly against your waist. Your noses nearly brushed, his breath warm against your skin as he leaned in ever so slightly.

"It has to look real," he whispered, his lips barely moving.

Your breath hitched, and for a second, neither of you moved. His eyes flickered over your face, sharp and unreadable, but something about the way he held you there made the world blur around you. The murmuring voices, the distant clinking of champagne glasses—it all faded.

You forced yourself to exhale, nodding slightly. "Right. Real."

His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but close. Then, with a final squeeze to your waist, he pulled away just enough to lead you forward.

Hongjoong’s grip on your arm remained steady, guiding you through the sea of people with practiced ease. He belonged here—he moved like someone who knew he was untouchable, every step controlled, every glance carrying weight.

You, on the other hand, were hyper-aware of everything. The way the air buzzed with hidden agendas. The way eyes lingered a second too long. And most importantly, the way Hongjoong's fingers pressed lightly against your waist, keeping you grounded in a room full of sharks.

"You’re doing fine," he murmured near your ear, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. "Just smile, sweetheart. Pretend you like me a little."

You let out a breathy scoff, tilting your head up at him just slightly. "That’s pushing it."

He only chuckled, his lips curving into that infuriating smirk. "Fake it better, then."

Before you could roll your eyes, before you could even think of a sharp response, his arm slid away from yours—only to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The movement was smooth, natural, as if he had done it a thousand times before. And maybe he had, just not with you.

Your breath hitched for a fraction of a second, and you knew he noticed. Of course, he did. His fingers pressed lightly into the fabric of your dress, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin. He was claiming you in the most effortless way, a silent announcement to the room that you were his for the night. His date, his partner, his distraction—whatever story they wanted to believe, Hongjoong was letting them.

The shift in attention was immediate. People who had been subtly watching before were now openly glancing in your direction, curious murmurs hidden behind crystal champagne flutes. Some eyes lingered with interest, others with suspicion.

"Relax," Hongjoong murmured, his voice a soft hum against your ear. "You’re supposed to enjoy this."

Enjoy? The sheer audacity of him. But you knew better than to stiffen under the weight of so many watchful eyes. So, you did what you had to. You leaned in, just slightly, tilting your head toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You're having way too much fun with this," you whispered back, your voice light, teasing, the way you imagined a woman in love would sound.

His thumb brushed against your waist, a barely-there touch, but enough to make your skin prickle. "If you’re going to play a role, sweetheart, you might as well play it well."

You smiled, a slow, knowing smile, tilting your chin up to look at him as if he had just whispered something sweet and not borderline condescending. The act was seamless, almost effortless, but it was still just that—an act.

"Lucky for you, I always play my roles well."

The words were meant to be smug, but Hongjoong only grinned, the kind of grin that said, we’ll see about that.

Hongjoong chuckled, amused, before taking a slow sip of his own drink. His eyes scanned the room, and you followed his gaze, recognizing the moment his expression sharpened ever so slightly. A man, mid-fifties, sharply dressed in a navy suit, was making his way toward you both.

Kang Jisoo. The owner of the estate. The man you were here to steal from.

Your fingers instinctively tightened around the delicate glass in your hand, but you kept your expression relaxed, the same way Hongjoong did. His grip around your waist subtly shifted, his fingers pressing slightly firmer against your hip, almost like a silent command to stay still, stay calm.

"Captain," Jisoo greeted, his tone light, casual, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that said he didn’t trust easily. He looked at you next, his gaze dragging over you like he was trying to figure something out.

Hongjoong smiled easily, a practiced smirk that barely reached his eyes. "Jisoo, I was wondering when you’d find me."

Jisoo let out a small chuckle, but his eyes never left yours. "And who’s this?"

"This," Hongjoong said smoothly, "is my darling."

You barely had a second to react before he turned toward you, his arm still securely wrapped around you as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. The touch was fleeting, but his breath lingered near your skin, warm, steady. A silent warning. Play along.

You exhaled slowly, schooling your features into something softer, something lovestruck, and turned your gaze to Jisoo. "I’ve heard a lot about you, Kang Jisoo," you said, voice smooth, perfectly polite. "My husband speaks highly of you."

Jisoo hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Is that so?" His tone was mild, but you could see the gears turning in his head. Suspicion.

Your pulse quickened, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you took a risk. One that might make or break the illusion.

You turned to Hongjoong, resting your hand lightly against his chest, your fingers grazing the fabric of his suit. Then, before you could second-guess it, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

It was brief, barely a touch, but when you pulled back, you caught the flicker of surprise in Hongjoong’s usually unreadable eyes.

Jisoo watched closely, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Hongjoong, to his credit, recovered fast. His grip on you tightened slightly, his hand sliding up your waist to rest just beneath your ribs. His smirk returned, this time more genuine.

Jisoo studied the two of you for a moment longer before nodding slowly, as if deciding to let it go. "Well, I hope you both enjoy the evening."

Hongjoong gave a short nod. "We will."

Jisoo walked away, but even as he disappeared into the crowd, you could feel the tension in Hongjoong’s posture. You glanced up at him, searching his expression.

"You didn’t have to do that," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

You tilted your head slightly, feigning innocence. "Do what?"

His smirk returned, but this time, it was slower, more calculated. "You’ll pay for that later, sweetheart."

—The grand ballroom was alive with the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the soft melody of a string quartet. But your mind was elsewhere—focused on the second-floor office, hidden past layers of security and surveillance.

Hongjoong’s fingers barely brushed yours as he subtly tugged you toward the far end of the room, away from the main crowd. It was seamless, the way he maneuvered you both, weaving through guests like this was just another stroll at a gala.

As you neared the hallway leading toward the restricted area, his voice was low in your ear. “Cameras shift every ten seconds. We take the blind spot and move when the waiter passes. Act natural.”

You nodded slightly, fingers brushing the stem of your glass. Just two lovers sneaking off for a moment alone. Nothing suspicious.

The moment the waiter moved past, you both stepped into the hallway, slipping behind a curtain leading to the back corridors. The noise of the party dulled instantly, replaced by the soft hum of the security system.

"Left," Hongjoong whispered, leading the way down the hall. The lights here were dimmer, meant only for staff, but it worked in your favor.

The door to Jisoo’s private office was at the end of the hall, a sleek black panel with a biometric scanner. Hongjoong pulled out a small device from his jacket, attaching it to the scanner’s side. A small light flickered red, working its magic to bypass the system.

“You always this prepared?” you murmured, glancing at him.

His lips twitched. “You have no idea, sweetheart.”

A soft beep signaled the override, and the lock clicked open. Hongjoong pushed the door inward, stepping inside first, scanning the room before letting you follow.

The office was pristine—dark wood, leather, and a massive window overlooking the estate. But your focus was on the safe built into the wall behind the desk.

“Time’s ticking,” Hongjoong muttered, already moving toward it.

You kneeled, fingers brushing over the keypad. Biometric lock. You knew this already. That was why Hongjoong had procured a fingerprint mold beforehand. He handed it to you silently, eyes scanning the door as you pressed the gel-like material onto the scanner.

For a second, nothing happened. Then, the lock clicked open.

You exhaled, reaching in for the file, fingers closing around the thick folder. Just as you turned to Hongjoong—

Footsteps.

Your head snapped up. Hongjoong’s gaze darkened, sharp and alert. The hallway outside. Close. Too close.

Hongjoong grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward the corner of the room, where a barely-there gap between the bookshelf and the wall created the smallest possible hiding space. Before you could protest, he pulled you in, pressing both of you into the tight space.

You froze, barely daring to breathe. Hongjoong’s body was flush against yours, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm while your own heart pounded wildly. His arm curled around your waist, anchoring you against him, his fingers pressing firmly into the small of your back.

A flashlight beam swept across the room.

Hongjoong’s other hand moved—slow, deliberate. His fingertips ghosted over your lips, a silent command to stay quiet.

Your breathing hitched, eyes flickering up to meet his. Even in the dim light, you could see the sharp angles of his face, the way his gaze locked onto yours, unwavering. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but he didn't.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was the soft hum of the security radio crackling from the guard outside.

Then, the light receded. The door shut again.

You swallowed, suddenly acutely aware of how close you still were. Hongjoong’s fingers hadn’t moved from your waist. His breath was warm against your cheek, his hand still lightly brushing your lips.

Slowly, you reached up, wrapping your fingers around his wrist, gently pulling his hand away.

“We should go,” you whispered.

His eyes lingered on yours for a second longer before he finally stepped back, exhaling softly. “Yeah.”

You turned, pushing down whatever lingering feeling had settled in your chest, and crept toward the door. The hallway was clear now, the guards seemingly moving along with their patrol. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady your nerves.

But as soon as you both stepped out, the sharp click of a safety being turned off made your blood run cold.

“Move, and I shoot.”

A guard stood at the far end of the hall, gun raised, finger hovering over the trigger. His eyes flickered between you and Hongjoong, narrowing with suspicion.

“Hands up,” he ordered.

Hongjoong, always smooth, barely even hesitated before lifting his hands slightly, his expression one of careful indifference. You followed suit, though your mind was already racing.

Hongjoong’s voice was eerily calm when he spoke. “Let’s not do anything rash. You don’t want to shoot. We don’t want to die. Let’s just talk—”

“Shut up.” The guard stepped forward, grip tightening around the gun. “I know who you are.”

Shit.

Hongjoong shifted slightly, positioning himself in front of you just the tiniest bit. The guard noticed. His lips curled.

“She’s important, huh?” he mused, taking another step closer. His gun tilted slightly, no longer pointed at Hongjoong’s chest but at yours. “I bet the boss would love to have a chat with her.”

You stiffened seeing Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. In the second that the guard’s attention was more on you, Hongjoong moved.

A sharp step forward, a twist of his wrist—his hand slammed into the guard’s arm, knocking the gun downward just as the trigger was pulled. A deafening crack echoed through the hallway as the bullet buried itself into the floor.

Then all hell broke loose.

Hongjoong was fast, but the guard was strong. They struggled, limbs tangling as Hongjoong fought for control of the weapon. Another shot fired into the ceiling. The sound was so loud in the enclosed space that your ears rang.

Your mind screamed at you to move, to do something—

But then it happened. The guard got the upper hand, twisting Hongjoong’s arm back with a sickening force. Hongjoong let out a sharp, pained grunt, his knees nearly buckling. The gun was turning, tilting—pointed right at him.

Before you could think, your fingers curled around the knife strapped to your thigh. One step forward. A swift, desperate movement. The blade slid between his ribs with no resistance.

The guard froze. His mouth opened—silent, stunned. Then, with a ragged exhale, he crumpled to the floor.

Dead.

The knife was still clutched in your trembling fingers, warm and slick. Blood coated your hands, thick and dark, staining your skin. It dripped onto the floor, pooling beneath the man who just seconds ago had been alive.

Hongjoong turned to you, rubbing his wrist, wincing slightly. But the moment he saw your expression—saw the way you were shaking, your eyes wide, horrified—he stepped closer.

“Hey—”

“I—I killed him.” Your voice was barely a whisper, strangled.

Hongjoong reached for you, but you stumbled back. Your breaths came in short, shallow gasps. Too fast. The walls felt like they were closing in. The blood—it was everywhere. On your fingers, under your nails. You couldn’t breathe.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” Hongjoong said, his tone gentler now, softer. He grabbed your wrist, firm but careful. “Breathe.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, heart slamming against your ribs. You couldn’t stop looking at the body.

“I didn’t—I don’t—I don’t kill people,” you choked out.

“I know.” His voice was steady, unwavering. “You had to. It was him or us.”

You shook your head, still gasping, still shaking. “I—I can’t—”

Hongjoong cursed under his breath, then did the only thing he could think of—he grabbed both sides of your face, forcing you to look at him.

“Breathe,” he ordered. “Focus on me.”

His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, grounding you. His touch was warm, real. Not cold like the body behind you. His gaze was sharp, but not unkind.

“Listen to my voice,” he murmured. “You’re okay. You’re here. With me.”

You tried to match your breathing to his, tried to drown out the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Slowly, the panic ebbed, just enough for your vision to clear, for your lungs to expand again.

Hongjoong let out a breath of his own, relieved, but his hands didn’t move from your face. “We have to go,” he said. “Now.”

You nodded weakly, still unsteady.

He let go, stepping back only to pull off his jacket. He grabbed one of your hands, rubbing the blood off with the sleeve before slipping the coat over your shoulders, covering the rest of it.

“You’re okay,” he said again, quieter this time.

You didn’t believe it.

But you let him pull you away.

—Hongjoong didn’t waste a second. The moment you were steady enough to move, he grabbed your wrist and led you away from the body, his grip firm but not rough. His pace was quick, urgent, his eyes flickering around the hallway to make sure no one else had heard the gunshots or the fight. The mansion was still alive with music and laughter, but it wouldn’t be long before someone noticed the missing guard.

You barely processed anything as he guided you down the stairs, through the corridors, and out the side entrance. Your mind was still reeling, stuck on the image of the blood on your hands, the weight of the knife, the feeling of it piercing flesh.

Hongjoong’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts. “We’re almost there.”

The sleek black car sat at the far end of the driveway, out of the main view of the entrance. He didn’t let go of you, only releasing your wrist for a second to yank open the back door and toss the stolen file onto the seat. Then he turned back to you, his eyes flicking down, assessing.

“Get in,” he said, softer than before.

You didn’t argue, slipping into the passenger seat on autopilot. The moment the door shut, Hongjoong rounded the car, climbing in behind the wheel. Without hesitation, he started the engine, maneuvering out of the driveway with practiced ease, keeping his movements smooth, natural—like nothing had happened.

The mansion disappeared into the night behind you, but you barely noticed.

Your hands were still shaking. They rested on your knees, but the tremors wouldn’t stop, even as you tried to clench them into fists.

Hongjoong noticed immediately. His eyes flicked toward you before returning to the road, but then, without a word, his right hand reached over, covering yours. His palm was warm, steady, a grounding contrast to your trembling fingers.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the soft hum of the tires against the road, the occasional streetlight casting fleeting glows into the car.

“You did what you had to do,” he finally murmured, thumb absently brushing against your knuckles. “You saved me.”

Your throat felt tight, like something heavy was lodged there, something impossible to swallow. You didn’t respond, just stared at the way his fingers curled over yours, keeping you tethered.

Hongjoong sighed, rubbing his thumb in slow circles, as if coaxing you out of your daze. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You weren’t sure if you believed him. The weight of what you had done sat heavy in your chest, suffocating, pressing down on your ribs like a vice. Your hands were still stained, phantom blood lingering even after Hongjoong had wiped them clean with a cloth he found in the car. The scent of it clung to your skin, metallic and sickly sweet.

You didn’t even realize when the mansion came into view. The headlights cut through the dark, illuminating the grand entrance as the car rolled to a smooth stop.

The moment the engine shut off, you reached for the door, pushing it open with shaking fingers. You just needed to get inside—to your room. To scrub your hands raw, to tear off the dress that now felt suffocating against your skin, to forget the feeling of the knife plunging into flesh.

As the mansion doors swung open, you barely registered the group waiting inside. The others were all there—standing in the living room, their faces unreadable. Some looked concerned, others wary. Their postures stiffened when they saw you, their eyes flicking between you and Hongjoong, as if trying to gauge the situation.

Seonghwa was the first to rise fully from his seat, brows furrowing as he stepped forward. "What happened—"

You stormed past them, heels clicking sharply against the marble floors, the weight of Hongjoong’s jacket slipping off one shoulder. The room felt too bright, too open. You needed to get out of there.

Hongjoong didn’t stop you. But you could feel his eyes on your back as you disappeared down the hall.

—The door slammed shut behind you, rattling in its frame. You barely noticed. Your fingers trembled as you reached behind you, dragging the zipper of the dress down with jerky, uneven movements. It slipped off your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a heap of expensive fabric. You stepped out of it, barely feeling the cold air against your skin, barely feeling anything at all.

The bathroom was silent except for your shallow breathing as you turned the shower knob, watching as water cascaded down, steam curling into the air. You stepped under it without hesitation, letting the scorching heat sting your skin, letting it scald away the remnants of tonight.

Blood.

It wasn’t there anymore—you had scrubbed it off in the car, had wiped it away—but you could still see it, feel it, seeping into your skin, under your nails, staining you in a way you weren’t sure would ever fade. Your chest felt tight, the memory flashing behind your eyes like a cruel replay. The blade sinking in, the way his body jerked, the sound—God, the sound.

You pressed your forehead against the tiled wall, eyes squeezing shut. You weren’t supposed to do that. That wasn’t who you were. You were a thief, not a murderer. But when you saw him coming for Hongjoong, when you saw the gun raised, the look in his eyes, you hadn’t thought. You had just… moved.

You saved him.

It hit you all at once, the truth settling in like a weight pressing on your chest. If you hadn’t acted, Hongjoong would have been the one on the floor. Not breathing. Not alive.

You inhaled shakily, letting the realization crash over you.

You killed someone.

But you saved him.

The water poured over you, washing away everything but the one thing you couldn’t shake.

The fact that, if you had to, you would do it again.

—Hongjoong had been thinking about your reaction the whole drive back. He had seen fear before—lived in it, caused it—but the way it had taken over your face tonight, the way your hands had shaken, the way your breath had come out in sharp, broken gasps, was different. It wasn’t fear of dying. It wasn’t fear of pain. It was fear of what you had done. Of yourself.

You didn’t belong in his world.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, unwanted, undeniable. He had always known it—always known you were different, that you weren’t built for this life the way he and the others were. But seeing it tonight, seeing the horror in your eyes as you looked down at your own hands, had made something twist inside him.

He didn’t like it.

You looked better when you were scowling at him, rolling your eyes, throwing some sarcastic remark his way. You looked better when you were annoyed, when you were pushing back, when you weren’t afraid of him or anything else. But tonight, you had looked small. Shaken. Quiet.

And Hongjoong hated that.

With a sigh, he found himself outside your door, hesitating for only a second before knocking.

No response. He knocked again, a little firmer this time. When there was still no answer, he opened the door, stepping inside carefully.

You were sitting on the bed, your legs pulled up slightly, hair damp and clinging to your skin. Your face was still flushed from the heat of the shower, but your eyes… your eyes looked hollow. Distant.

Hongjoong exhaled softly, leaning against the doorframe.

He really, really didn’t like seeing you like this.

For the first time in weeks, Hongjoong felt something close to regret settle in his chest. He had done this to you. He had taken you from whatever life you had, dragged you into this world, forced you to play a game you never signed up for. And for weeks, he had justified it—told himself you’d be fine, that you were strong, that you were smart. That you’d adapt.

But tonight had proved what he had been denying since the day he forced you into this life.

You weren’t meant to be here.

You weren’t a killer.

You weren’t like him.

Hongjoong had seen you fight, had seen you steal, had seen you navigate situations with quick thinking and sharp words. But he had never seen you with blood on your hands. He had never seen your face shatter the way it did tonight, never seen you look so lost, so utterly destroyed by what you had done. And he had been the one to put you in that position.

He forced a breath out, running a hand through his hair. “You should go.”

Your head snapped up, eyes wide, brows furrowing. “What?”

“You should leave,” he repeated, his voice quieter this time. “Go back to your life. Before all of this.”

You stared at him like he had lost his mind. “Are you serious?”

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. “Dead serious.”

You exhaled sharply, standing up so fast the bed creaked beneath you. “So that’s it? You just decide I don’t belong here, and suddenly I have to go?”

His expression hardened. “You don’t belong here.”

“Oh, really?” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “That’s funny, considering you didn’t seem to give a shit about that when you kidnapped me.”

His stomach twisted. He didn’t have a defense for that.

You took a step closer, your voice rising. “You forced me into this. You made me a part of this world. And now that I actually did something that saved your life, you decide it’s too much for me?”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“But I did,” you shot back. “And I would do it again.”

Something in his chest cracked. Hongjoong shook his head, looking away. “This isn’t you. You’re not like us. You—”

“Stop telling me what I am and what I’m not,” you interrupted, stepping even closer. “I don’t care if I’m not like you. I don’t care if I don’t belong here. You don’t get to make this choice for me.”

Hongjoong let out a humorless laugh. “You think this is a choice? You think you can just keep pretending this won’t change you?” His voice rose, frustration bleeding through. “You killed someone tonight.”

“I know what I did,” you snapped, your voice breaking slightly.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “And I don’t want you to have to do it again.”

And then you whispered, “Why do you care so much?” He froze. You stared at him, searching his face. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, something desperate flashing in his eyes. He looked away, breathing heavily.

“Hongjoong,” you said quietly.

His entire body tensed. It was the first time you had ever said his name. No sarcasm, no mocking tone. Just his name. And it undid him completely.

His head snapped up, eyes locking onto yours. He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, like he was trying to hold something back.

But then you asked again, softer this time. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because I fucking love you!”

The words ripped out of him, raw and unfiltered, as if they had been clawing at his throat for weeks, waiting to escape.

Your breath hitched, your eyes widening. Hongjoong’s own expression was wild—like he couldn’t believe he had said it either. But he didn’t take it back. He just stared at you, breathing hard, waiting for you to say something, to do anything.

You reached for him, hands trembling slightly as they cupped his face. He stiffened at first, but then melted into your touch, his lips parting slightly.

“You’re an idiot,” you whispered, voice breaking. “But I would do it again. For you.”

His hands came up, covering yours, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“But I would.”

Hongjoong exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against yours. And then, in the silence, in the lingering tension of everything that had been said, you kissed him.

Hongjoong groaned softly against your lips, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tight, anchoring yourself to the moment.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he pressed one last lingering kiss against your lips before murmuring,

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

taglist : : @callmeagardengnome @serinebsblog @vtyb23 @choisanchwego @monsta-x-jagi @kyunlov @lcvejjoong @blueginz @lunaryoongie @yeon103 @spenceatiny18 @darlingz99 @matchahintonagar @ateezswonderland

© kysstar

[rrysbabydoll]

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader.

CW: Explicit sexual content, D/S dynamics, semi-public setting, possessive/soft-dom Harry, consensual power dynamics, clingy/whiny reader, teasing.

Synopsis: While on a family vacation in Italy, you cling to Harry during a crowded bathroom moment, whispering needy things until he gives in and takes care of you in private.

The mirror barely fit them all, but it didn’t matter, the golden wash of the bathroom light made everyone look soft and lazy and kissed by the Italian sun.

The bathroom was cramped but charming, tile floors, a huge vintage mirror, warm bulbs that flickered with every movement.

Harry’s tan was deep now, clinging to every inch of exposed skin, his face darker than usual with a faint pink warmth to his nose and cheeks. He looked like summer had claimed him completely.

You were no better, skin flushed and freckled, shoulders glowing from the sunburn you’d stubbornly earned yesterday after refusing to reapply SPF during that long lunch on the patio.

Now, your skin stung with every brush of fabric, and Harry kept whispering “Told you so” whenever his fingers grazed the red patches, even as he gently rubbed aloe into your back with the softest scold in his eyes.

You’d barely slept. Not that you cared.

Harry had been gone most of the afternoon, helping his mum and Gemma carry crates of wine and limoncello up from the cellar, running errands into the village, letting you nap off the sun from earlier. The italian sun was unforgiving, and it had painted your cheeks pink, made you sleepy, warm, and now, restless.

“Why are you standing so close to me?” Harry murmured beside you, barely above the hum of electric toothbrushes. His elbow nudged yours lightly, smiling at your reflection in the mirror.

You weren’t even pretending to brush your teeth. Not properly, anyway.

“I missed you,” you whispered, pouting as your eyes flicked up to his, mouth still full of toothpaste foam. “All day. You just left me.”

“Didn’t leave you. You were asleep. I kissed your forehead and everything.”

You frowned harder, leaning into his side and letting your hand sneak around his arm. Your sweater sleeves drooped past your knuckles as you tugged on him gently. “Still missed you.”

He rinsed his mouth out at the sink, elbow knocking against yours again. You wouldn’t let go.

Gemma was on your other side, hair dark and damp from a shower, humming something tuneless while brushing her teeth in a sleepy rhythm.

Harry set his toothbrush down.

“You can’t keep clinging to me like this with my mum right here,” he muttered, voice low and even but not unkind. He bent to rinse again, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. You didn’t move.

“I want you,” you said softly, squeezing his arm with both hands this time. “Right now. Please.”

He froze, breath catching the way it always did when you said things like that in public, like you were trying to kill him slowly, one innocent-sounding whisper at a time.

His jaw flexed. “Baby…”

“I’m cold,” you lied pitifully, tilting your head into the crook of his shoulder.

“You’re in a sweater.”

“I’m colder than this. Need you.”

Anne looked over her shoulder and smiled warmly. “You two always attached at the hip?” she teased. “Come on, Y/N, let him breathe!”

You flushed slightly, but didn’t let go. “Sorry, Anne. He’s warm,” you said with a shy smile, making everyone laugh.

Harry’s lips twitched at that, your ability to melt even his family was criminal. Everyone adored you. Gemma always said you were like a pocket-sized sunbeam. Anne had already referred to you as “part of the family” twice this week alone.

He leaned toward your ear, voice a little darker this time. “You need to stop.”

You blinked at him, pretending to pout harder but feeling the thrill of his tone ripple through your belly.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You keep whispering like that, you’re not getting anything later. And I mean it.”

You went still, eyes flicking up. “You’d say no to me?”

“I already said no. We’re in a bathroom with everyone.” His voice was calm, slow, the kind that warmed your neck because it meant he was holding back.

You didn’t let go.

He sighed through his nose, jaw clenched, reaching to grab a towel and dab off the corner of your lip where toothpaste still sat.

Gemma turned away to rinse her mouth, saying, “You two make the rest of us look like emotionally stunted robots, you know that?”

Anne chuckled from behind her. “It’s sweet. I like how much she adores him. I was just telling Y/N this morning how lovely it is seeing you so in sync.”

You giggled softly against Harry’s shoulder. His mum calling your clinginess “lovely” made your heart flutter.

But Harry wasn’t laughing.

His arm flexed slightly under your grip, and he leaned in closer this time. “If you don’t stop this right now, I’m going to bend you over that sink the second they leave. Is that what you want?”

Duh.

You flushed so fast and so deeply that your knees nearly gave out.

But you still nodded.

His hand moved to your lower back instinctively, gripping there while the others wiped down the counter and prepared to file out.

“Leave your phone here, Y/N,” Anne was saying. “We’re just going to the terrace for wine and cheese, no tech.”

You nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

By the time everyone else had trickled out of the bathroom, their laughter and footsteps echoing down the stone hallway toward the open-air terrace, Harry shut the door with a soft click behind them.

You blinked up at him. “I was just—”

“You were pushing me,” he interrupted, voice firm now. “You don’t do that when we’re around people.”

“I was cold…”

“You were needy.”

He stepped forward, and you backed instinctively toward the sink until your hips hit the counter’s edge.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice lower now, deep and smooth. “You’ve been clinging to me all day, haven’t you? Whispering things you know I can’t do anything about.”

You nodded slowly. “Wanted your attention.”

“You had it. You always have it. But that wasn’t enough, was it?”

You shook your head, sweater sleeves bunched in your fists as you fidgeted.

“You wanted me to take control, hmm? Wanted me to lose patience, yeah?”

“Mmhm.”

“Say it.”

You squirmed, blushing, but whispered, “Wanted you to get mean.”

His eyes shut briefly, exhaling hard through his nose. When they opened again, they were sharper, hungrier.

“You don’t say things like that in front of my mum. You don’t pout at me in front of Gemma like that. You think that’s cute?” He gripped your jaw gently, but firm enough to make you still. “Do you like pushing me?”

You whimpered. “Yeah.”

“Fucking brat.”

He spun you around and bent you slightly over the sink, one arm bracing you at the waist while the other reached behind to shut off the lightbulb with a soft click. The only glow left came from the hallway, just enough to see your flushed face in the mirror.

“You’re lucky they adore you,” he whispered into your hair. “You’re their favorite. If they knew what you were doing in here… they’d still probably love you.”

You giggled breathlessly, and he hissed softly, not out of anger, but pure restraint.

“Look at yourself,” he said against your neck, voice dropping. “Look how desperate you are.”

“I’m not desperate,” you mumbled.

“You’re dripping through your panties and you’re not desperate?”

Your mouth parted, a soft breath catching in your chest.

Harry smirked into your hair. “No one's even touched you and you’re soaked, aren't you?”

You nodded.

He guided your hips back gently, lifting your sweater and dragging your shorts down with excruciating slowness. “They’re gonna be wondering where we are soon,” he muttered. “And I don’t care. You wanted me to lose patience? You’ve got it now.”

The sink was cold under your hands.

“You’re gonna be quiet, or you’re not getting anything tomorrow. Understood?”

“Uh huh,” you breathed.

He didn’t make it easy to be quiet.

Harry bent you over the sink gently but firmly, the cold marble making you whimper. He hissed softly at the sound, both hands now resting on your waist, thumbs stroking just under the hem of your sweater.

“You want to be good now?” he asked, breath against your ear. “Or are you still going to be a little brat?”

“I’ll be good,” you whispered, thighs squeezing together as you pushed your hips back slightly, needing contact.

“You’ll be quiet too?”

You nodded fast. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Mm.” He didn’t seem convinced. “Let’s see.”

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties and pulled them down slowly, so slowly it made your back arch with need. He crouched behind you, spread you gently, and let out a low groan.

“Look at that,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re dripping. All that attitude and pouting, just to end up like this?”

You whimpered, biting your lip, hips twitching toward him involuntarily.

He pressed a kiss to the back of your thigh before standing up again, one hand gripping your hip tight while the other reached down to lower his sweatpants. The sight made you moan softly, and he swatted your ass once, just a light smack.

“Quiet,” he reminded. “Or I stop.”

You nodded desperately, pressing your face into your sweater sleeve to muffle the pathetic sound you made when he lined himself up and pushed into you slowly, inch by inch, until he bottomed out.

You gasped, trying to stay silent, trying not to moan the way your body begged you to.

Harry gripped your hips tighter.

“You’re taking me so well,” he muttered, voice strained with how hard he was trying to stay quiet too. “Like you were made for this. For me.”

You nodded frantically. “I was,” you whispered. “Just for you.”

“Yeah, you were. My sweet thing.”

He started to move, slow and deep at first, the kind of rhythm that made your knees shake. You reached back for him, needing to hold onto something, but he pinned your hand down against the sink with his own.

“Nuh-uh,” he whispered. “You wanted it like this. Now you take it.”

The angle had you gasping again, stars exploding behind your eyes as he fucked you slow and steady, every thrust sending sparks through your belly. He leaned forward, chest to your back now, lips brushing your ear.

“You don’t even care if they hear, do you?” he whispered.

You moaned, nodding again, eyes squeezed shut as the pressure built. “Please,” you begged. “Please can I come?”

Harry growled quietly, hips still rolling into you, deep and filthy.

“You’ve been so annoying today,” he whispered, but he kissed your temple anyway, hand sliding around your front to find your clit. “But you’re lucky you’re cute.”

Your body jerked at the first touch, his fingers rubbing you just right, in time with his thrusts. The coil inside you was unbearable now, and when he said, “Now, baby,” you let go immediately, biting your sleeve as your orgasm crashed over you, trembling in his arms.

He wasn’t far behind, hips stuttering, groan muffled against your shoulder as he came deep inside you, holding you tightly in place like you’d disappear if he let go.

For a moment, the only sounds were your shaky breaths, the distant clink of wine glasses outside, and the way Harry sighed as he kissed the nape of your neck.

“Still cold?” he asked, voice soft now.

You shook your head, boneless.

“You’ll behave now?”

“No.”

He chuckled lowly, swatting your ass one last time. “Course not.

Harry helped you back into your panties slowly, smoothing them up your thighs like he hadn’t just completely ruined you over the bathroom sink. You stood a little wobbly, sweater half-falling off your shoulder, hair mussed, and cheeks flushed, glowing.

He leaned in to tuck your hair behind your ear, eyes still half-lidded from how wrecked he was too, and you caught his face in your hands and kissed him. Just a soft one, lips brushing sweet and full.

He smiled against your mouth. “Baby…”

You kissed him again.

“We really should—” Another kiss.

He chuckled into it. “We need to go back out there.”

You kissed him again, longer this time. His hands found your hips automatically, drawing you close like he couldn’t help it.

“Y’know they’re probably wondering where we went,” he mumbled, lips brushing yours mid-sentence. “Gemma’s gonna—mmph—”

You kissed him again.

“Alright,” he whispered, smiling, his forehead against yours now. “You don’t wanna let me speak, is that it?”

You nodded smugly, kissing the corner of his mouth, then under his jaw, then straight back to his lips. “Exactly that.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like it.”

He huffed out a breath, amused and completely smitten. “Unfortunately, yeah. I really do.”

Your arms wrapped around his neck like you were still trying to crawl into him, like you weren’t close enough yet. His shirt was soft and rumpled under your fingers, and you felt him sigh again as you kissed him slow.

“You’re gonna make me start again if you keep doing that,” he warned, voice husky.

“Good,” you whispered. “Maybe that’ll teach you not to make me wait all day.”

That earned you a sharp look and a tight squeeze to your waist. “You want me to take you over that towel rail next, bun?”

You giggled, hiding your face in his neck.

He hummed, soft again. “Alright. Come on. Let’s clean you up and go back out before they come looking.”

You nodded, finally letting him pull back, but not before stealing one last kiss, the kind that made his hands twitch on your hips again.

[f1girliefics]

After the Crown

Lando Norris x Reader

Warning: soft smut

Summary: After winning his first Monaco Grand Prix, Lando chooses to celebrate in private with the only person who truly understands what it means to him.

The streets of Monte Carlo were still roaring.

The fireworks had long painted the sky in gold and silver, and the scent of champagne still clung to Lando's fireproof suit.

But now, it was quiet. The cameras were off. The staff is gone. It was just you and him.

He had insisted on it. No parties. No over-the-top celebrations. Just you.

The hotel suite overlooked the marina, the balcony doors open to let in the salt-kissed air.

You were already there, barefoot on the cool marble floor, when he walked in.

His curls were damp from the podium spray, his smile exhausted but radiant.

"You did it," you whispered, walking toward him.

He dropped his helmet bag at the door, arms pulling you in before you even reached him. His lips found your hair.

"We did it."

Your laugh was warm against his chest. "I didn’t drive 78 laps through Monaco."

"No," he murmured, lifting your chin with a finger, "but you held me together when I was sure I'd mess it up. When I didn't believe I deserved to win anything."

You wanted to argue, to tell him that he always deserved it, but his mouth found yours, firm and slow.

Everything unspoken poured out in that kiss, the pressure, the relief, the wild joy neither of you could quite name.

He tasted like a celebration. Like champagne and adrenaline.

Lando pulled back just enough to see your face. "Can I have tonight? Just you? No interruptions?"

You nodded. "Always."

His hands were gentle as he peeled your dress from your shoulders, the silk slipping away like moonlight.

He kissed the dip of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the soft skin below your ear.

"You're shaking," he said quietly.

"I'm not cold," you whispered.

The bed was messy before he even got you into it.

Laughter mixed with sighs, his touches reverent and wanting.

There was no rush. The world had already cheered for him.

This was just for you.

Every kiss was slow, every brush of skin careful, as if reminding you that beneath the race suit, behind the helmet, he was still your Lando.

When he sank into you, forehead pressed to yours, it wasn’t about victory. It wasn’t about being first.

It was about everything he couldn’t say on the radio, every moment he’d dreamed of that night.

"I love you," he murmured into your skin, over and over.

And when he finally collapsed beside you, tangled in the sheets and your limbs, he laughed softly.

"What?" you asked.

He looked at you, eyes shining in the dark. "This might be the only thing better than winning Monaco."

You rolled onto your side, fingers brushing through his curls. "Good thing we can do it again."

He smirked. "Win Monaco?"

You grinned. "That too."

Outside, the city sparkled. Inside, your world had never been more quiet or more perfect.

[nekoashiii]

⠀ ⠀ Tides of Treachery

pairings: Pirate!caleb x Mermaid!reader.

notes/warnings: violence, brief mentions of blood. Nearly drowning. Reader is intended to be afab!bodied and gender neutral. no smut in this part, part 2

The sea has always been Caleb’s first love. The way the waves rolled and crashed against the hull of his ship, the scent of salt thick in the air, and the endless horizon stretching beyond his reach—it was all he had ever known.

Years ago, he used to happily laugh around and run in the water, throw sand at his friends and enjoy the rays of warmth radiating from the sun. But all good things come to an end, Caleb had learned the hard way that nothing in life was permanent—not love, not safety, not even the land beneath his feet.

His father had gone out to sea one morning to fish for their humble family business, promising to return before nightfall, but the tides swallowed him whole, leaving behind only whispers of his name in the crashing waves.

His mother, left to raise him alone, had done everything she could to keep him safe. But safety was a fragile illusion. The night the world flipped upside down for him, the thugs came, she had fought for him, desperate to keep her boy safe as she hid him in a corner, tears streaming down her face as she hugged him for the final time. Caleb still remembered the way her blood pooled on the wooden floor, how the coppery scent mixed with the salt on his skin as he was dragged outside, kicking and screaming.

He was meant to die that night. The leader of the gang had loomed over him, blade in hand, expression cold and indifferent. But something in Caleb’s eyes must have reminded him of himself—some old, bitter ghost of the past—because he hesitated

“Take him,” the man had ordered. “Teach the boy how to survive.”

And so he did.

Caleb was thrown into a world of cutthroats and thieves, learning how to wield a dagger before he could grow his first beard. The boy who once ran across the shore, carefree and full of laughter, had long since vanished. In his place stood a pirate feared across the seas, his name whispered in drunken taverns and city guards.

He should have felt satisfied. He had carved his own place in the world, commanded a crew that would die for him, listening to his every whim and commands and sailed waters that no man dared to cross.

But sometimes when his crew went to their beds and bunkers, he would step out of his own, in the quiet of the night, when the ocean was calm and the stars burned like embers overhead, he thought of the past. He thought of a life that had once been his before fate stole it away.

A creature he recalled, a siren. an abomination mix of fish and human. he never entertained the talk of catching a siren to keep it for him to sing. if one was unfortunate enough to fall in the nets of his ship would immediately have its scales taken away and itself shipped off and sold to some lord with fortune, that easily explains the amount of coats he has with shimmering scales.

It was on one such night, when the sea lay still and the wind barely stirred the sails, that Caleb saw them.

A shape, moving just beyond the reach of the lanterns’ glow, barely a ripple in the water. He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to the edge of The Wayward Star, gripping the wooden railing with steady fingers.

Then, the moonlight caught them.

A figure, half-submerged, skin glistening like pearls beneath the pale light. Their hair floated around them in thick, damp strands, creating an illusion of ink swirling around them, and their eyes—dark and knowing—locked onto his.

Caleb inhaled sharply.

A mermaid.

Not the kind sung about in sailor’s tales, with golden curls and gentle voices. No, this was something else entirely. Their gaze held no innocence, no wide-eyed wonder. Instead, they studied him, unblinking, as if deciding whether he was prey or something more. It made a humming gurgling noise, the odd scent of seasons and spices had attracted it towards the ship.

His fingers itched toward the cutlass at his hip, but he hesitated.

“You watching me?” he called out, voice low, roughened by years of salt and rum.

The mermaid didn’t answer, not in words. Instead, they tilted their head slightly, eyes glinting like two beads covered in obsidian in the dark.

Something about them made the air feel too thick, too heavy in his lungs. He had spent his life commanding men, stealing from those unfortune to pass his ship, fighting battles and staring death in the face without flinching. But this? This was different. that thing unsettled him.

Then, as silently as they had appeared, they slipped beneath the waves.

Gone.

Caleb exhaled, only then realizing he had been holding his breath.

Caleb barely slept that night. He couldn’t. After returning to his bedchambers, his eyes wouldn’t stay closed, he felt like a nail was being jammed into his head, and when he felt comfortable enough for sleep to lull him away, a thunder would wake him up.

Caleb gave up trying to get a brink of sleep. He sat at the bow of The Wayward Star, staring out at the sea as if drilling his gaze into the water infront of him would will the mermaid to return. The waves lapped lazily against the ship’s hull, rocking it. and the stars shimmered like scattered silver, but the water remained empty.

By dawn, the mermaid still hadn’t resurfaced.

He told himself to let it go. He was a pirate, not some fool enchanted by sea myths. There was plunder to seek, ships to raid, and yet—he found his thoughts drifting back to them. The way the moonlight caught the wet sheen of their skin, the quiet intelligence and stupidity in their dark eyes, the way they had simply watched him, like they were trying to understand him.

He had spent his life being feared, respected, hated by most. Never had someone looked at him like that before.

He shook the thought from his mind. Damn that fish, he had better things to do.

But fate, it seemed, had no intention of letting him forget.

The second time he saw them, it was in the middle of a storm.

The sea raged, tossing The Wayward Star like a toy, and rain pelted the deck in thick sheets. Caleb barked orders over the howling wind, his clothes soaked through, his hands raw from gripping the ropes. The storm was bad—worse than most—but he had survived worse.

Then, amidst the chaos, he saw them.

A shadow beneath the waves, moving too fast for the current to carry. At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, lack of sleep always did funny tricks on people, but then the ship lurched violently to the side, nearly throwing him off balance.

He barely had time to react before a massive wave surged forward, hitting the ship with unnatural force. The wood groaned under the weight, and his crew yelled in alarm, struggling to hold the vessel steady.

Caleb barely had time to brace himself before the wave struck.

The impact sent him staggering backward, boots slipping on the rain-slicked deck. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the rigging, but another violent lurch of the ship sent him sprawling. The world tilted—dark sky and raging sea spinning together in a blur—before the deck vanished beneath him.

Cold, crushing water swallowed him whole.

The ocean was deafening. It roared in his ears, filled his nose, dragged him down with merciless hands. Caleb kicked, fighting against the force pulling him deeper, but the storm churned above him, tossing him around like he was nothing more than a scrap of driftwood.

For the first time in years, true panic clawed at his chest.

His lungs burned, muscles screaming as he thrashed against the weight of the sea. He had survived battles, betrayals, and the cruel hand of fate itself—but drowning? Dying alone beneath the waves? The thought sent a sharp bolt of fear through him.

Then, just as the darkness at the edges of his vision threatened to consume him, something moved.

Not the waves. Not the current.

Something else.

A shadow slipped through the water, too fast, too smooth, circling him like a predator. a creature made for water.

He didn’t have the time to register the shape before arms wrapped around him—strong, steady, and colder than the sea itself. A rush of movement followed, the water parting as he was dragged downwards with unnatural speed.

Then—air.

Caleb’s breath came in ragged gasps, his throat raw from seawater and the force of the storm. His hands pressed into the damp sand beneath him, fingers curling around the fine grains as his body shook with exhaustion.

The cave was dimly lit, the glow of bioluminescent corals and strange, shifting lights casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of salt and something else—something unfamiliar, earthy, and deep. The sound of dripping water echoed in the cavern, mixing with the rhythmic crash of waves outside.

His mind reeled.

How was there air here? How was he even alive?

A flicker of movement made him tense.

Slowly, he raised his head.

The mermaid was there.

They lingered at the water’s edge, half-submerged, their dark eyes watching him with the same unreadable intensity as before. The glow of the cave cast shifting patterns across their skin, highlighting the smooth muscles of their shoulders, the glint of scales that shimmered with every small movement.

Caleb swallowed, still breathless.

“You saved me,” he rasped, voice hoarse from nearly drowning and coughing out salt water. He didn’t know why he was stating the obvious, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.

The mermaid tilted their head slightly, considering him. Then, slow and deliberate, they moved closer.

Caleb’s instincts screamed at him to be cautious. He had spent his life surrounded by liars and thieves, men who would slit your throat for a handful of gold. Trust was something he had long since abandoned.

And yet—

He didn’t move as the mermaid reached out.

Their fingers brushed against his cheek, cool and slightly rough, like they weren’t quite used to touching something as fragile as human skin. Caleb held still, his breath catching as they traced the outline of his jaw, their expression unreadable.

Their touch lingered for a moment longer before they withdrew, retreating slightly into the water, as if waiting.

Waiting for what?

Caleb exhaled sharply, running a hand through his soaked hair. He needed to think, to figure out where he was, what they wanted. But the storm had drained him, and the warmth of the cave—unnatural as it was—lulled his body into something dangerously close to comfort.

He should have been afraid.

But for the first time in a long, long while, he wasn’t.

Instead, he found himself staring back at the creature before him, heart pounding, pulse thrumming with something dangerously close to curiosity.

“…What are you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

The mermaid didn’t answer in words.

But they smiled—slow and knowing—before slipping back into the water’s embrace.

After a few hours, you returned. Different types of fishes for your lovely guest you had dragged to your home, could you be blamed? the deep ocean was starting to get boring and dull, hunting fishes would not excite you. Days weren’t looking brighter and you felt like day by day you were evolving into a sea cucumber laying uselessly on the sand waiting for your eventual demise.

You swam through the water effortlessly, the cold depths parting for you as you carried your prize—an assortment of fish clutched in your hands, still fresh, their scales gleaming under the soft glow of the cave’s bioluminescent corals.

It had been years since anything had truly interested you. The ocean, vast and endless as it was, had lost its thrill. Hunting was easy. The other creatures of the sea were predictable. You had seen everything there was to see, done everything there was to do.

But him—the human—you had never encountered something quite like him before.

He was fragile. Small, in comparison to the beasts of the sea. His limbs were awkward and unfit for swimming, his body weighed down by the very waters that carried you with ease. And yet, despite his weakness, he fought.

You had seen the fire in his eyes, the defiance that burned even as the sea threatened to swallow him whole. A lesser creature would have gone limp, accepted their fate, but he had thrashed, struggled, survived.

That made him interesting.

And interesting things did not come often in your world.

So, really, could you be blamed for dragging him here? For watching him as he gasped for breath, the air in the cave filling his fragile lungs? For wanting to see how long he would last before his fear turned his survival instincts to recklessness?

You breached the water’s surface, the fish still held tightly in your grasp, and your dark eyes immediately sought him out.

There he was.

The pirate.

He had not moved far from where you left him. His body was curled slightly, one arm slung over his bent knee, head resting against the damp rock. His breathing was steady now, slower, but his exhaustion was evident.

You took a moment to observe. Poking his feet to test the waters before crawling out of the water and on top of him.

His skin was warm, unlike the cold-blooded creatures you were used to. His hair, still damp from the ocean, clung to his face in uneven strands. His chest rose and fell in slow, rhythmic motions, his lips slightly parted as if caught between sleep and wakefulness.

The fish in your hands flopped weakly, their gills opening and closing in vain. You had chosen well—fat, fresh, the best you could find. Surely he would be pleased.

But as you placed the offering beside him, he did not react.

You frowned.

You reached out, fingers ghosting over his skin, pressing against his shoulder. The warmth of him startled you, even now, and for a brief moment, you simply felt—the rise and fall of muscle beneath your touch, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly in response.

You raised your webbed hand and slapped it down on his firm chest.

Plap!

His eyes snapped open with a gasp. For a long moment, you two simply stared at each other.

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, his gaze flickered downward—to the fish beside him, and to the naked scaled-covered chest of the mermaid hovering over his face, blocking his view of the cave. he averted his eyes to the fish, it was still twitching, their silver scales glinting in the dim light.

A pause.

Then, he exhaled through his nose, something between amusement and disbelief flickering across his face.

“…Did you just bring me food?”

You blinked.

Of course you did. What else would he eat? Rocks?

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he sat up. His fingers brushed over the fish idly, as if testing to see if they were even real.

“Well. Can’t say I’ve ever had a meal delivered to me by a sea creature before.” He glanced back at you, his lips quirking at the corners. “Guess I should be flattered.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him.

Strange.

You had given him a gift—an offering of peace, even—and instead of taking it seriously, he was… laughing, what was laughing supposed to mean here? humans were so so strange.

You narrowed your eyes, leaning closer, your face mere inches from his. His breath caught slightly, his gaze flickered to your lips that were inching just centimeters away from his, but he held his ground, his eyes returning up to watch you in return.

Interesting.

Your lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t quite a threat, either.

This was going to be fun.

[spikedfearn]

Heavy Lies The Crown

Chapter I

Sir Jimmy Crystal x fem!reader

summary: Decades after the Rage Virus devastated the UK, the infected have thinned but the world remains lawless and brutal. You’ve been surviving on your own until you’re captured by patrols from a notorious compound hidden in the Scottish Highlands: Eden. Its soldiers are strange—clad in random mismatched tracksuits, long blonde hair hanging tangled and wild like heathen halos, each armed with beautifully maintained bows. Silent. Precise. Unsmiling.

And then there’s their leader. Sir Jimmy Crystal. A gold-chained, tiara-wearing, crushed velvet zip-up psycho with a God complex thicker than his drawl. He doesn’t want to kill you. He intends to keep you.

wc: 6.3k

a/n: So I started absolutely gooning for Jimmy from the moment he drawled “ugh fuckin’ geaux” in the ninety seconds of screentime he has and now here we are. And if you came to shame, save your breath—I already talked about the discourse around him here. My k-hole tracksuit cult-leading princess lives rent-free in my brain, and I’m charging him for every second. Stay mad. Stay wet. Stay blessed. Now ugh—fuckin geaux. Big shout out to @amaranthine-enihtnarama for beta reading, thanks pookie!! NO SMUT in this chapter it's all setup, sorry guys <333

warnings: dark!romance, post-apocalyptic setting, cult dynamics, abduction, forced proximity, authoritarian/power dynamics, God complex, psychological manipulation, ritualistic obedience, choking, breath play, breeding kink, creampie, corruption arc, sexual tension, mentions of blood and decay, mentions of death and violence, intimidation, d/s dynamics, forced bathing, captivity, worship themes, verbal degradation, possessive behavior, choking from behind, unsettling atmosphere, cult rituals, light threat of force, elements of stockholm syndrome, highly charged sexual context, dubcon overtones

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Chapter I: Annointed

The air here smells like wet iron and peat. It clings to your throat, heavier with each breath, as if the land itself wants to remind you what’s been spilled on it. A silence rests over the hills—not peace, but the uneasy stillness of something watching. Listening. Holding its breath.

You haven’t seen another living person in days. Weeks? It’s hard to keep track when the sun rises behind a haze of ash and dusk always comes too soon. Even the sky seems starved. The clouds hang low and bruised, heavy with rain that never falls.

The forest stretches ahead like a mouth left open too long. You step lightly. Leaves rot wet beneath your boots. A broken fence curls under moss, the last gasp of an island that once had tidy borders and polite signs. You pass rusted-out trailers on cinder blocks, windshields shattered, doors long gone. The doors always go first. People rip them off in a panic, thinking it’ll help. It never does.

The cold bites through your clothes. Not sharp. Just damp. Soaks into your bones. Makes the ache constant. Your breath ghosts in front of you as you walk, and for a second, you pretend it’s cigarette smoke. You used to hate the smell of it.

Now you’d kill for it.

Your stomach hasn’t stopped making noise. You ignore it. You’ve become skilled at ignoring it, the same way you’ve learned to ignore your own smell, the taste of metal in your mouth, the dull throb in your calves from days of walking with no real destination. You’re looking for food. Shelter. A map. Anything.

You cross a clearing and crouch low in the grass, just like you’ve done hundreds of times before. You survey the landscape: a ruined farmhouse collapsed under its own roof. No movement. No dogs. No smell of death and decay that you've grown almost nose-blind to. Could be safe. Could be worse.

Everything could be worse now.

You move. Cautiously. Deliberately. The earth here is soft and the wind carries no scent—just the musk of damp bark and pine needles. Still, something feels…off.

You pause and tilt your head to listen.

Nothing.

Too much nothing.

Birds don’t sing out here anymore. The ones that do don’t last long. Sound gets you noticed. Attention gets you killed. And this silence is the wrong kind—the hollow kind, as if the trees themselves are waiting for a bloodcurdling scream.

You take another step. A branch snaps beneath your boot. Loud. Too loud. The noise cracks like a warning shot through the quiet.

And that’s when your spine prickles.

Not fear; not yet. Something worse.

Recognition.

You're being watched.

The hair on your arms stands up before your brain can catch up.

You don’t run. You don’t call out. You listen.

The kind of stillness around you isn’t natural. It’s curated. Like someone hit mute on the world.

No birds. No bugs. Not even the soft flit of wind threading through branches. The entire forest has gone tight—drawn taut like the string of a bow, pulled back and trembling, waiting for the moment it breaks.

You slowly lower yourself into a crouch, hand pressed into wet moss. It gives under your palm with a faint squelch, soft and cold and alive with decay. The loamy scent rises up, thick and rich and sharp in your nostrils. Earth and blood smell too close sometimes.

Your heart thuds once, a heavy pulse.

Your fingers curl tighter into the dirt. Grounding. You’ve learned to trust instinct over logic. Instinct kept you alive when logic said the people you loved wouldn’t turn. Instinct taught you how to sharpen a stick into a weapon. How to scavenge rats. How to sleep with one eye open.

Instinct is telling you now: you are not alone.

You shift your weight slowly, inching backward through the brush. One heel catches on a vine. A small sound, but loud enough to make your skin go cold.

Your breath starts to pick up. Not fast. But deeper. Sharper. Your throat feels too open—too vulnerable.

You scan the trees. Nothing.

But the feeling doesn’t go away–it grows.

That same prickle at the back of your neck starts to burn. You can feel eyes. More than one set. You don’t know how—you just do. You feel them drinking you in. Not hungry. Not even curious.

Calculating.

You stand and backtrack carefully toward the collapsed farmhouse, thinking maybe you’ll duck behind the stone wall, find higher ground, get a better vantage point.

You take one step. Another. Then freeze.

Movement. Not in front of you. Beside you.

The sound is barely audible—just the faint rustle of fabric, the smallest crunch of gravel.

Your lungs go tight. Your mouth floods with the taste of copper. Your fingers twitch toward the handle of your rusted blade, tucked beneath your coat. Useless. Too slow. You already know.

Whoever—or whatever—is out here with you? They’ve been watching for longer than you realized.

And they’re close. Too close.

The sound comes first.

It doesn’t ring like a bullet or howl like a holler. It hisses. A sharp, slicing whisper that splits the space beside your filthy cheek and buries itself into the tree behind you with a heavy thock!

You freeze, breath clinging to your lungs.

The bark splinters. Chips rain down against your shoulder. A sliver catches in your collar, warm with friction. You feel it there, resting against your skin—proof that the shot wasn’t a miss.

It was a message.

Your pulse explodes behind your ribs. That thin line of stillness you were standing on? It breaks. Snaps. Shatters.

You wheel around, instinct gripping your limbs. One foot twists in the underbrush. You catch yourself against the tree trunk—the same one the arrow is now buried deep in, vibrating slightly as if it’s still alive. The shaft is black, smooth, and handmade. Fletching dyed dark green. No markings. No blood. Not yet.

You reach for your blade without thinking.

And then you see the second arrow—already drawn.

A figure steps out from behind the trees. Slow. Graceful. Like they’ve had all the time in the world to decide what happens next.

They wear a tracksuit—top unzipped, fabric torn at one sleeve, the color somewhere between piss-yellow and vomit-green. Their hair is long, tangled, hanging in ropes around their face. Their skin is streaked with dirt. Mud along the jaw. Ash on the hands.

And they don’t say a word.

Another shadow moves behind them.

Then another, and another. And another.

One by one, they emerge like ghosts stepping out of the woodwork—blonde, dirty, silent—clad in mismatched tracksuits stained with smoke and rain. Each one armed. Each one watching.

Some hold their bows. Some notched and ready. Others just stand with knives visible at their hips, bone-handled and used.

The archer who fired first tips their head to the side. Curious. Unbothered. Like you’re not a threat. Like you’re already theirs.

You don’t breathe. Your lungs refuse.

Another arrow hisses past you and strikes the ground by your foot. Close enough to kiss your boot.

Still no words.

Just eyes. Watching.

Measuring.

And then one of them smiles, just a little

It’s not warm.

You don’t plan it. You just move.

One moment you’re frozen, breath snagged between ribs, and the next—your muscles snap into motion like a trap springing shut. You pivot on your heel, throw your weight into the turn, and take off into the trees.

Branches slap your face. Mud sprays up the back of your legs. The forest blurs.

You run like you’ve never run before—like the ground might open beneath you if you stop, like air is poison and the only cure is speed. Your lungs seize in protest. Your legs burn. Your heartbeat crashes against your eardrums, a war drum in your skull.

Behind you, the forest doesn’t make a sound.

No shouting. No chase.

Just the sick, humming quiet.

And that’s worse.

Because it means they don’t need to run. They already know where you’re going.

Your boots slip on a slick patch of wet leaves. You catch yourself, barely, skidding through brambles that catch your clothes and tear at your arms. You don’t care. You don't feel it. All that matters is forward. Get to higher ground. Get to somewhere—anywhere—they can’t surround you.

You vault over a fallen log, fingers skimming the mossy bark. The scent of rot is thick in your nostrils. Dead wood. Old things. It clings to you like a second skin.

Somewhere up ahead—there’s a break in the dense canopy of trees. Light, maybe. A clearing. A way out.

You bolt for it, lungs screaming. Every step is thunder in your bones. You don’t look back.

But the air changes again.

A shadow flits past your periphery—too fast to track, too quiet to follow.

Another.

Then—

Crack.

Your foot catches on something taut and hidden beneath the brush.

Not a root.

A snare.

The loop cinches around your ankle, and before you can scream, your body slams sideways into the ground with a sickening crunch. The air punches from your lungs. You taste dirt. Cold. Blood. Pine needles jam under your nails.

Then—snap—a figure descends from the treeline like a wolf from a perch, boots landing heavy in the earth.

You try to scramble. Slip.

A hand grabs your arm.

Another closes around the back of your neck.

Then a voice. The first one you’ve heard.

Low. Calm. Male. Fucking delighted.

“That’s enough now, wee thing. Eden’s got ye.”

The hand at the back of your neck doesn’t squeeze.

It doesn’t have to.

It just settles there, heavy and final, fingers splayed wide like it’s already mapping your bones. It holds you in place—not hurting, not pinning, just claiming. Like you belong on your knees, pressed into the mud, spine curved and breath coming in sharp, humiliated bursts.

You twist. You kick. But the snare’s still wrapped around your ankle, biting into the skin. Any movement pulls it tighter.

You try to reach for your blade.

Another hand wraps around your wrist. This one is colder. Slimmer. It doesn't yank—it just presses, thumb digging in just enough to tell you: don’t.

You look up.

They're all around you now.

Six. Maybe seven. It’s hard to count through the blur of leaves and light and pain, but they stand in a wide circle, mismatched tracksuits streaked with earth and soot, hair hanging in matted ropes, eyes like damp stones. None of them speak.

One of them—barefoot, bow still drawn—grins, flashing a mouthful of decay. Some teeth are rotted through, black at the roots. Others jut out at odd angles, twisted by years without mirrors. One is missing several along the top row, exposing pale pink gums when they smile too wide.

“Slippery wee thing,” someone mutters from behind your shoulder. The one who caught you. The voice is deep. Smooth. Oddly kind.

You flinch when he touches your hair. Just a graze. Fingertips through the strands. It’s not affectionate. Not cruel, either. It’s closer to curiosity. A priest handling a relic.

They murmur to each other in low tones, too quiet to make out. The sound of their voices doesn’t feel like a conversation. It feels like a ritual.

One of them kneels beside you and cuts the snare loose. It snaps back into the undergrowth like a live wire.

You think—now. Move. Fight.

But the blade is already gone from your belt. You don’t even remember the moment they took it.

The realization sinks in slowly that you never had a chance. They weren’t hunting you. They were herding you.

You try to speak. A demand. A threat. A plea.

But all that comes out is a ragged breath and the taste of copper.

One of the archers—an older woman, face half-shadowed by dirt—leans down close enough for you to smell her. Woodsmoke. Sweat. Blood.

“He’s gonna be so pleased with ye.”

You’re cargo.

They move with purpose now.

The man behind you grabs the back of your coat and hauls you upright. Not violently. Just effectively. Like lifting a sack of flour. You stumble, one leg still half-dead from the snare. He steadies you with a hand to your spine, then turns you sharply toward the trees.

“Come along now,” he says, rancid breath hot against your ear. “Wouldn’t keep Him waitin’.”

They don’t blindfold you.

But they might as well.

The forest that follows looks like no place you’ve ever walked before. The path isn't marked—but it’s known. Worn bare by repetition. Sinewy footprints in the muck. Grooves dug into the soil from dragging something—or someone. The trees here lean inward, heavy with damp and time, their bark split and bleeding sap that smells sickly sweet.

The archers fall into formation around you, wordless. You hear their breathing. One whistles tunelessly through a gap in his teeth. Another pulls a long rag from her waistband and begins to wrap your wrists together—not tight, but tight enough.

“There. Now ye don’t get lost.”

The woman smiles. Three teeth. All bottom row.

You walk.

The cold bites deep now, not just into your body, but into your understanding. This is a procession. And you are the offering.

With each step, the terrain shifts—brambles give way to packed soil, then mud, then flattened leaves stamped down by boots. You spot bones underfoot. Clean ones. Stripped bare. Not fresh.

Not all are animal.

Someone carries a lantern ahead of you—oil-burning, the flame shielded by cracked glass. The light it throws is golden but small, and it doesn’t reach far. Enough to see the tracksuits shimmer damply in the gloom. Orange. Burgundy. Baby blue. One glittery purple jacket with rhinestones across the back that read PRINCESS.

It would be absurd if they weren’t so quiet. So coordinated.

So devout.

The deeper you go, the more the woods shift.

There are things hanging from the trees now.

At first, it looks like refuse. Rags. Rope. Plastic. But then you pass beneath one and realize—it’s a tracksuit jacket, tied by the sleeves, dangling like a flag. Faded. Bloodstained. Bullet holes across the front.

Another hangs beside it.

And another.

Rows and rows.

You keep walking. Your stomach clenches. Something between fear and nausea. The woman beside you leans in close as you walk.

“Ye smell good,” she mutters. “He’ll like that.”

Ahead, between the trees, a shape rises out of the fog.

Too square to be natural. Too still. A low wall. A break in the forest. Stone, maybe. Cracked and overgrown but not abandoned. Smoke curls from behind it. Not rising—crawling. Slipping through gaps like it knows how to sneak.

Then you see it—Eden.

Not a village. Not a home. A ruin made sacred by madness.

You’ve reached the edge of something ancient and wrong.

And He is waiting.

They lead you through the gate without ceremony. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Two archers bracket you like a pair of looming, mismatched statues come to life. One takes your elbow, fingers firm but not brutal, guiding you forward.

The other falls in step just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the faint whisper of hot breath brushing the back of your neck. Together, they move like a single, breathing thing—as if this ritual of capture has been practiced countless times before.

The gate itself is little more than a broken arch of crumbling stone and rusted metal, tangled with ropes and strips of torn tracksuit fabric. You step through it like a witness passing into a holy site. The air inside is different. It’s thicker. Heavier. The smell of damp earth, old wood, and smoky oil threads itself around you.

Your guides do not march. They don’t shove. They don’t drag. They flow, forcing you to match their pace until your body finds its rhythm between theirs. The hand on your elbow doesn’t grip harder when you falter, it merely corrects, a quiet pressure that steers you along the path. The one at your back doesn’t guide with force, but with presence, an overarching warmth that reminds you any move backward would be met with a wall of muscle and sharp steel.

Each footfall becomes an announcement. The sound of your soles scuffing stone is echoed by theirs, precise and orderly. Not a word is exchanged. Not a glance thrown. But every movement feels orchestrated—as if every hand that guides you, every step that matches your own, is serving the same silent god.

They lead you through the gate, and you realize it’s not just an entry. It’s a threshold.

A point where belonging is no longer a choice. A moment where obedience is the only language you’re allowed to speak.

There is no archway. No guard tower. Just two leaning stone pillars draped in mold and rot, bound at the top with torn strips of tracksuit fabric, knotted into fluttering banners that shiver in the breeze. The wind shifts, and the smell hits you like a wet slap—woodsmoke, sweat, burned meat, something sour rotting under it all.

No one says a word as you cross beneath it.

Inside, Eden is...wrong.

Not abandoned,not thriving. Held together by will alone.

Shattered cottages lean against one another like drunkards. Doors hang from rusted hinges. Roofs are patched with sheet metal and broken crates. Every building is bruised and sagging, but still standing—as if the place refuses to die simply because someone commanded it not to.

There’s no power. No lights. No hum of life. Just the hiss of smoke and the wet slap of boots in the mud as you’re marched forward.

You pass people. Not many. Maybe a dozen.

They don’t wave. Don’t smile. Don’t ask questions.

They just stop what they’re doing—sharpening blades, scraping hides, pulling weeds from cold soil—and watch. Some lean against walls. Others crouch like animals. One man gnaws on a charred rabbit leg, letting grease run down his chin, his eyes never leaving you.

Their hair is tangled, matted, stuck to their foreheads with sweat or filth. Their tracksuits are soaked, stained, misbuttoned or zipped up all wrong. Their teeth—what’s left of them—gleam yellow or black or don’t gleam at all.

And yet, they glow. Not with health, but with devotion. The same way a fanatic glows just before the end.

They know where you're going.

And what you’re going to see.

Someone lifts a shard of glass as you pass, using it as a mirror. Not for themselves—for you. You catch your reflection. Brief. Blurred. Strangers’ hands on your arms. Mud on your jaw. Cold in your eyes.

They pull you toward the largest structure still intact. A chapel, maybe,or what was once a manor. The stone is cracked, the windows shattered, the doorframe splintered where something once forced its way in. Ivy curls up the side in long, choking ropes. Animal skulls hang from the guttering, bones threaded with string and beads and bits of plastic like wind chimes.

The archer beside you speaks for the first time in miles.

“Head down. No talkin’. Only answer if He asks.”

A door creaks open. Your feet hit stone instead of soil. The temperature drops. The smell shifts again—woodsmoke thickened by incense, something sweet gone bad. The air is full of it,like a mouth that’s never closed.

The inside is dark. Not pitch-black—just heavy. Filtered. Lit only by oil lamps tucked in alcoves, their glass streaked with soot. The flames flicker low, throwing long shadows that stretch and collapse as you walk.

The room isn’t empty.

Figures move at the edges. Not many. Two, maybe three. They stand still, but not relaxed. Like they’re waiting for a command. One of them holds a cloth. Another holds a bowl of water—brown and lukewarm, the rim charred black. A third has something folded in their hands. Clean fabric. A tracksuit. Less torn than the one you wear.

They don’t speak to you; they don’t smile.

They just wait.

The woman who cut the snare finally lets go of your arm and gestures forward, toward a wide wooden door. Someone’s carved symbols into it—crooked, hand-cut, messy but deliberate. A crude crown. A sun. Teeth. A flower.

“He’s in there,” she says. “Be grateful.”

Your wrists are untied.

No one grabs you again: you’re expected to walk through that door on your own.

Hesitantly, you step forward.

The wooden door groans open under your hand—warped from time and rot, but still standing. The sound it makes cuts the air like a blade.

The room beyond is dark, but warmer than the rest of Eden. Firelight licks at the walls from a hearth in the far corner, casting everything in flickering gold. The scent is sharper here. Not just woodsmoke. Something burned. Something sweet. A perfume made from candle wax, dried herbs, and rot.

Your boots echo across uneven stone. It’s quiet. Not silent—calm, in that same unnatural way a hunting trap is calm before it snaps shut.

He’s there.

You feel him before you see him.

He’s sitting in a long chair that might’ve once been a throne, might’ve once been a pew. It’s covered in scavenged fabrics—torn blankets, netting, old lace yellowed with age. His legs are spread wide, one elbow resting lazily on the arm, the other hand rolling a cigarette between two fingers.

His face is in profile.

And even that profile is chaos.

A cracked tiara tilts across his brow, nearly lost in the mess of long, greasy blonde hair. One eye is framed by an old smear of soot or charcoal. There’s blood on his tracksuit jacket—dry. Flaked. A constellation of it across his collarbone. His neck bears the weight of several gold chains, the slow pendulum swing of an inverted cross briefly snagging your attention. Rings stacked on every finger. A small, curved blade rests against his thigh like it belongs there.

When he turns to face you fully, he grins.

And it’s nothing like a human smile.

His teeth are uneven—some chipped, some yellowed, one gone entirely. But that doesn’t dull the power of it. That grin could lead armies. Could make monsters kneel. It beams at you like he already knows what you are and what you’ll be.

“Fuckin’ look at ye,” he says, voice thick and Scottish and sharp-edged with delight. “Fresh out the trees. All wild n’ twitchy.”

He leans forward.

His eyes are blue, but not bright. More like cracked ice over dark water. Alive with something violently unhinged and cruelly amused.

“Ain’t touched, are ye? Not claimed? Not branded?”

You say nothing.

He smiles wider.

“Even better.”

He tips his head, brushing the long, tangled hair from his eyes, and the faint glow of the room catches the gold and molten red at his throat. His voice drops into something almost intimate, almost holy.

“Name’s Sir Jimmy Crystal,” he tells you, the words tasting like a threat and a promise all at once. “Remember it, s'the only name that’s gonna matter ‘round here.”

The silence that follows is thick. Final. As if the room itself has memorized it.

He stands slowly—not towering but imposing, filled with the kind of presence that reaches. That carries. He steps down from the platform, boot heels scraping stone.

“Come here, then.”

You don’t move.

His head tilts.

“What’s the matter, love? Nobody ever asked ye polite before?” He chuckles, the tension in his shoulders radiating all the authority of a leader. “You’ll find I’m a very gracious host.”

Then, quieter—yet no less impactful—“when I want t’be.”

He closes the distance without waiting.

One hand comes up and brushes your jaw with the backs of his fingers. His knuckles are scraped, bruised. There’s blood under one nail. But his touch is almost soft.

“They said you fought,” he says. “Said you ran hard. Nearly got one of Jimmy Jimmy’s boys in the eye.”

He leans in, nose close enough to scent you.

You don’t flinch.

He smiles like that’s a gift.

“Yer not a Jimmy, though. You’re…somethin’ else.”

He steps back, hands on his hips. Studies you.

Then, finally:

“Petal.”

The name hits like a hot nail through the center of your chest.

“That’s what ye are, ain’t ye?” he continues. “Pretty wee thing, soft ‘round the edges, got thorns when you’re pressed.”

He gestures wide, like unveiling a painting.

“You’re mine now, Petal. Eden’s newest bloom.”

He steps forward again, crowding you slightly—he wants to see what you’ll do. What you’ll become under his heat. His shadow. His name.

“Say it,” he murmurs then reiterates, “say it back to me.”

Then nothing.

No further command. No raised voice. No gesture to prompt you.

Just his eyes—locked on yours, heavy and unwavering, his body stilled like a predator mid-pounce. All that earlier swagger, the grin, the biting charm—it drops. Slips off his face like a mask tossed aside.

What’s left is something still and unblinking.

His stare is pure scrutiny. Not rage. Not even anticipation. Just…expectation.

The kind that doesn’t account for refusal.

The fire crackles somewhere behind him, casting gold along the worn-out throne behind his shoulder, and still he doesn’t move. His jaw ticks once, slow. You see the faintest twitch of his fingers at his side—restless. Not angry. Just ready.

He doesn’t speak again.

Because Sir Jimmy Crystal doesn’t ask twice.

The room stretches.

You feel it in your chest first—tight, tense, a coil winding up behind your ribs. Your throat is dry. You don’t remember when your breath last came easy. You’re too aware of your heartbeat. Of the way your wrists still bear the red ghost of rope. Of the mud drying on your ankles. Of the way he’s looking at you.

Like he already owns you.

Like this is just a formality.

Your mouth opens.

And for a second, nothing comes out.

Then:

“Petal.”

Your voice sounds strange. Foreign. Like it didn’t come from you but was breathed into you. You don’t recognize how soft it comes out—how it hitches a little. How it lands in the air between you like a stone dropped in a still pool.

His head tilts. Just slightly. One corner of his mouth lifts—not a grin. Something quieter. Possessive.

“Good girl.”

The words land like heat across your spine.

He steps in again. Closer now. His boots bump yours, but he doesn’t touch you yet.

He just inhales. Deep, deliberate, like he’s dragging your presence into his lungs.

“I knew you’d be easy, underneath all that bark,” he says softly. “They always are.”

And then his hand comes up. Slow. Measured. He touches your jaw—not rough, not even possessive. Just assertive. His thumb brushes the edge of your lip, like testing the softness of something before he bites.

“Petal,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Gonna hear that name moaned through these halls, aye? Gonna have all of Eden know who the prettiest thing in it belongs to.”

The silence that follows is not awkward.

It’s complete.

He leans closer, nose brushing yours, voice barely above breath.

“Say somethin’ else, then. Something better. Say thank you.”

The words land soft, but they split your ribs open.

Not a bark. Not a threat. Not a demand, even. Just spoken like it’s inevitable.

His hand remains on your jaw. Fingers resting just beneath your ear, thumb dragging slowly over the corner of your mouth. The pressure isn’t enough to hurt. But it’s not gentle. It’s training.

You try to breathe, but your lungs won’t take it in right.

The room feels too small now. Too close. The air clings to the back of your tongue, hot and damp and sour-sweet, like you’re breathing someone else’s exhale. Smoke, rot, and something metallic. Something intimate.

You feel your spine go stiff, shoulders rising like you might pull away—but your feet don’t move. Not because you’re frozen. Not exactly.

Because you’re listening.

And you’re waiting for him to say it again.

He doesn’t.

He just watches. That calm stare. That awful patience. As if there’s no doubt at all that the words will come.

Your mouth parts slightly. Not to obey. Not yet.

To stall.

To feel what it would be like to say it—to give him what he wants and taste how it feels in your throat. To feel how it might curl against your tongue and rot something inside you.

You don’t want to.You do.

Your heart punches the inside of your chest.

You blink—once, slow—and then tilt your head forward, just enough that your lips brush against the edge of his thumb.

Not a kiss.

Not yet.

But the reaction is immediate.

His nostrils flare. His hand tightens, just a breath, enough to tilt your chin higher.

“Go on, sweet thing,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me think you’re ungrateful.”

And something breaks. Not loudly. Not violently. But with a quiet, traitorous tremor in your stomach.

Your tongue is slow to cooperate. Your voice doesn’t come easy. But it comes.

“…Thank you.”

Your voice sounds like a betrayal.

It sounds like submission.

It sounds like you meant it.

You hate that. You hate how easy it is to say.

You hate how it feels good to give it.

His smile widens—not wild. Not cruel.

Pleased.

“That’s my girl.”

The words are barely a whisper, but they hit like a nail through silk.

He steps even closer now—flush against you, chest to chest. You feel the heat of him. The weight of him. His free hand comes to rest on your hip, fingers curling just above your waistband.

“We’ll make a proper little thing outta you yet.”

And then, voice lower:

“Say it again. Like you mean it this time.”

He’s still touching you.

One hand cupped along your jaw, thumb grazing your lower lip with the intimacy of a lover, the calculation of a surgeon. The other hand low on your hip, fingers curling with idle pressure. Not possessive. Not yet.

Just poised.

Waiting.

His voice has that same half-smile cadence, but the edge is sharper now—threaded with something heavier. The kind of weight that comes before a strike.

He wants it again.

And this time, he wants it perfect.

You feel your mouth go dry. Your muscles ache from how still you’ve been forced to hold yourself. Your wrists itch where the rope had left its imprint. Your brain is screaming for space—but your body doesn’t move.

Not because you’re weak, but because you’re calculating, too.

You don’t say it right away. You let the silence stretch, just a breath longer than it should. Just long enough that it starts to feel wrong. You see it in his posture—the slight twitch of his hand, the flicker in his eye.

And that’s when you give it to him.

“Thank you…Sir.”

You say it sweet.

Too sweet.

You tip your head a little as you say it, lashes lowering like a smirk in motion. You speak with the kind of sugar-coating that’s almost mockery. Just enough to make it unclear.

Polite. Playful. Dangerous.

His thumb stills on your lip.

Then lifts—slowly, deliberately—tracing the curve of your mouth before sliding down your chin. His other hand firms against your hip.

And he doesn’t speak.

He just stares at you.

That same silent intensity from before—hot enough to blister. A fire without flame.

“You think I won’t know the difference?” he says at last, voice low and sharp as a knife dragged across bone. “Think I can’t smell when a thing’s just performin’?”

His grip tightens—not to bruise, but to remind.

His eyes roam your face like a wolf studying a lamb that forgot it was meat.

“You will mean it, Petal,” he murmurs. “One way or another.”

He leans in again—closer now. Lips near your ear, voice so quiet you feel it more than hear it.

“And when you do, it’ll drip off your tongue like prayer.”

You feel the press of his breath against your jaw, warm and patient and ruthless.

Then he pulls back—not far. Just enough to look you in the eyes again. Holding you in place by your silence.

“Now,” he says. “Be sweet. Try again.”

He pins you down with just his gaze.

The heat of his body radiates into yours—smoke and oil and something darker, like the breath of a house right before it catches fire. His hand at your hip has grown still, but it hasn’t let go. The other hovers at your jaw, no longer cupping it, just near—like he’s giving you space to hang yourself.

You feel the words curl in your throat like smoke before a scream.

You could obey.

You could soften your voice. Bow your head. Let the praise come warm and slippery from your mouth like honey melting over hot stone. Let him believe you.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you tilt your chin up. A small gesture. Barely there. But it shifts the whole balance of the room. His fingers still in the air near your throat. His nostrils flare—just once. You don’t miss it.

And when you speak…

You lace it with venom.

“Thank you…my King.”

You make it sound filthy.

Not reverent. Not frightened. Not grateful.

You say it like it’s a joke. Like you’re daring him to earn it.

His mouth parts just slightly—no smile now. Just breath.

You watch something dark flicker behind his eyes. It doesn’t rise, doesn’t lash out—but it pulses once, slow and dangerous. You’ve struck a nerve. Not one that makes him angry.

One that makes him hungry.

He steps closer, boot between yours. His chest brushes yours. That awful stillness in him thickens, slows, sharpens.

“That what I am to you already?” he says, voice hushed. “Your King?”

His hand moves again—slow, deliberate. The backs of his fingers trail down your throat.

“Careful, Petal.”

Your heart is a hammer in your ribs now.

He moves around behind you without warning, slow as smoke, one hand dragging across your collarbone as he passes.

You don’t turn.

You feel him behind you. His breath against your hair. His voice just behind your ear.

“You keep speakin’ like that,” he murmurs, “I’ll start to think you want to be ruled.”

You can’t see his face, but you hear the smile in his voice.

“And you don’t want me to think that.”

A pause.

His hand settles at the base of your throat—not tight. Not soft. Just there.

“Because if you do…I’ll give you the crown myself.”

His hand stays at your throat for three long breaths.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t give him the satisfaction of swallowing beneath his palm. But the silence that stretches between you is not victory.

It’s ritual.

You feel his body behind you—heat and weight and tension, close enough to make your skin tighten, far enough to make you ache. His breath grazes the curve of your ear like a blessing dressed in threat.

And then—

He pulls back.

The absence is as sharp as a slap. The cold rush of air across your neck feels like exposure, like being unwrapped. You almost—almost—step back to reclaim his heat.

But you don’t.

You hold your ground as he moves around you again, slow and loose-limbed, like a lion circling the last twitch of a dying thing.

When he stops in front of you, his grin is back. Soft. Filthy. Relaxed.

But his eyes are still locked on you like a snare.

“That’s enough for now,” he says, almost gently.

He reaches out and brushes something from your shoulder—a bit of leaf, a smear of dirt, it doesn’t matter. His fingers linger longer than necessary, then drop.

“You’ll need rest. Food. I’ll see to it.”

He turns from you like it doesn’t hurt him to look away.

“We’ve got time.”

He takes two steps toward his throne before glancing back over his shoulder.

His smile is lazy now. Pleased. Possessive.

“You’re not gonna leave, Petal. Not because you can’t.”

He sits down. Spreads his knees wide. Drags his hand along his jaw, watching you like he’s already undressing your soul.

“Because by the time I’m through with you…you won’t want to.”

He gestures lazily, and the room stirs like a beast waking from slumber. Figures shift from the walls, rising soundless as mist. Two of them move toward you—a man and a woman. They don’t ask questions. They don’t hesitate. They only bow when he nods.

“See she’s bathed,” Jimmy says, brushing a hand down the arm of his chair like he’s brushing dust from a relic. “Get the stink of the woods off her. Put her somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet.”

A tiny shift goes through the room—almost imperceptible. A glance exchanged. A breath held. Not protest, no. Not that. Not with him. But surprise. The kind that doesn’t rise from disobedience, only from obedience so deep it doesn’t comprehend difference.

He doesn’t name them. Doesn’t call out by their variations of the same holy name. They just know.

They step closer and one of them takes your hand. Not roughly. Not lovingly. Just certain. The other moves to stand behind you, brushing the snarl of your hair from your neck like she’s making way for a blade. Not because she’ll use one. But because she knows he can.

They lead you toward the door, and the room doesn’t speak. Not a word. Not a shift. Not a glance that doesn’t already belong to him. They accept it the way soil accepts a seed falling from a hand that can choose where it grows.

“Go,” he says finally, voice soft and sharp as steel. “Rest tonight, Petal. You’ve a long road ‘fore you.”

And then he leans back, sprawling in that long chair like a man resting between victories, brushing the pad of his thumb across his lower lip as if tasting the air your name has changed.

“An’ don’t worry,” he calls after you as the doors creak open, voice rising just enough for it to fill the space between the walls. “I’ll be seein’ ye soon. Real soon.”

No one questions. No one speaks.

In Eden, when Sir Jimmy Crystal chooses, no one ever needs to ask why.

[colouredbyd]

We're All Gonna Die

poly!marauders x fem!reader

summary: after a haunting nightmare where you lose your boyfriends, you wake up breathless and unraveling, only to find them there with warm hands and unsteady voices pulling you close until the fear ebbs and the night begins to feel safe again.

w/c: 3.4k

warnings: nightmares, panic attack, anxiety, death (in dream), physical comfort, swearing, teasing, emotional vulnerability, soft hurt comfort, affectionate banter, crying, clinging, being held through panic, post-panic exhaustion.

a/n: i remember reading a fic with a similar scene in the marvel fandom on ao3, but i haven’t been able to find the author again, credit for the inspiration goes to them wherever they are <3 masterlist

You surface from the dream in the dark, and it feels like being dragged up from the depths of some cold, black sea where you had been drowning for hours, lungs bursting and body numb. 

You wake gasping in the too-warm bed, with air that won’t come fast enough, the weight of the dream still choking your chest, your throat so tight no sound escapes but a low, cracked sob you barely register as your own.

It takes a long, harrowing second to even realize you’re awake because the images are still there, vivid and sharp-edged and cruel, imprinted against the inside of your skull. 

James’ glasses, shattered and smeared with blood beneath his head on cold stone. Remus slumped in a heap, one arm twisted beneath him unnaturally, eyes empty and staring. Sirius screaming himself hoarse until his voice broke into nothing and then silence, a horrible ringing silence that left you standing in the ruins of what used to be everything. 

Your hands useless and shaking and stained. Your voice gone. Your whole body cold with the knowing that you had lost them, all of them.

It’s that knowing that rips the breath from your lungs all over again. You clutch at the sheets beneath you like an anchor, but even the bed feels wrong. The air is too thin, the room too bright, your body too small and fragile in the too-big space that is suddenly full of sound and warmth and too many hands.

Because they’re there, all of them, and before your mind can make sense of it, there are hands everywhere, warm and frantic and too real against your trembling skin. 

Broad palms on your shoulders, your arms, grounding you yet making you feel weightless, unmoored, one hand cupping your face, trembling strands of sweat-damp hair brushed gently from your cheeks and jaw, another pressing at your hip, pulling, steadying, one set of arms sliding tight around your waist, anchoring you to a body you can barely register through the rising storm inside you. 

And voices tumbling over each other, breathless and panicked, sharp with fear, trying to reach through the spiraling chaos in your chest where breath won’t come and your heart is battering itself against your ribs. 

The world feels distant and close all at once, too bright, too loud, your body foreign, unrecognizable beneath the weight of it, and you cannot tell where you begin and they end, only that you are falling and falling and they are trying to catch you with hands and words and warmth that cannot yet pierce the panic surging through you like a flood.

"Love, breathe. Bloody hell, what’s wrong? What’s wrong!?" James is saying, his voice shaking, high and frightened. 

He pulls you gently up into his lap, cradling you close, arms wrapping around your middle like if he holds you tightly enough the trembling will stop, like if he rocks you gently enough the dream will fade.

You can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t even force your eyes open against the burn of tears and panic behind your lids. Another broken sob catches in your throat, sharp as glass.

"She’s burning up. Remus, what the fuck. What’s going on?" Sirius’ voice cuts in, rough and terrified, close now. You feel his hands on your face, cupping your cheeks in cool palms, thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t even feel fall. 

"Darling, can you hear me? Sweetheart, please. What’s wrong? What happened?"

"It’s a panic attack," Remus says quickly, voice soft but urgent. You feel him behind you, sliding an arm firmly around your waist, pressing close, his breath warm at your ear as he speaks low and steady. 

"She can’t breathe. She’s caught in it. Darling, listen to me. You’re safe. You’re here with us. No one’s gone anywhere. Just breathe for me, dovey."

But you can’t. The air won’t come, no matter how your chest heaves and shakes beneath the weight of the panic. Your heart is pounding too hard, too fast, a frantic bird trapped behind your ribs, wings battering at bone. 

The sobs keep breaking free now, ragged and desperate, only making it harder. It’s terrifying, because even though you know you’re awake, some part of you is still trapped in the dream where they were gone. 

The sheer wrongness of the fact that they are here now, holding you, alive, only makes it worse, as though your mind can’t reconcile the two realities.

"Remus, she’s not breathing right." James’ voice cracks, arms tightening around you. There is real fear in it now.

"I know, Jamie, I know!" Remus says quickly, voice calm even as his arms hold you steady and close. "It’s alright. I’ve got you, dove. Listen to me. Try to breathe in with me. Just a little, love."

But the breath won’t come. You gasp and choke and sob harder. Sirius curses under his breath, leaning in closer, forehead pressed lightly to yours, his voice breaking.

"Fuck. Remus!"

"Talk to her," Remus says, voice lower now, soothing and grounding, fingers stroking gently up and down your arm. 

"Keep her here. Keep her with us, she’s still trapped in it. Sweetheart, can you hear us? It’s remmy, love. You’re safe. It was only a dream. We’re all here, I promise."

"It’s alright, love. You’re alright," James says, voice trembling but trying so hard to be gentle. He presses soft, shaky kisses to your temple as he rocks you slowly in his arms. "We’ve got you. Just breathe. Please, sweetheart. Breathe."

Sirius’ hands are still on your face, thumbs moving softly across your cheeks. His own are damp now with tears as he presses closer.

"You���re okay," Sirius whispers, voice rough and low, so close you can feel the tremor in him. "We’re here. Look at me, darling. Please open your eyes. You’re safe."

Another sob rips through you, harsh and gasping. But this time, the sharpness of their voices, the warmth of their bodies around you, the steady weight of Remus’ arms and the sound of his voice in your ear anchor you just enough that something shifts. The edge of the panic loosens for the span of a heartbeat. In that heartbeat, you manage one thin, shuddering breath.

"There, love. Just like that," Remus says softly, holding you tighter. "That’s it, darling. Another one. Slow, love."

James presses another kiss to your temple, voice barely above a whisper now.

"Good girl. That’s it. We’re not going anywhere. You’re safe."

You clutch at James’ shirt, knuckles white, body still trembling hard. But the breath comes again. Another thin, shallow inhale that catches but doesn’t break this time. Then another. And another, though your chest still burns and the tears won’t stop.

"I... I..." The words won’t come, tangled in the remnants of the panic and the weight of the dream. Sirius leans in quickly, brushing your hair back with trembling fingers.

"It’s alright, love. You don’t have to talk. We’re here. We’ve got you."

"I thought..." you manage at last, voice wrecked and raw, a sob catching in the single word. "I saw..."

James shakes his head, kissing your hair again, pulling you closer into his lap.

"It wasn’t real, love," he says softly, voice shaking. 

"Not going anywhere," Sirius whispers, hand cupping your cheek again.

"Not ever," Remus murmurs against your ear, voice steady, breath warm. "I promise."

Slowly, so slowly, the storm inside you begins to break. The tremors ease bit by bit as you cling to the steady rhythm of their voices, their hands, the warmth of their bodies holding you close in the dark. As if they could stitch the broken pieces of your heart back together with love alone.

The air moves through you now in broken gasps, but each breath comes a little easier, no longer jagged with panic though the ache in your throat and chest remains heavy, your head tucked beneath James’ chin. 

You feel the warmth of Sirius pressed to one side of you, his face buried in your hair, arms wrapped tight around your waist, and Remus’ steady presence at your back, his voice low against your ear as he murmurs again and again that you are safe, that they are here, that nothing can take them from you.

No one moves for a long moment. It is as though they are afraid to loosen their hold even slightly, afraid that if they let go, even for a breath, you will spiral again, lost in that terrible place where they cannot follow.

But your fingers begin to uncurl at last, no longer clawing desperately at James’ shirt, though you stay pressed close, every part of you still too raw, too fragile.

Then you feel James shift beneath you, just a little, one hand brushing your hair back gently from your damp forehead.

"Sweetheart, I’m gonna get you some water, alright? Just for a second. I’ll be right back."

A soft sound of protest escapes you before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his sleeve.

"Please... don’t go." Your voice is rough, barely above a whisper.

You feel him press a kiss to your temple.

"I won’t go far, love. I promise. Remus and Sirius are right here. I’ll be back before you even notice."

Still, it takes another whispered reassurance from Remus — "We’ve got you, darling. We won’t let go," — before you finally loosen your grip just enough to let James slip carefully from beneath you. 

The warmth of his body leaves you aching, though only for a moment, because then Sirius is pulling you gently closer into his lap, wrapping his arms securely around you.

James moves quickly across the room, barefoot, grabbing the glass of water from the bedside table with shaking hands before returning just as fast, sinking back down onto the bed beside you with a soft curse under his breath when he sees the tears still lingering on your cheeks.

"Here, love. Just a sip. Slowly." He holds the glass to your lips with one hand while his other strokes soothingly over your hair. The first sip makes your throat burn, but you take another, and another, the cool water grounding in a way you hadn’t expected.

"Good girl," James murmurs. "That’s it."

Sirius kisses your temple, his voice softer now but still thick with worry.

"You scared the hell out of us, darling. What’s got you so caught up like that?"

You shake your head, another small sound of protest in your throat.

"It’s stupid," you whisper, voice rough, ashamed of the tears still spilling from your lashes. "You’ll laugh at me."

"Never," Remus says instantly, arms tightening around your waist. His voice is steady, warm. "You could tell us anything, love. We’d never laugh."

"Not ever," James echoes, brushing the backs of his fingers gently across your cheek.

Sirius’ hand slides softly over your arm.

You close your eyes for a moment, breath trembling, trying to steady yourself. The images still flicker behind your eyelids, sharp and raw, but the warmth of their touch anchors you enough to speak.

"It was a dream," you begin softly, voice shaking. "It started... it started with James and me. It was Halloween night. We were together and... and we got attacked. There was nothing we could do."

Your voice breaks on the words. Sirius presses a soft kiss to your hair while James’ hand finds yours, fingers lacing together.

"You were gone first," you whisper, voice cracking. "I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save anyone. I... I died too."

You feel James shake his head, as though trying to banish the image from your mind, but he says nothing, just squeezes your hand.

"And before... before I died," you continue, breath catching, "I saw Remus. He was already gone and there was blood. So much blood."

Remus holds you tighter.

"I’m right here, love," he murmurs. "I’m not going anywhere."

"And Sirius..." Your voice shudders again. "You were... you were caught. You were screaming for me and you got pulled through something. It looked like a veil and then you were gone."

A soft, choked sound escapes Sirius, and he presses his face more firmly against your hair.

"It wasn’t real," he whispers fiercely. "I’m here. I’m right here, love."

Tears spill down your cheeks again, though your body trembles less now beneath their touch. The room is quiet but for the soft murmur of their voices, the steady rhythm of their breathing, the warmth of their bodies wrapped around you, holding you safe against the lingering echoes of the dream.

You let out a long, shaky breath.

"It felt real," you whisper. "Too real."

James presses another kiss to your temple.

"We know, sweetheart. But we’re here. We’re safe and you’re safe."

Remus’ hand strokes soothingly up and down your back, grounding you further with each gentle touch.

"We’ll stay right here with you, love," he says softly. "As long as you need."

And you believe him, as you sink a little deeper into their arms, surrounded by their love, the last sharp edges of the nightmare slowly beginning to fade.

You begin to relax further into their arms, exhaustion pulling at your bones now that the worst of the panic has passed. 

But before you can close your eyes fully, you hear a soft noise — muffled, strangled — and after a beat you realize it is coming from Sirius.

You lift your head slightly from where you’ve curled against Remus, blinking sleep-heavy eyes up at them — and immediately catch the sight of Sirius, his mouth pressed so tightly shut it looks painful, shoulders trembling violently with the effort not to laugh.

His whole face is pink, lips twitching, chest shaking.

James is watching him too now, eyebrows raised, the corner of his mouth twitching with a barely-suppressed grin.

Your eyes narrow instantly.

"You’re laughing!" you accuse, voice hoarse but sharp with disbelief.

Sirius lets out a strangled noise, something between a snort and a wheeze, and shakes his head rapidly, biting hard on his bottom lip like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

"N-No," he chokes out, voice warbling with the effort of holding it in. "No, love. Not— not at you, just—"

He clamps both hands over his mouth now, eyes squeezing shut as if that will help.

Remus lets out an exasperated sigh behind you, though you can hear the faint thread of amusement in it.

"Padfoot," he warns, tone low. "Don’t you dare."

But it’s hopeless — a wheezing giggle escapes Sirius, his shoulders shaking harder now.

"I’m sorry!" he finally gasps, laughter bubbling up in spite of himself. "But honestly — what kind of stupid fucker dies because he forgot his wand?"

At that, James bursts out laughing, throwing his head back against the pillows.

"You absolute arse," he snorts between helpless chuckles. "She’s telling us about a nightmare and you—"

But it’s too late. Sirius is practically wheezing with laughter now, wiping tears from his eyes, face flushed.

"I mean—!" he manages between gasps. "Come on, Prongs! Even in her subconscious, she thinks you’re a complete idiot! Forgot your wand and got us all killed!"

For one stunned second, you gape at him — then, with an outraged noise, you scramble up out of Remus’ lap and launch yourself across the bed at Sirius.

"You bastard!" you yelp, aiming a pillow straight at his head.

Sirius yelps in mock terror, still laughing so hard he’s barely able to dodge.

"Ahh! No, love! Mercy! I can’t breathe!" he cries, collapsing backwards into James, who is now laughing so hard he’s clutching his sides.

"You deserve it!" you shout, pummeling him with the pillow as Sirius flails, giggling uncontrollably.

Remus, shaking his head, watches with fond amusement.

Sirius throws an arm dramatically over his face, peeking out at you with sparkling eyes.

"I regret nothing!" he declares between laughs.

James wheezes, wiping at his own eyes.

"You’re no better," he shoots at Sirius, grinning. "At least I died — you got stuck in a bloody veil. What does that say about you?"

That sets Sirius off again, howling with laughter beneath you as you collapse half on top of him, breathless with a reluctant giggle of your own

"Alright, alright," Remus murmurs, though you can hear the warmth in his voice. "That’s enough, you two."

Sirius grins down at you, brushing your hair back gently.

"See, love? No matter what happens — we’re here. You’ve got us. Always."

Their laughter softens the room, filling the cracks left behind by your dream.

You feel your breath steadying further with each quiet moment, your body growing heavier, wearier, but no longer from fear. Only exhaustion now, the kind that seeps deep into your bones after too much adrenaline, too many tears.

They are still wrapped around you, warm and solid, a living shield against the shadows that still linger at the edges of your mind.

Sirius kisses your temple once more, arms snug around your waist. James runs his fingers slowly through your hair, his free hand curled around yours beneath the blankets. Remus behind you is a steady, unshakable weight, his cheek resting lightly against your head.

For a long moment you stay like that, content to be held. But as your breathing slows, your eyes begin to drift closed — until a soft, sleepy thought edges into your mind and, with a small murmur, you shift, untangling gently from James’ lap you were on.

You wriggle your way between Remus and Sirius, pressing close to Remus’ side, one arm draped lazily over his chest.

Immediately you hear an exaggerated, scandalized gasp from James.

"Sweetheart! What’s this, then?" he says, voice full of mock offense.

Sirius lifts his head, smirking.

"Yeah, what the hell, darling? Running off to Moony like that?"

You peer up at them through sleep-heavy eyes and give the smallest smile.

"You laughed at me," you say simply, voice soft and hoarse but laced with playfulness.

Sirius lets out an overly dramatic sigh, clutching his chest.

"Betrayed in my own bed," he declares. "Well then. Come here, Jamie, I suppose it’s just you and me now."

James snorts but grins, flopping back onto the pillows and holding his arms out.

"Come here, you big idiot. I’ll show you what real cuddling looks like."

Sirius promptly sprawls across him with an exaggerated groan of contentment, tossing one leg dramatically over James’ hips.

"Mmm, yes, this’ll do."

"Ow— You’re heavy!" James complains through a laugh. "You’re going to crush me!"

You and Remus exchange a look, the same tired amusement twinkling in his eyes. You can’t help the soft laugh that bubbles up, echoed by the low, warm chuckle rumbling in his chest beneath your cheek.

"Honestly," Remus murmurs, voice full of fond exasperation. "What are we going to do with them?"

"Nothing," you mumble against him, eyelids fluttering. "Just let them be ridiculous."

At that, James reaches over, tugging gently at the blanket until it covers all of you again, tucking it up around your shoulders.

Sirius shifts slightly, stretching one arm back across you so that now you are wrapped in all three of them — Remus at your side, Sirius’ arm thrown lazily over your waist, James’ legs tangled with yours beneath the covers.

The warmth of them, the quiet rise and fall of their breaths, the soft, contented hum of the room, all of it settles deep into your chest. You feel your body finally relaxing completely, the last remnants of fear slipping away into the dark.

Just as your eyes begin to close again, you feel Remus shift slightly, his lips brushing against the crown of your head. His voice is soft, low, just for you.

"You’re safe, love," he whispers. "Nothing will happen. Not while we’re here."

And you believe him. You let yourself believe it, wrapped in the warmth of them all, the sound of their laughter still echoing softly in your mind.

For now, this is real — the gentle thrum of their hearts, the weight of their arms, the comfort of knowing that this dream will not come true, not here, not tonight.

Even if somewhere, in another time or a near future, shadows rise and fates turn dark, here in this bed, beneath these hands, beneath their steady breathing and whispered words, you are safe. This moment, fragile and bright as a flame in the dark, will live on long after the dream has faded.

[whambamsami]

say please

summary: you weren't supposed to be in this position. especially not with bucky barnes. but now you're burning, and he's on the other side of the door. silent. fighting himself with every breath. he does his best to stay away, until you say his name.

warnings: 18+, swearing, smut, lowkey a little dubcon, be warned! (also mild breeding and praise stuff LMAO)

note: i haven't written anything in so long!!! been dealing with a breakup haha so this is my attempt at a sex pollen fic!!! i don't love the pacing of this, but i've been obsessed with this trope so i wanted to try my hand :) also not proof read! lmk if there's any typos/plot holes!

The air inside was damp and stale. Thick with dust and the scent of old metal. 

“Smells like your room in here,” you muttered, doing your best to distract yourself from the feeling that you’re being watched.

“Cute,” Bucky says dryly, “Just stick close. Try not to get us killed.”

He always did that. Undermined you. Spoke like you didn’t know what you were doing, like you hadn’t wiped the floor with him in hand-to-hand combat since you’d met him. Like you didn’t have the training, the experience, like you didn’t know exactly what the fuck you were doing. 

But you were in an old, abandoned HYDRA base, which you could only assume wasn’t exactly  Bucky’s ideal trip down memory lane. So you clenched your jaw and continued with your scanning.  

You both crept through the ruined hallway, weapons drawn. The flickering of the overhead lights had you gripping your pistol tighter than you’d care to admit. 

The hallway stretched before you. Cracked tile, wires dangling from the ceiling, that same mildew-esque air that made you gag.

“Jesus, they couldn’t afford an interior decorator?” 

It was like you could see him rolling his eyes from behind. 

“They’re war criminals, not the Property Brothers,” he hissed over his shoulder.

“Wow, you know who the Property Brothers are?”

“Just-”, and you’d gotten him riled up enough that he was speaking the tiniest bit louder than he should’ve been, “just stick close, okay?”

“I always stick close,” you muttered, “you’re the one who always runs in like you have something to prove.”

He glanced back at you, lips twitching. “Maybe I do.”

You rolled your eyes. 

But your pulse quickened. 

You hated how much you liked him like this. Snarky. Cocky. Almost… attentive. 

That stupid leather harness, the one that had been added to give him easy access to an extra pistol, that stretched across his broad chest wasn’t really helping either. 

Neither did the way that his eyes met yours in the dark. Like he could hear every mortifying thought he drew out of your traitorous mind. 

As much as he annoyed you, as much as you sniped and bantered and pushed each other, you were partners. There was no one in the world you trusted more in the field. 

That’s why it was so terrifying when you were separated. 

Bucky must’ve tripped a security system, because before either of you could react- 

Clang.

A metal panel dropped, splitting the hall in two. 

And Bucky was gone. 

You hear gears grinding against each other, a pop, a hiss from just above you, and you look up just in time to see something drop from the ceiling. A canister, maybe. 

Gas erupts in front of you, a pale green mist that you breathe in before you can even register what’s happened.

“Shit!”, you gasp, but it’s too late, “Bucky, I breathed in something-”

He was pounding on the metal, screaming your name with more fear in his voice than you’d have ever heard. 

But you didn’t hear him.

Not before everything went black. 

You woke up strapped to a cold chair, wrists and ankles aching against the restraint to no avail, a ball of loose white fabric stuffed so far in your mouth you couldn’t even cry for help. 

Two men dressed in lab coats were standing in front of you, sickly pale like they hadn’t been outside in ages. HYDRA, presumably. The look in their sunken eyes was eccentric, crazed. They were pacing in front of you nervously, murmuring to each other in a language you didn’t understand. German, maybe. 

“...zu hübsch, um es einfach zu töten…” you caught from the taller of the two as they inched closer to you. 

The other, shorter man nodded. “Soll sie zuerst für uns tanzen?”

The first man smiled wickedly, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat, pulling out a syringe filled with a pinkish-purple liquid. He stepped close enough that you could smell his breath, see his yellowed snarl, and flicked the needle as he approached.

He fucking reeked. 

You surged against your restraints, crying out despite your makeshift muzzle. You wanted it, wanted him, nowhere near you.

But you didn’t have much of a choice.  

Ignoring your screams and your desperate attempts to pull away, the man stuck the needle in your neck and pushed, injecting whatever was in that vial directly into your bloodstream. 

You couldn’t fight back, could barely move. It was too late. Whatever HYDRA concoction they’d used on you was already in you. You were probably as good as dead.

But he was close enough. 

So the second he removed that needle, you clenched your jaw to protect your teeth, reared back, and headbutted him as hard as you could. 

You felt the crunch before you heard it. 

The man, if you could call him that, reeled back with a grunt, hand flying to his nose as blood burst through his fingers. 

“Scheiße!” he managed, stumbling back, crashing into a tray of medical instruments that clattered to the floor.

The other man moved toward you in a blur, striking you hard across the face.

Not hard enough to wipe the defiant smile that you wore through the cloth that gagged you. 

“You’ll regret that,” he seethed, voice thickened with whatever accent he had, “You’ll regret that when you’re begging for anything from us-” 

He cut himself off. Looked down. And looked back up at you, disbelief in his eyes like you had anything to do with the red that bloomed through the stark white of his lab coat, bleeding through his stomach. His knees folded in, dropping his body limp to the floor. 

The other man didn’t have time to turn before he met the same fate, lifeless and forgotten on the ground. 

Bucky stood before you, panting, in front of the now-open door, gun still smoking in his vibranium hand. 

He walked past you and pointed his gun at the back of the first man, the one who had injected you with something, and shot once, twice, thrice. For good measure. 

Blood sprayed on the floor. Silence settled in, the only noise in the room was your ragged breath. 

He finally turned to face you.

“Doll”, he murmured. His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. Raw. Almost panicked. 

He dropped to his knees by the chair, eyes raking over you as he made quick work of your restraints. 

The welt on your cheek made him pause. 

“I’m so sorry, I- “ his hands were trembling, and you weren’t sure if it was from sheer rage or sheer terror, “what did they do to you?”

The moment your wrists were free, you collapsed forward into his chest, clutching that vest like it was a lifeline before you could stop yourself. 

“I don’t-” you try, pushing off of him gently, “I don’t know what they gave me”, and your body is slowly starting to betray you, shaking all over, “Bucky, what is this?” 

His eyes darted over you, seeing the way your limbs had begun to weaken, and started to look around the room. 

The two HYDRA men, bodies strewn on the floor. The empty syringe. The residue of something pinkish-purple still inside.

His blood ran cold. 

You felt him tense up in front of you, saw him suck in a breath, like he wouldn’t let himself believe whatever he’d started to piece together. 

“Bucky…?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. 

“I’ve seen this before. And we need to get out of here. Now.”

He knew what came next. The way it tore through a person’s body like a match to gasoline. And the way that you were already clinging to him, thighs twitching, chest heaving- 

It was already taking hold.

He had you in his arms before you could protest.

You didn’t even try to. Couldn’t. Your body felt like it was overheating, aching with a need that wasn’t yours, wasn’t fair, wasn’t natural. 

Bucky moved fast, cradling you to his chest like you were something delicate, something fragile, not like the battle-hardened woman you’d become over time.

You heard more bodies drop. His boots on the tile. Felt the sunlight on your too-warm body as Bucky cleared whatever dared get in his way. 

But all you could think about was the way your thighs kept pressing together, the way your nipples had pebbled, aching against the fabric of your suit. The way his scent enveloped you, something woodsy, with leather and whiskey, and a bit of mint. 

“Almost there,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You buried your face in his neck. 

It didn’t help. 

A small cabin, off the grid. Emergency lights only. Quiet.

You barely remember getting to the safehouse, just the hum of the quinjet, the heat still in your skin.

The last time Bucky had spoken, it was on the quinjet, and it wasn’t even to you. He’d radioed in, murmuring “She’s been drugged. I need an extraction kit and a sterile space. No contact. No questions.”  

He spoke like you couldn’t hear him. Like his voice wasn’t the only thing in your mind, the only sound that was permeating the haze that clouded your brain. 

When you’d gotten into the cabin, he’d laid you down on the worn-out couch. 

The lack of contact with Bucky’s body felt like it physically hurt.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hands in his hair, pacing now, “Fuck, fuck, this shouldn’t have happened, not to you, not now-”

“Bucky…” your voice is shaky now, “What the fuck is happening to me?”

He couldn’t stop pacing. Wouldn’t look you in the eye.

You hated that it hurt, that you wanted him to look at you. Why did you want him to look at you so bad?

“Okay,” and finally, he pauses his pacing, “You deserve to know what this is.”

You look up, desperate to catch his gaze in yours. 

He crouched, so you were eye level. His voice was low, but steady, like he had to remove every bit of emotion from his words.

“It’s a…” and he exhales, like he’s forcing himself to finish his sentence, “It’s a heat serum. HYDRA used it on captives, on…me. Some kind of sick breeding attempt.” 

He looks away for just a moment. Even though it hurts, you let him, before he continues.

“It makes you desperate for contact. Floods your body with hormones. Dopamine, oxytocin, pheromones- it’s like the most intense aphrodisiac you could imagine. It forces your system into a cycle of arousal and pain. If you don’t get relief, it doesn’t just hurt. It can cause nerve damage, organ stress, seizures” and he swallows, “in some cases, death.”

You would laugh. You would laugh if you couldn’t feel every nerve in your body screaming for something, anything. Anything from him.

So you settled for balling your hands up into fists, stopping yourself from grabbing him, and taking, taking, taking- 

“What am I supposed to do?” you whisper.

He looks at you like he was terrified of touching you, of making it worse. Like he didn’t know he was the only man who could save you. 

“I’m going to give you space,” he says softly, and you wanted to scream, “I’m going to do everything I can on my end to find a cure. I’ll call Tony, Bruce, I’ll exhaust every resource we have. I’ll stay outside this room. You try to manage it. Breathing. If you want to… touch yourself… you can. If that helps.”

Your cheeks flush even pinker, if that’s possible. 

“If- if you need me for anything,” his voice cracked.

“Just say my name.”

You force yourself to nod. Let him close the door behind him, even though it feels like he’s taking all the oxygen in the room with him. 

You tried. 

God, you tried. 

You stripped out of your suit as silently as you could, laid flat on the bed, limbs shaking. 

The sheets felt too rough. The air was too heavy. Not heavy enough. You couldn’t tell.

Every inch of you throbbed with need. It felt like your blood was on fire. 

It wasn’t just need, not like you’ve ever experienced it. It was like your body was starving. 

Your hand slipped between your thighs, and you gasped at just how wet you already were. 

But when you touched yourself, when you circled your clit, when you did more, it didn't work. Nothing worked. 

Your body would clench around nothing, unsatisfied. Empty. 

It didn’t help that the physical embodiment of your antidote was just downstairs. 

The serum was absolutely ravaging your body. No matter how many times you could get yourself there, it wasn’t yielding. If anything, it worsened every minute you were without touch. 

Without his touch. 

You felt pathetic. Like an animal in heat. 

You were a complete slave to the serum, and Bucky was here to witness your humiliation.

He could hear you. 

You knew he could hear you. His supersoldier serum ensured that he could pick up on every pitiful noise you tried to silence. 

He was sitting, back to the wall outside the bedroom, palms flat on the floor. He’d reached out to Tony, to Bruce, and the solutions were all the same. 

He’d already known that. Known that reaching out was in false hope that he wouldn’t have to do what he knew he must. 

What he swore he would never do to you. Take from you.

He heard everything. 

The creak of the bed. 

Your soft, frustrated whimpers. One choked sob. His name. Once. Barely audible.

He’d dreamed of you saying it so many times. It was better than he’d imagined, so much better.

But he couldn’t focus on any of that. He was disgusted with himself, horrified at his body’s reactions to the noises you couldn’t help but let slip. The way you couldn’t help but touch yourself, the way you had to give in to HYDRA’s puppeteering. 

He wanted you. More than he’d ever wanted you over the past year, and trust him, that was saying something.

And he hated himself for it. 

He was in love with you. Of course he was. He had been for months. The way you made him laugh. The way you challenged him. The way you always had his six without question.

But you’d never want him. Not like this.

And even if you thought you did, it wasn’t real. Not under this serum. Not when it came with pain and desperation.

This was not the need that he’d spent countless nights fantasizing that you’d have for him. 

He’d rather die than make you feel used.

Even if it killed him not to touch you.

Even if he wanted you so bad it burned.

He was starting to wonder if he’d been slipped some of the serum, too.

You were still in the room. Still unsatisfied. Still empty.

You’d touched yourself until your fingers were sore. Until you were sobbing on the mattress, serum coiling deep in your stomach, a call you couldn’t answer.

Not alone.

It wasn’t enough. 

You needed him. You thought of his hands, rough and warm. His voice, his blue eyes, his rare smile. 

You wanted him. 

Not just because of the serum.

You always had. 

The serum just dug up those buried urges and forced them into your mouth.

You felt like your entire body was a live wire. Like you were being ripped open. You knew he was just behind the door, could practically feel his body heat from here, 

You knew he would help you, if you asked. 

That almost made it worse. That it would be real to you, and to him, it’d be mercy. You’d be a means to an end to Bucky.

You closed your eyes.

Whimpered again.

You didn’t want to be a task. A pity fuck. A problem he needed to solve before it killed you.

You wanted to be wanted.

Your hands slid between your thighs again, useless and shaking. It still wasn’t enough. Your body was screaming, throbbing, wet and desperate for something more. For someone.

You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood. Tried not to cry again.

Don’t say his name. Don’t say it unless you’re ready to mean it. Don’t say it if it won’t mean anything back.

You curled in tighter.

But your body had its own voice now. A louder one.

And when the next wave hit, sharp and devastating, you broke.

“Bucky.”

It came out like a confession. 

The door opened so fast it startled you. 

He stood there, eyes burning. 

Bucky didn’t look calm anymore.

He looked like a man unraveling, like he felt every single feeling that you felt. 

He moved before you could breathe again. 

“I heard you,” and his voice was hushed, like he thought raising his voice could shatter you, “You said my name.”

You whimpered, nodding pathetically, a weak hand reaching out to him. You didn’t, couldn’t care that you were entirely bare before him. The serum had peeled you raw. 

His eyes dropped to your naked, shaking figure, and his whole body tensed. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, “You’re…”

He stopped. Like he was catching himself before saying something he shouldn’t, something he wasn’t allowed to. 

“You’re really hurting, aren’t you?”

“I need you,” you whispered, not caring about how pitiful you surely looked.

His eyes snapped to yours.

“I want to,” he said, almost brokenly, “God, I want to. You have no idea how bad I want this, want you.”

“Touch me,” and you were pleading now, inching closer to him, “Please.”

He took a step toward you. Then he stopped.

“Not unless you’re sure. Not unless it’s really me you want. Not the serum.”

His hands were clenched, like he was holding himself back. 

“It is.” 

“You’re sure it’s not just the serum?”

“Yes,” you weakly pushed yourself up on your elbows, voice shaking, “I wanted you before this, Bucky, I did, for so long, but now I feel like I’m gonna die if you don’t touch me, and I need you-”

He crossed the room before you could finish. And finally, he cut you off with a searing kiss.

You couldn’t count the times you’d tried to force your body to comply with your fingers, to just let you finish after you’d been trying for what felt like days.

Bucky’s lips on yours felt indescribably better. 

He was on his knees in front of you, his vibranium hand tangled gently in your hair, the other arm wrapped around your waist, holding your exhausted body up.

He tasted like mint, like liquor, like something you couldn’t give a fuck about because he was kissing you-

Bucky pulled back to rest his forehead on yours. 

You hated the way you wanted to cry at the loss of contact.

“If you tell me to stop,” and you could feel his warm breath on your lips, could still taste him, “I will. Even now. Even if it kills me.”

“I won’t,” you promised, hands cupping his face, fighting your need to force him back into a kiss as much as you could, but you knew he could smell how bad you needed this.

You thanked God when he kissed you again.

Hungrier, this time. The both of you. His hands were everywhere on you. His flesh hand pressed your hips into him as he climbed on top of you, the metal of his left hand grazing your stomach as it made its way up to cup your breast. The coolness of the vibranium on your feverish body made you gasp into him. You swear you could feel him smile against your lips before he slipped his tongue into your mouth, letting his thumb sweep across your pebbled nipple as he rolled his clothed hips expertly into yours. 

You clutched his shirt, pulling him in deeper, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him back into you, making the both of you whine. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he murmured against your lips before working his way to your neck, licking and nipping softly like he wanted to know exactly how to pull those noises out of you, “Let me help you. Let me make you feel good, yeah? You gonna let me?”

You didn’t answer, hands tugging the bottom of his shirt up, mouth wide as you exposed more of his body to your greedy eyes. 

He pulled back just for a second to relieve himself of his clothes, and the feeling of his skin against yours was dizzying when he lowered himself back onto you, letting his weight pin you down as the mattress creaked beneath him. 

His hands were on you, sliding down your waist, anchoring you, holding you like he was starving. He pushed you back against the pillows slowly, watching you like you were sacred, like you’d disappear if he blinked too hard.

“You’re burning up,” he whispered, brushing sweaty hair from your face. “You poor thing.”

“Bucky, please-”

“I’ve got you now,” he murmured, trailing kisses down your jaw, your throat, the curve of your collarbone. “Not gonna let you hurt anymore.”

You gasped when his lips closed around your nipple-hot, gentle, then rough when he sucked. Your back arched. Your thighs squeezed around his hips.

He groaned. “So fucking sweet.”

His hands slid lower, down your ribs, across your hips, to your thighs. He spread you open slowly, reverently, even as your body shuddered beneath him.

“Oh my God-” he hissed, staring at you.

You were absolutely soaked. Could feel yourself running down your thighs, spilling onto the bed.

“Bucky, I-” You couldn’t finish. Couldn’t form words with the way you were throbbing, clenching around nothing.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, thumb stroking your inner thigh. “I know, you’re so full of it, huh? You need someone to take care of you.”

He pressed his forehead to your stomach. “I’ll take care of you.”

And then his hand was on you, fingers sliding through your slick, his touch so careful, so maddeningly slow.

You whimpered, hips bucking.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, teasing your clit with slow, delicious circles. “Let me learn you.”

You gasped his name when he slid one thick finger inside you.

“Jesus,” he rasped, watching your body arch,“So fucking tight. You’re clenching so hard for me.”

“More,” you begged, “Please, Bucky-more.”

“Look at you,” he groaned, adding a second finger,“You were made for me.”

He fucked you with his fingers until you were crying, leaving soft kisses on your puffy clit until until your thighs were shaking and you were clutching his wrist and sobbing his name like a prayer.

But it wasn’t enough. 

You needed more.

And he felt it.

“What do you need, sweetheart? and he nipped at your inner thigh to make you hiss before leaving a kiss on your knee, “Let me help you, yeah?”

“You,” you sobbed, “Please”

He sucked your clit in one last time before he leaned back on his heels, gazing down at you like you were on display just for him.

You moaned at the sight of him.

He knelt between your quivering legs, lining himself up, his cock thick and heavy, weeping and dark with need.

“You tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs.

You nod, knowing nothing from him will ever be too much.

“Say it,” and he sounds just as desperate as you feel, “Please, I need to hear you say it.”

“I will,” and your voice is absolutely wrecked.

That was all he needed.

He pushed in.

The stretch made you cry out. 

Not from pain. From relief. Your body was finally getting what it needed. What it had begged for.

Bucky groaned low, forehead dropping to your shoulder.”

“Fuck, so tight-” he panted, “So fucking wet, so warm-”

You’re whining beneath him, ankles locked behind his hips, nails digging into his back. 

“Please.”

He looked at you like you hung the stars.

Then he started to move.

He started slow. 

It didn’t last. 

The second you moaned, high and broken and so desperate, he snapped.

His thrusts went hard. Deep. His fingers curled around your thighs, dragging you closer, pulling you apart, angling just how he needed, until every stroke had you crying out into his neck. 

You were pulsing so tight around him he could barely breathe.

“Fuck-” he growled into your skin, teeth grazing your throat, “You’re- Jesus, you’re perfect- taking all of me so fuckin’ good-”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.

All you could do was feel. The weight of him over you. The stretch, the pulse of him inside of you. The heat rolling off of both of you. The roar in your blood.

Every time he pulled back and slammed into you again, your body lit up like fire. You clung to him, heels dragging him deeper.

He groaned. Raw and wrecked. Like it was killing him. Like he needed it more than you did.

“You feel too fuckin’ good- too fuckin’ tight around me-”

You sobbed his name, head falling back against the pillows.

He chased every sound you made. 

One hand slid between your bodies, his thumb rubbing rough circles over your clit.”

“That’s it, baby, give it to me,” he purred, “Come on, show me how bad you need it, don’t you need it, baby?”

Your whole body tensed. 

You shattered. 

Your orgasm hit so hard it knocked the breath out of you. 

Everything you’d been working your body toward for the last few hours peaked.

You screamed his name, arching into his touch, walls fluttering around his cock in hot frantic pulses.

And that was it for him. 

“Oh, fuck-”, he moaned, hips speeding up even more.

“Gonna fill you up, yeah? You gonna let me fill this pretty pussy up, sweet girl?”

He eased a thumb past your parted lips, forcing your hazy eyes to look at him as you sucked.

“You gonna let me? You want me to, don’t you? You want me to pump you full?” he cooed, and you weren't sure if you nodded on your own accord or if he used his thumb to ease your head up and down.

“Yeah?” he murmured, voice thick and low as sin, “You gonna let me do that, sweetheart? Let me fill you up nice and deep?”

His thumb brushed under your chin, tilting your slack, blissed-out face up to meet his.

“You want that, don’t you? Want me to pump you so full you feel me for days?”

You whimpered, helpless, your body barely moving except where he moved it, his hands guiding you up and down his cock like you were nothing but pliant heat and want.

“Good girl,” he purred, and his grip tightened just a little, possessive and reverent all at once. “You don’t even have to answer- I can feel how bad you need it.”

His vibranium hand moved to rest on your lower stomach, and you felt him even more than before.

“You feel that?” he groaned, breath stuttering, dragging you down onto him so slow and deep you could feel every inch of him stretching you open, “That’s me. All of me, sittin’ so fucking deep inside you- fuck, baby…”

You choked on a moan, barely holding your eyes open, muscles trembling, brain gone fuzzy from how full you felt.

“Look at you,” he rasped, rocking his hips up into you, sharp and controlled, “So fucking perfect. So tight and wet around me. You’re taking me so good, like this pussy was made for me.”

He gripped your hips tighter, pulling you down harder. “God, you were made for me, huh? You feel it too. I know you do.”

“Bucky-” you gasped, eyes rolling as his cock brushed that devastating spot inside you.

“Shhh,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw, still fucking up into you, slow but relentless, “I’ve got you. You just take it, sweetheart. Let me give it to you.”

His hand slid between your legs, thumb rubbing circles over your clit. Fast. Focused. Filthy.

You cried out, body jerking, the pleasure coming too fast, too sharp.

“There she is,” he breathed, voice hungry. “You’re gonna come for me again, aren’t you? Gonna come all over my cock while I fill you up-fuck, yeah, that’s it-”

“Please,” you whimpered, brain gone, body twitching under him.

“You want it?” he growled, holding you flush to him now, one hand behind your back, the other rubbing your clit like he owned you. “Want me to stuff you full? Fill this perfect pussy until you can’t think straight?”

You sobbed.

“Beg for it, baby,” he said darkly, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me you want me to breed you. Tell me you want to be mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, desperate, shaking, not even sure what you were begging for anymore, “Yours, please, Bucky, please-”

He let out a guttural sound.

Then he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and came with a groan so raw it made you clench around him like a vice.

“Fuck- take it-take all of it-”

Hot, thick pulses spilled into you, flooding your core, his hands holding you tight as you cried out and came again, your body milking every drop of him like you never wanted it to end, so much of him that you overflowed, could feel it seeping out of you.

You collapsed against him, boneless. Spent. Whimpering through the aftershocks.

And still, he held you. Stroking your back, whispering into your skin.

“You did so good for me, baby…So fuckin’ good. So beautiful. Mine.”

ok all done! just absolutely horrifying that im posting this on fathers day huh LMAO

[youthguk]

Black Ribbon Bride Finale ۶ৎ | jjk (m)

Mafia AU · Dark Romance · Arranged Marriage · Angst · Smut ·

“I want this one,”he said, eyes on you like a predator. A marriage sealed in diamonds and blood. You were supposed to hate him, but monsters don’t let go of the things they’ve claimed.

⚠️ explicit smut, dom!Jungkook, kidnapping, torture (non-explicit), murder, gun violence, morally grey characters, mafia themes, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, toxic dynamics, angst, betrayal.

This is part 2 to this, read part 1 first!

You wake to the sound of water dripping - rhythmic, slow, and merciless. Your body registers sensations in fragments: metal biting into your wrists, a chill creeping down your spine, and a throbbing temple that feels heavier than mere pain. The surface beneath you is stone, damp and cold.

Darkness envelops everything, bringing with it the acrid smell of rust and rot. For a moment, you wonder if this is just a fever-dream, perhaps brought on by too much wine, or a cruel hallucination woven from fear. But when you attempt to move, the sharp restraints around your wrists provide cruel clarity - this is neither dream nor nightmare. This is reality.

Your breath catches as panic builds slowly from your core, rising like an unexpressed scream caught in your throat. Then you hear it - footsteps, measured and confident, followed by a voice as smooth and dry as dust on marble. "Sleeping beauty wakes."

You remain silent, letting the stillness become your armor. A match strikes, its sudden flare piercing the darkness just enough to reveal half his face in shadow - Leo Maranzano. The man who ruined your wedding stands before you, wearing gloves and a patient smile.

"You know," he muses with a slight tilt of his head, "I expected more fight."

Struggling to sit up, your body protests with every movement. The effort only draws an amused laugh from him.

"Don't worry," he says, crouching beside you. "You're not here for long. Just long enough to understand something."

He keeps his distance, knowing his presence alone is a form of torture.

"I'm going to tell you a little secret," Leo murmurs, his tone dripping with venom-sweet malice. "Your brother sold you. Cheap, too. Barely put up a negotiation."

Each word seeps into your bones like poison. You shake your head in denial, but he continues, each syllable a calculated strike.

"Families are funny that way," he says. "They'll protect their blood... until something more valuable comes along."

Somewhere, a door creaks open, then slams shut. The temperature plummets as cold water traces down your neck from an unseen source. In the consuming darkness, only his voice remains - that haunting echo and the ice settling deep in your chest.

"You thought being Jeon's wife meant something, didn't you?" he says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Poor girl. You really thought monsters could love."

His footsteps retreat like a tide pulling back before a tsunami, leaving only his final words hanging in the air: "Let's see how long that faith lasts. Welcome to the dark."

Then he vanishes into the shadows, his presence lingering like a ghost. The darkness wraps around you like a shroud, bringing with it a bone-deep cold and the hollow echo of your heart shattering in the silence. You are completely, utterly alone.

And this is only the beginning.

────୨ৎ────

The steady dripping of water marks time like a cruel metronome as you lie there, unable to measure how long Leo has been gone. Time loses meaning in the darkness.

Despite the burning in your wrists and the aching of your body, your mind remains sharp and focused. You hold onto something deeper than hope - a crystalline clarity that refuses to be extinguished.

When the door finally opens and Leo's silhouette appears in the frame, you remain steady, watching him through the darkness like a flame that refuses to die out. He moves with deliberate steps, claiming the space as his domain with each measured movement.

The soft clink of glass being set down breaks the silence, followed by the harsh scrape of a chair. His voice cuts through the darkness with calculated precision: "Did he ever tell you how many people he's buried beneath his empire?" he asks, the words hanging heavy in the air. "Your husband."

The word "husband" tastes like ash in your mouth as you remain silent, refusing to give Leo the satisfaction of a response.

Leo's smile grows faint as he leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "You wear diamonds paid for in blood, and still — you looked at him like he was your savior."

Your continued silence seems to crack something in Leo's composure. "He took everything from me," he says, his voice turning cold and bitter. "My father. My legacy. My place in this city."

You glance down at your bound wrists before meeting his gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. "Then you chose the wrong time."

Leo stills at your words as you continue, voice trembling yet resolute. "I left him. Walked away. Told him not to come after me."

He studies you with calculated intensity, his smile transforming from amusement to pure cruelty. "Let's see if monsters like him can love."

Rising to his full height, his shadow stretches menacingly across the floor. "Or perhaps you believe monsters like Jeon are capable of letting go?"

────୨ৎ────

Jungkook finds your letter placed neatly on the black marble table, waiting in silence like an unwelcome prophecy. One look at the handwriting and something in his chest coils, sharp and tight. He reads it three times, each pass more desperate than the last, until he finally crumples it in his fist with the violent urgency of someone searching for a pulse that's already gone. The silence that settles in the penthouse isn't peaceful - it's surgical, precise in its emptiness.

His breathing shifts first. Then the glass of whisky he'd been pouring doesn’t even make it to his lips — he hurls it across the room. The shatter is so loud it echoes through every inch of the space you used to fill. Your perfume still lingers in the air. Peach and warmth and something soft he never had a name for.

He tears through the apartment methodically yet frantically - flinging open doors and ransacking closets in the bedroom, bathroom, and terrace. Some desperate part of him hopes to find you tucked away in some small corner, waiting to be found.

"Y/N!" The rawness in his voice echoes through empty rooms, met only with silence.

His hands shake as he dials your number repeatedly, each call going straight to voicemail after a few hollow rings. Desperate calls to Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jimin yield nothing - no one has seen you, no one knows where you've gone. You've simply vanished.

Jungkook finally stills, the pain inside him crystallizing into an arctic coldness that seeps through his veins, corroding everything it touches.

And in that stillness, surrounded by shattered glass and the black ribbon tangled in the sheets you left behind, Jungkook's voice breaks the silence with a hoarse whisper: "You said don't come after you." His eyes close as his jaw clenches before he growls, "Fuck that." After all, monsters never let go of what they've claimed.

────୨ৎ────

Jungkook storms into your family's estate without warning, the door slamming open with thunderous force. The sound echoes through the decaying house, where half-finished renovations barely mask years of neglect. A dissonant mixture of wet paint and rotting plaster mingles with expensive cologne and rising panic.

His footsteps resound through the once-silent front hall as he strides past the stammering butler, claiming the space as his own. And it is his, in a way - every restored ceiling, every gilded molding, every attempt to hide this family's rot was paid for with Jeon money. Your husband's money.

And now his wife is gone.

"You let her leave?" The words crash into the room like breaking glass.

Your father stands frozen, mouth working silently before managing, "What are you talking about?"

"She's gone." Jungkook's voice trembles with fury beneath his grief. "Left a note, took nothing - no phone, no guards. No one's seen her. And here you all sit, acting like nothing's wrong."

"She—she wouldn't—" your father stutters. "No. She wouldn't be so foolish."

Jungkook's laugh cuts through the air like a blade.

"Foolish?" In one fluid motion, he seizes a priceless vase and hurls it against the wall. The crash echoes through the room as shards scatter across marble. "You threatened her, didn't you? Ordered her not to dishonor me?"

"She promised to behave," your father snaps, his composure finally cracking. "That girl—she was never supposed to embarrass us like this!"

"Embarrass you?" Jungkook's voice cuts through the air like ice. "She's missing and that's what concerns you?"

Your father's voice lowers, fear creeping in. "We told her to stay married. That was the deal—"

"That was your daughter," Jungkook hisses, his words dripping with venom. "And now she's gone."

He turns sharply to Luca, whose composure is unnaturally steady, face showing no hint of concern. "You," Jungkook says, advancing with predatory grace.

Luca's smile remains faint, mocking. "She's not a child, Jeon."

"No," Jungkook murmurs, "but you are a fucking liar."

The temperature plummets as Nora presses a trembling hand to her chest. Jungkook's voice grows colder, more lethal with each word. "Where is she?"

Luca's calculated shrug only fuels Jungkook's suspicion. "You think if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you?"

Jungkook closes the distance between them, his face inches from Luca's. The air crackles with tension as he studies the too-perfect composure in his brother-in-law's eyes.

"You didn't even flinch when I said she was gone," he observes, tilting his head slightly. "Did you help her run? Or did you sell her?"

Your father's sharp exhale and sudden pallor speak volumes. Jungkook's smile transforms into something terrible - all teeth, devoid of warmth.

"You have five seconds to tell me where your daughter is," he says with deadly calm. "After that, I stop asking."

────୨ৎ────

The silence hangs sharp and heavy as Jungkook stares Luca down, his jaw flexed and fists clenching rhythmically, barely containing his rage. The tension breaks when his phone buzzes - an unfamiliar number that makes his blood run cold. He answers wordlessly.

Static crackles through the line before a voice emerges, dripping with malicious satisfaction. "She'll look better pregnant," Leo Maranzano drawls.

Jungkook's entire being transforms in that moment - not frozen, but coiled like a predator about to strike, radiating a silence so dense it seems to bend the very air around him.

"Don't bother trying to trace this," Leo continues smoothly. "We both know how futile that would be."

Jungkook's voice emerges like ice wrapped around gunpowder. "You want blood? I’ll drown you in it"

In the weighted silence that follows, Luca shifts imperceptibly while your mother's face drains of color. Leo's soft laughter filters through the line, dripping with malice.

"Always so poetic, Jeon. So... predictable. You think the world will bleed for you, but what happens when the one you love bleeds for someone else?"

"Name your price," Jungkook demands, each word precisely carved. "Money? Territory? I'll destroy everything you've built before you touch her again."

Leo exhales with calculated disappointment. "I want what's impossible, Jeon - my father's life restored, my family's legacy rebuilt." His voice drops to a deadly whisper: "Since I can't have that, I'll have yours instead."

Jungkook's grip tightens around the phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure as Leo's words slither through the line.

"I'll marry your wife," Leo murmurs, soft as ash, "and knock her up with my heir."

The room plunges into deathly silence. Your father staggers back into a chair, all color draining from his face, while Nora's sharp gasp pierces the air. Even Luca, usually composed, pales visibly as his expression turns unreadable.

Jungkook closes his eyes for just half a second. When they open again, something fundamental has changed - he's no longer human, but something older, something ancient.

"If anything happens to her," he says, his voice quiet with reverent wrath, "I'll kill you. And every living Maranzano that crawls out of your grave."

"Big words from a man who just lost his bride," Leo hums mockingly.

Jungkook exhales once, trembling with barely contained rage, before saying softly, "You have sisters, don't you?"

Leo falls silent, his bravado slipping for the first time.

"Cousins. Nieces," Jungkook continues, a cold smile playing at his lips. "Sleep lightly." Without waiting for a response, he ends the call.

The air in the Amare house grows thick with tension as Jungkook turns, his lethal gaze settling on Luca. "Pray your sister is alive," he says, his voice dangerously low as he steps closer. "Because if she's not, I won't send you to prison - I'll kill you with my bare hands."

The silence that follows is deafening. As Jungkook moves to leave, he pauses at the door, looking back at Nora. "You were angry. Fine. But don't you dare say you loved her if this is how easily you turned your back." His words make her flinch.

"She saved me once," he continues, his tone softening with remembered gratitude. "Years ago when I was still bad at snowboarding. She doesn't even remember it was me, but I remember her. She gave me something no one else ever did - mercy."

After a weighted pause, he adds, "Maybe we were always going to end up here. Maybe that's what fate is - not clean, not kind, just inevitable."

With his hand on the door, he delivers one final truth: "You don't have to believe in love. But at least believe in the sister who never stopped believing in you."

And with that, he steps into the rain, ready for war.

────୨ৎ────

The rooftop is a stage of glass and steel, suspended above a city that doesn’t sleep — just watches, waiting. The wind slices sharp against concrete, pulling at coat hems and loaded holsters, as if the night itself senses what’s coming and wants to retreat.

Above the city, beneath a bruised sky veined with lightning, six black cars idle like hounds ready to devour. Their engines hum low, headlights cutting through the dusk like a premonition, restrained only by the men who command them. Jeon mafia assembles — suits pressed, weapons hidden, hearts armored.

Namjoon locks a magazine into place with quiet finality, sleeves rolled to the elbow, throat tight with tension. Beside him, Jin checks the radio frequencies, his gaze flickering once toward the skyline — toward the place they believe she’s being held. Hoseok straps a blade to his thigh, expression hollow, all his usual brightness buried beneath something colder. Jimin adjusts the cuffs of his jacket with the stillness of a killer in prayer, and Taehyung pulls his hair back with shaking fingers, eyes glittering with rage he hasn't yet learned to name.

Yoongi is silent. He always is, before blood.

And at the center of them all stands Jungkook — not their heir, not their prince, not their spoiled bloodline darling — just a man in a black suit that fits like a vow, trembling in places no one dares acknowledge.

His hands tremble with barely contained tension, an unprecedented sight among the Jeon legacy that leaves his men in reverent silence. These same hands that have dealt death with practiced ease, that have wielded both knife and power without hesitation, now betray a deeper truth - their leader is afraid.

Jungkook avoids their watchful eyes, his gaze fixed on the sprawling cityscape where, somewhere in its depths, you're being held captive. His mouth grows dry as his thoughts race louder than the approaching storm, each moment of separation feeling like a blade against his skin.

He remembers your eyes when you told him not to touch you, your voice trembling with the words "don't come near me." The memory of your retreating footsteps haunts him, along with the image of you shrinking away as if his every promise had been hollow.

And perhaps they were - not because he concealed his true nature, but because he foolishly believed that his monstrous side could deserve tenderness. That he could shield you while remaining unchanged. That you could withstand the darkness he carried.

He let his rage speak louder than your fear when he should have protected you. Now he faces the possibility of having to kill again, knowing the bloodshed will forever stain him in your eyes.

But you'll be alive.

He can accept a future where you never touch him again, where your voice falls silent around him, where you flee at his approach. He can survive all of that, but he cannot exist in a world without you.

Namjoon steps forward. "The convoy's ready."

Jungkook nods once, remaining silent as his trembling fingers clasp behind his back, curling into fists while he struggles to steady his breathing.

Taehyung murmurs low to Yoongi, "You ever seen him like this?"

Yoongi doesn't look away from the cars. "He's never had something to lose."

Jungkook lifts his head and adjusts the diamond cufflink on his left wrist — the one you once teased him for wearing like a crown. His voice carries clear authority as he addresses the group.

"I want clean entry. No noise until I give it. We don't spill unless we have to. We don't risk anything unless it's her."

The others nod in a silent, unified pact.

"I want Leo breathing," Jungkook adds, "just long enough to watch me burn everything he ever touched." His voice drops then, stripped of command and practiced arrogance — leaving only bone and soul and desperate love: "Bring her back."

As engines rumble to life, thunder rolls above them like applause for the damned. Jungkook lingers at the edge, his eyes fixed on the city skyline, heart in his throat. He doesn't pray — he doesn't believe in anything that ever refused to protect you. When he finally turns toward the convoy, his face unreadable and hands steady, he whispers into the storm: "This ends tonight." And then he disappears into war.

────୨ৎ────

The air inside the Maranzano estate reeks of rust and ruin, a stark contrast to its former splendor. Marble imported from Verona adorns the walls, while high ceilings showcase frescoes of indifferent gods, and chandeliers heavy with Bohemian crystal hang like frozen memories of old Italian guilt. Now the place stands as a tomb - a forgotten cathedral of betrayal awaiting fresh bloodshed.

Blackened windows cast the interior in shadow, while faulty electricity hums an ominous drone. The distant ocean crashes against the docks, and moonlight filters through a cracked skylight, casting fractured patterns across the dust-covered floor.

When the doors burst open, it's not with theatrical chaos, but with deadly precision - swift and silent as a guillotine's fall. Dark figures glide across the polished floors, their tailored coats rippling like liquid shadow, weapons at the ready. These aren't mere soldiers; they're Jeon men - predators whose very essence speaks of wealth and violence, purpose and unrelenting rage.

Namjoon takes point on the left, moving silent as a curse, while Jin covers the right with cold-eyed vigilance. Jimin and Taehyung follow, their steps ghosting across the carpet as golden chandelier light plays across their expressionless faces. Hoseok secures the stairwell as Yoongi dissolves into shadows, a lethal presence unseen until the moment of strike.

And at the center: Jungkook. He moves with deadly precision, as if the very air parts in fear of his advance. His black suit remains pristine, but his face betrays something beyond rage in his locked jaw and gleaming eyes - something far more dangerous. With bare hands and cold determination, he makes it clear that this night will end in blood.

A bullet pierces the silence like shattering glass, followed quickly by another. Screams echo through the corners as men shout in Italian and English, panic rising in their voices. The Maranzano guards, previously secure in their territory, find themselves unprepared for the wolves that have breached their sanctuary.

Chaos consumes the mansion as smoke bombs transform light into swirling fog. Gunfire reverberates against stone walls while someone desperately calls out Leo's name. But Jungkook remains focused, deaf to everything except his mission.

He moves through the space like death incarnate in his three-piece suit, evading bullets with fluid grace while returning fire with precise elegance. His shots are calculated - one to the neck, another to the thigh - each movement deliberately chosen to disable and disarm.

To punish.

He takes no lives unless they stand between him and you.

Locked behind a wrought iron door in a cold cellar two floors down, you feel the war before you hear it - a distant hum through the floor, screams vibrating through pipes, Leo's orders echoing from above as footsteps pound and lights flicker overhead. The chaos builds to a crescendo before everything suddenly stills, leaving only your thundering heartbeat in the silence.

Then the door slams open - not from the guards, but from him.

Jungkook enters the room with an almost supernatural presence, drawn to you as if by divine magnetism. His black shirt hangs open, blood staining his collar while his eyes blaze with intensity. Though chaos erupts behind him - screams and the heavy thud of falling bodies - his focus remains unwavering.

He only sees you - bound, bruised, with dried blood on your lip and raw wrists. Something within him fractures at the sight, a subtle but terrifying transformation. Kneeling before you in silence, his trembling fingers work to untie each rope with delicate precision, as though handling fragments of your broken trust. In this moment, nothing else in the world exists beyond freeing you from your bonds.

Your voice barely rises above a whisper. "You came…"

But before you can say more, he wraps you in his coat, presses your head to his chest. You smell smoke, sweat, blood, his cologne. His heart is pounding like it’s trying to break through his ribs to reach you faster.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The door groans open behind him, and Leo Maranzano steps into the cellar. His slow, mocking applause fills the space as he appears in the doorway with his gun raised. Blood spatter has already dried on the sleeve of his suit jacket, his tie hangs askew, and one side of his mouth curls like something sharp beneath silk.

“Touching reunion,” he drawls, stepping into the room like it belongs to him. “You made good time, Jeon. Was hoping you’d take a little longer. The real show’s always better with an audience, right, wifey?”

Jungkook’s body locks into stillness, but the rage in him surges like a tidal wave against its dam. He rises slowly, placing himself between you and Leo with terrifying precision, his voice ice-cold and taut. “Don’t speak to her.”

Leo smiles. “Why not? We’ve gotten so close, your little bride and I. Haven’t we, princess?”

Your fingers twitch where they rest on the floor.

“She’s untouched,” Leo continues, circling now, slow like a vulture. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I didn’t want to ruin the canvas before the artist arrived. Would’ve been such a waste to play with her while you were out in traffic. I wanted you here, Jeon. To watch. To beg.”

Jungkook doesn’t speak. He drops the coat from his shoulders and steps forward into the light. You watch the muscles in his back tense beneath the thin fabric of his dress shirt, now half-untucked and stained with dirt and blood.

“But look at you,” Leo muses, head tilting. “You’re rattled. Afraid. Has she already made a man out of you, Jungkook? Has she already softened the executioner?”

And that — that’s when Jungkook moves. Like lightning refracted through glass, he lunges forward, shoving Leo hard into the concrete wall. The gun clatters to the ground, metal screeching against tile, as fists replace bullets.

Their fight devolves into raw brutality, all calculated strategy abandoned for pure survival instinct. Leo lands a heavy punch to Jungkook's ribs, and Jungkook retaliates with a vicious blow that sends Leo reeling. When Leo draws a hidden knife from his boot and slashes upward, Jungkook barely manages to dodge, but the blade still finds its mark - tearing through his shirt and leaving a bloody gash across his shoulder.

Your heart races as you scramble to your knees, eyes fixed on the gun lying just within reach. Neither man has noticed it yet.

JJungkook slams Leo into the ground with crushing force. Leo twists and drives his thumb deep into Jungkook's wound, causing him to unleash a primal scream of pure fury. Without hesitation, Jungkook's elbow connects with Leo's temple before grabbing his collar.

Gunshot.

The sound of your scream fills the air as Jungkook staggers backward. Leo stands with the smoking gun, a cruel smile playing on his lips as blood trickles from his temple. Fresh crimson blooms across Jungkook's arm and shoulder.

Your body moves on instinct, hands finding the discarded weapon. The weight of it feels foreign yet decisive as you raise it with trembling fingers.

Leo's eyes meet yours from where he stands, his bloodied smile widening. "Now this... this is poetic."

Your entire body shakes with adrenaline, each breath a struggle.

"Don't," Jungkook pleads, his arm outstretched toward you. "Y/N—don't. You don't need to do this."

Seeing Jungkook wounded and bleeding weakens your resolve.

Leo's soft laughter fills the space. "Go on, sweetheart. Pull the trigger. Be a good wife."

Your finger trembles on the trigger as the world spins around you. When you finally pull, the bullet tears through Leo's thigh with a sickening crack. His scream echoes through the room as he drops to one knee, grasping at the wall for support. The gun slips from your shaking hands as you collapse to the floor.

"Fuck—" Jungkook crawls to you immediately, his good arm wrapping protectively around your waist. "Baby—hey, hey, look at me."

Through your tears, you can barely form words. "I didn't mean to—I thought—he—"

Jungkook reaches for the gun and fires a single shot through Leo's heart. Leo collapses instantly - face slack, eyes wide, gone. Jungkook exhales and pulls you into his lap, ignoring both blood and pain.

"You didn't kill him," Jungkook whispers, voice rough. "You didn't kill anyone. It was me. Look at me. It was me."

You press your face into his neck. “You’re bleeding—Jungkook—your shoulder—”

“I’m fine,” he breathes. “I’m fine. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

His breath catches as he cradles your face between his palms, handling you like the most precious thing in this burning world. "Don't ever run from me again," he pleads, his voice raw with emotion. "Don't ever doubt that I would tear everything apart to find you."

Trembling in his embrace, you watch as Jungkook Jeon does something he's never done before - he prays. Not for himself, but that he'll never again have to see such fear in your eyes.

With infinite care, he lifts you against his chest and carries you from the wreckage. His promises fall like whispered prayers: "You're safe now. No one will ever touch you again. You're mine." And despite everything you've witnessed today - the violence, the monster within him - you believe him completely. Because just as you belong to him, he belongs entirely to you.

────୨ৎ────

What depths of loyalty and sacrifice arise when we call something love? In those quiet moments before dawn, as memories of cold rope and smoke still linger, you contemplate how a single moment can transform everything.

The weight of the gun, the tremble in your hands, the look in Jungkook's eyes - it all comes back with haunting clarity. His plea for you not to shoot wasn't born from fear of Leo, but fear for your soul. While Jungkook had long ago accepted his capacity for darkness, you were still untouched by such choices.

He was a man who had made peace with being a monster. But you? You stood at the precipice between innocence and necessity, between who you were and who circumstances demanded you become.

Looking back, you're still uncertain whether pulling that trigger came from survival instinct, overwhelming fear, or fierce love. The line between those emotions blurs in moments of desperation. That night gave you a glimpse into Jungkook's world - the terrible choices and the weight they carry. Though his lifestyle remains brutal and dark, you've gained a slight understanding of what drives him.

────୨ৎ────

The air tonight tastes like peach blossoms and spring dust. The city is humming outside, but here in this little pocket of golden light and linen, the world feels slower, softer — like something on the edge of a fairytale.

Jungkook is asleep on the couch. Or half-asleep, you’re not sure. His head rests back against the cushion, long legs stretched out like he owns the entire room, which in truth — he probably does. One arm draped over his stomach, the other slack at his side, the sleeve of his thin black shirt pushed up, revealing the edge of gauze still wrapping his shoulder. He refused the hospital, of course. Said he’d had worse.

For a week now, he's been with you. Every second. Every breath. He hasn’t returned to the office. His phone only lights up when there’s something urgent, and even then he barely glances at it before silencing the screen. He walks with you in the mornings — silent, careful steps by the river. He reads beside you in the afternoons, chin propped on his hand like he’s memorizing every inch of your face. He touches you constantly. Not with greed, not with hunger, but with quiet worship — a hand at the small of your back, fingers brushing your jaw, a palm spread against your thigh under the sheets like a silent vow.

And in sleep, he clings. Wraps himself around you with the desperation of someone who knows what it means to almost lose something you weren’t ready to live without. You feel it in his breath when he tightens his hold around your waist. You feel it in the way he kisses your shoulders before he even opens his eyes.

The world has settled into a new kind of quiet, no longer haunting but healing. Though nightmares occasionally visit, they're growing fainter with each passing day.

More powerful now are the gentle rhythms of life with him - his steady heartbeat against your back, his voice greeting the morning sun, his forehead resting softly against yours. These moments have become your anchors, drowning out the echoes of darker days.

Tonight marks a transformation. You've shed the weight of vulnerability, no longer feeling like someone in need of rescue. Instead, you feel whole - ready not just to receive, but to give.

You rise slowly, careful not to disturb him, and walk barefoot across the penthouse’s polished floors. The silk robe you wear clings lightly to your body, the black ribbon from days ago now tied loose in your hair like a quiet signal — one he won’t notice until he’s already undone. The perfume on your wrists is faint, but it still carries — white peach, soft and haunting, the scent he once recognized through memory alone.

You pause in the kitchen to pour a glass of water, your hands trembling with anticipation rather than fear. Tonight feels different - you want to show him that the weight of devotion flows both ways, that despite everything, you chose to stay.

Through all the darkness and ghosts that have haunted your chest, you remained. Not just beside him, but with him. And now, perhaps most importantly, for him. Taking a steadying breath, you walk back to the bedroom. Your fingers find the knot of your robe as you prepare to show him what love truly means when given freely.

────୨ৎ────

The bedroom is steeped in quiet gold, shadows curled against the edges of the walls like folded silk. Outside, the city is a blurred constellation, lights scattered beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass. But here — here, time forgets to move. The air hangs soft, perfumed with something sweeter than white peach, something warmer than memory. Something like safety.

Jungkook stirs when he feels the dip of the mattress. His lashes flutter, a slow exhale leaving him as his eyes open — still soft from sleep, but sharpening the moment they register your silhouette against the dark. The black robe has slipped from your shoulders. Beneath it, skin glows like candlelight, bare and tender and alive. Your hair spills forward, the ribbon still clinging to it like a secret vow. You climb over him carefully, knees bracketing his hips, fingers ghosting over his ribs like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you press too hard.

He swallows. The muscles of his stomach tighten beneath your palms. “Baby…” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and need, “what are you—?”

But the rest dies on his tongue when you lean down, kiss his collarbone, and whisper, “Let me.”

His breath catches as you shift forward, reaching between your bodies with practiced ease. He’s already hard — has been since the moment your weight settled over him — but he doesn’t move, doesn’t rush. He watches you, chest rising with shallow breaths as your fingers guide him in, slow and deliberate, the stretch making your lips part in a quiet gasp.

Your hands steady on his chest as you sink down. And he groans — not loudly, not desperately — but like something sacred just broke open inside him. His hands twitch at your thighs but he doesn’t grip you. He lets you move at your own pace. And you do.

You ride him slowly. Not with rhythm, not with control — but with reverence. With something closer to prayer. Every motion is intentional, the soft roll of your hips a sacred offering, your walls dragging tight around him as you take him inch by inch. His length fills you deep, stretching you with a sweet ache that makes your breath stutter. Each movement draws him deeper, until your bodies are flush, your thighs trembling where they cradle his hips.

You grind down, slow and full, letting the sensation ripple through your spine. Your back arches as you circle once, twice, dragging your heat over him in a way that makes him groan low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin like thunder contained beneath satin.

His hands twitch against your hips but he doesn’t guide you, doesn’t grip — just anchors. Fingers trembling, he lets you set the pace, like he understands that this isn’t about possession. This is about being seen. About surrendering to the truth of you.

You press your palms flat to his chest, right over his heart, and feel it hammering beneath your touch — wild, vulnerable, alive. You rise up, the slow drag of him pulling free until only the tip remains, and then you sink down again, letting him fill you, stretch you, make you gasp. Over and over — each thrust more confident, each grind a little deeper, your breath catching when the head of his cock grazes that soft, aching spot deep inside.

His jaw is slack now, pupils blown wide, lashes damp, lips parted in something close to awe. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t speak. Just watches — like he’s memorizing the way your body glows in the moonlight, the way your breasts bounce gently with every movement, the way you whimper when you find the angle that makes your thighs quake.

You roll your hips harder now, pleasure building slow and thick at the base of your spine. Every thrust is deliberate — down and forward, dragging his length against that spot again and again, until his fingers finally tighten on your waist, the first crack in his restraint.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice torn. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You moan in response, your body clenching around him, and he bucks up into you — once, sharply, making you cry out. You bite your lip, nails raking gently down his chest, and then move faster, chasing the heat gathering between your legs.

Your thighs begin to tremble with the effort, your breath coming ragged. You rise and fall, again and again, his cock dragging thick and hot inside you, the wet sound of your bodies meeting echoing through the room. He thrusts up into you now, meeting your pace, the friction growing wetter, messier, more desperate with every collision.

The intimacy of the moment transcends mere physical connection. This is about reclamation - a sacred vow expressed through movement, marking the moment you embrace being cherished, desired, and wholly accepted.

“You’re mine,” you whisper, voice shaking, legs trembling. “You’re only mine.”

His answer is a groan torn from the chest, hands flying to your hips as he meets you thrust for thrust now, the rhythm breaking apart in something raw and wild. “I’ve always been yours.”

The sounds between you are quiet, wet and slow, the room filled with broken whispers and low moans. You lean down, kiss him softly — once, twice, again — and he gasps into your mouth when your walls flutter around him.

His voice is wrecked now. “Fuck, baby, please…”

“Please what?” you murmur, lips brushing his.

“I need you to come. Like this. On top of me. For me.”

You press your forehead to his. “Then say it.”

He groans, head tipping back, breath shaky. “You own me.”

You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders now as your hips roll deeper, harder — still slow, still tender, but with a purpose now. With power. Your body tightens, pleasure gathering low in your belly like a storm you’ve been holding for years.

And then he says it — broken, wrecked, utterly yours. “Take it all. Fuck, take me.”

With a gasp that shatters into a cry, you break, your entire body pulsing around him, walls clenching tight as the pleasure explodes. He grips your hips hard, slamming up into you once, twice, three times — then spills into you with a deep, broken moan, holding you flush against him as he throbs, shaking beneath the weight of it.

And like stars colliding - inevitable, cosmic - your bodies stay locked together, hearts beating the same wild rhythm. His touch remains anchored to your skin, a silent promise written in the press of fingertips and shared breath.

The moment stretches like honey, sweet and infinite, as neither of you dares to break this delicate thread of connection.

────୨ৎ────

The days that follow feel like silk. The kind of days you once believed belonged only to magazines or other women — women with lives built on choice and safety, not sacrifice. Mornings spill in slow like cream over espresso, and you wake to his breath against your shoulder, his arm heavy around your waist, your legs tangled beneath linen sheets that still smell of white peach and the ghosts of what you whispered the night before.

Jungkook barely lets you leave his orbit. He touches constantly — not possessively, but tender, reverent. A hand at the small of your back when you pass him. Fingers brushing your wrist under the dining table while his phone rings unanswered. His thigh pressed to yours on the sofa, unmoving for hours. He kisses you in the hallway without warning — sometimes just your shoulder in passing, sometimes your mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world.

You catch him watching you like that sometimes — in the mirror, in the kitchen, while you tie the black ribbon into your hair — as though he still doesn’t quite believe you’re real. He never says it aloud, but you feel it in how he pulls you into his chest at night, hands gripping tighter when you try to roll away. He’s afraid the softness might vanish. That you'll vanish.

You learn things too. That his coffee must be scalding hot. That he sometimes murmurs in his sleep — nonsense, fragments of English and Korean and violence you don’t always understand. That he always carries two knives. One he shows. One he doesn’t.

And in return, you let him see more of you. You tell him about the time you lied to your fencing coach just to sneak out to the lakeside. You let him read the old Latin poem you wrote at sixteen, still folded inside your Saint-Margaux notebook. One night — only once — you cry again. He doesn’t ask why. He just pulls you closer and holds you tighter, whispering your name until sleep comes like a tide.

You wonder if this is love. Not the brutal, all-consuming version you were warned about — but the kind built quietly in the echo of war. A soft defiance, a rebellion in kisses.

────୨ৎ────

He’s kissing your temple when the call comes. You’re wrapped around each other on the velvet sofa, barefoot, wine half-finished, a K-drama playing on mute just for the light. He checks the screen and tenses.

"Grandfather," he says quietly, tension filling the single word.

You understand the weight of it immediately, though your fingers still clutch at the hem of his sweatshirt. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. "I won't be long. Don't wait up."

────୨ৎ────

The Jeon estate is too quiet when he arrives — grand halls humming with tension rather than servants. The lights are dim, the kind of half-lit stillness that announces something heavy is about to begin. His grandfather waits in the ancestral chamber — all dark wood and high ceilings and paintings that watch. The old man stands in front of the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, no drink in sight.

"Do you understand what you've done?" The words cut through the silence, his grandfather's voice sharp with disapproval. Jungkook stands tall, his coat still on, jaw locked in defiance.

"There is an order to everything," the old man continues, turning to face him. "You shattered that order when you - a Jeon - chased after her. You humbled yourself before her family, lost control, lost face. We are not the ones who get left. Have you forgotten what that means?"

“I went after my wife,” Jungkook says, voice low but steady. “She wears my name now. She is my family — as much as you are.”

His grandfather’s face contorts, torn between fury and something colder. “You killed Leo Maranzano. After the boy you already orphaned.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

“And not in darkness. Not quietly. In an open war. Blood. Witnesses. Chaos. We killed two Maranzano men now. And the world — the other families — they saw. They heard.”

“That is not the worst part,” the old man mutters. “The worst is what it means. That our enemies will now dare to look. To test us. The wolves are circling, Jungkook. They think the lions are wounded.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer at first. His hands are still, but his eyes have darkened — storm breaking slowly beneath the surface. “If they come,” he says at last, “let them. They’ll learn.”

The old man watches him for a long, unbearable pause before turning back to the fire. Without waiting for permission, Jungkook leaves, already texting Namjoon as he moves. In the end, the circles of blood and empires of fear mean nothing to him - his only concern is what awaits in the soft quiet of the penthouse, in the arms of the only thing he still believes in.

You.

────୨ৎ────

There’s a kind of hush that settles in just before it begins — the penthouse awash in low light, the city’s skyline blurring like a memory behind glass.

You move through the bedroom like a whispered promise, the black ribbon coiled softly around your fingers. The same ribbon he’s come to associate with you — with defiance, with surrender, with the moment he first truly chose you. Tonight, you wear nothing but silk: a slip the color of moonlight, the scent of white peach clinging to your collarbones like a secret.

He’s on the bed, leaning against the headboard, shirt already gone, dark sweatpants riding low. Jungkook watches you with something primal curled in his gaze — but there’s softness too. Always with you now, always just beneath the surface. Like he’s ready to kneel even while he commands the room. You move toward him with the quiet confidence he's come to crave, gracefully settling onto the mattress.

"What's that for?" he murmurs, his gaze drawn to the ribbon.

You don’t answer. Instead, you climb onto his lap, straddling him slowly, your bare thighs brushing against his skin, the slip of your hips bringing him to attention beneath the cotton. He exhales harshly, head falling back slightly, eyes dragging over every inch of you.

You press the ribbon to his lips. “Let me.”

He doesn’t ask again. You tie the ribbon around his eyes — not tight, just enough to veil the world, to make everything else fade except your voice, your mouth, your scent. When you pull back, he’s breathing differently already — deeper, more aware. His hands clench at his sides.

“What are you doing to me,” he whispers.

You slide down his body, soft kisses at his throat, his collarbone, lower — your breath warming the trail of his tattoos. And when you peel away the last of his clothes and take him into your mouth, the sound he makes is desperate. His hands twist into the sheets. His thighs tremble.

You work him with your mouth, slow and unrelenting — not chasing rhythm, but exploring it. Your tongue drags along the underside with deliberate curiosity, swirling once around the head before taking him deeper again, letting the heat of your mouth embrace him fully. You hollow your cheeks just enough to make him groan, the sound pulled straight from his chest like something unwilling, like something sacred. He tastes like salt and sin and everything you’ve ever been denied.

Above you, his thighs tense under your palms, the muscle twitching in waves as he fights the impulse to move. You glance up through your lashes, only to find his jaw clenched, head thrown back, lips parted in something between prayer and profanity.

His fingers flex against the mattress — not grabbing you, not guiding you, just trembling there, like he’s trying to remember what it means to let go. You can see him unraveling beneath the weight of your touch, the tight control he always wears now splitting at the seams.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice hoarse, “you’re gonna break me.”

And maybe you are — maybe that’s the point. Because this time, he’s the one undone. This time, your mouth is the weapon and your name is the surrender he can’t swallow.

“Let me see you,” he pants. “Ribbon off. I wanna see you.”

You pull back, smirking against his skin. “No.”

That single syllable makes him snap. He tears off the ribbon with a growl, eyes wild and burning as he grabs your waist and pulls you up with one swift movement. “Switch.”

Your wrists are bound in the same ribbon before you can speak, your arms raised above your head as he lays you back into the pillows, eyes devouring every inch of you like he’s starved. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like you’re his.

“You like playing games, huh?” he mutters against your throat. “But you’re mine now.”

His voice is low, dark, possessive and when he sinks into you, the stretch burns just enough to make your breath catch — slow, unbearably deep, every inch claimed with the kind of reverence that borders on cruelty. Your back arches off the sheets, a helpless curve, your body bowing beneath the weight of him, beneath the pressure of every inch pressing you open, pressing you full.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice already wrecked, forehead tipping against yours as he stays there, unmoving for a heartbeat too long. “So warm. So fucking perfect. Mine.”

He pulls out halfway, slow and dragging, and then pushes back in, even deeper. You moan into his mouth — soft, cracked, desperate. He moves again, then again, each thrust patient, almost lazy, but unbearably thorough. He’s not fucking you to finish — he’s fucking you to memorize you.

You’re gasping already, your tied wrists straining just slightly as your hips rise to meet him, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, caging him closer, like you need him deeper even though he’s already buried to the hilt.

He growls low in his throat, biting gently at your jaw. “Say it,” he demands, his rhythm still slow, still devastating. “Say who you belong to.”

“You—” you choke out, your voice caught between a gasp and a sob. “I’m yours, Jungkook. Yours—”

He groans like it’s a prayer answered in flesh. The control shatters. He snaps his hips harder now — deeper, faster — his chest dragging against yours, his breath burning hot across your throat. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, wet and sharp and desperate.

“That’s right,” he snarls against your ear, his hand sliding between your bodies to find that perfect spot — circling, pressing, just enough to make your thighs tremble around him. “My wife. My fucking everything.”

Your fingers curl tight in their silk bindings. Your spine bows. You feel him everywhere — inside you, around you, claiming you with every thrust, every low growl of your name. You’re unraveling under him, your voice breaking on every moan.

The pleasure builds unbearably — the coil tight and hot and rising, pulled taut until it can’t be held anymore — and when he angles his hips just right, hitting the spot that makes your vision blur white, it explodes.

You cry out as your orgasm hits, hard and shaking, your body convulsing beneath him as his name rips from your throat. He fucks you through it — hard and fast and relentless — chasing his own release as your walls flutter and pulse around him.

And when he comes, it’s with a broken groan, deep and guttural, his body pressing fully into yours as he spills inside you. His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and he keeps moving just a little, just enough to keep you open, to keep the heat between you alive.

“Mine,” he whispers into your neck. “Mine. Mine.”

When he finally slows, breath ragged and body trembling, he unties your wrists with gentle fingers, kissing each mark left behind. He doesn’t say anything, not right away. Just strokes your cheek, presses a kiss to your collarbone, your shoulder, your mouth — soft now, reverent.

You’re both breathless, sticky, spent. And yet his arms stay wrapped around you, strong and still trembling from how close it all felt to ruin. His voice returns only in a whisper, lips brushing your temple.

"I don't care if the whole world burns. Just don't leave me again," he whispers against your skin.

In response, you pull him closer and stay wrapped in his embrace - a wordless promise that speaks louder than any declaration.

.

.

taglist: kelsyx33 , maariinaaaaa estyshitposts oatmealbar jkemmi @sassywildbunny @maruperalta05-blog @aaabbbbllll @estyshitposts @nellbyy @mar-lo-pap @llallaaa @koogenre

@kooklv

[beloveds-embrace]

what if duchess!reader is kidnapped... just thinking..

I love your thinking 👁️👁️ fyi writing heavy action is not my thing at all as I’ve found out while writing this 💀 CW: sexual assault (not rape)

Dukedom au masterlist

The day had started like any other. You’d awoken to the soft, warm light filtering through the curtains, greeted by the warmth of your bed and the quiet hum of the household waking up around you. You were the only one still in bed; Johnny and Simon wake up the earliest every day, then Kyle, then John, and you deduce that you must’ve not had much to do on your agenda if they had let you sleep in.

Your heart sighed, happy. They cared for you so much, you adored them.

Everything was normal from then on. You showered and dressed, had breakfast with Johnny and Kyle, got stolen kisses from Simon and John.

Everything was normal.

Safe.

Until it wasn’t.

The memory of how it all happened is fragmented- too fast, too sudden. You’d gone to the gardens for a stroll, accompanied by one maid and a single guard, a routine walk to clear your mind, get some fresh air in such nice weather. But the ambush was swift. Shadows that hadn’t been there before moved, voices hissed sharp commands, and then- pain. A sharp, stinging pain at the back of your head before everything went dark.

When you awoke, you were bound. Cold stone walls and floors surrounded you, damp and suffocating, the air stale with the scent of decay. The faint flicker of candlelight illuminated the room, but no one was there at first. You couldn’t even tell how long you had been out. Fear threatened to choke you, but you forced yourself to breathe. To think.

John, Simon, Kyle, Johnny- they’ll save you. They will. That thought kept you from truly panicking, even if your heart thundered against your chest and your body trembled, tears in the corners of your eyes.

The news hit John like a thunderclap. His ears rang, and he almost didn’t believe the words at first.

“She’s gone,” Kyle reported, his usually calm demeanor shattered. His fists were clenched, slammed on John’s desk, and his voice shook despite his best efforts to remain steady. “The guards- dead. The maid survived, but barely. It was an ambush. Everyone is tightening up the security right now, but- they’ve taken her.”

John didn’t stop to ask questions. Orders were barked, search parties sent out, guards work at hard. Simon was already armored and saddling his horse before John had even finished speaking. Johnny abandoned his kitchen entirely, storming out with sleeves rolled up, his eyes sharp and lethal in a way no one had ever seen before. And Kyle was barely holding himself together in his anger, but there was a fire burning behind his eyes that promised hell for whoever dared lay a hand on you.

None of them stopped to think. None of them cared about anything other than getting you back.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been there, cold and the ropes digging into your skin painfully when the door creaked open.

The man who entered reeked of sweat and desperation, and his grin made your stomach churn. It took strength not to gag as he neared you, grimy fingers grabbing your chin roughly. “The Duke will pay handsomely for you,” he sneered. “And if he doesn’t… well, I’m sure we can find other uses for you.”

The smirk that (dis)graced his face then alarmed you, even more so when he reached to rip off the fabric of your dress, around your collar.

You flinchd, terror clawing at your throat. The tears rolled down your cheeks then, and yet he only laughed, his rancid breath wafting over your face.

“Wonder how much he’ll pay for you, eh?” He mused. “Pretty face and probably a pretty cunt too, don’t think the Duke will let ya go that easily.”

You forced yourself to speak calmly, even if your voice trembled. Shame clawed at you, at his words and the way he talked about you. “You won’t get a single coin from him,” you said, steadier than you felt. “He’s a man who doesn’t bargain with scum.”

The chair you’d been tied to groaned as you threw your weight sideways suddenly, toppling it over and surprising him just long enough for you to maybe- just- knock him out, something to get his hands off you-

But you didn’t have to.

Because then, there was shouting. The door burst open, and the first thing you saw was Simon’s familiar, towering frame filling the entrance. Blood smeared his armor, and his eyes through his mask- normally sharp and calculating- were wild with rage.

“Don’t you fucking touch her.”

The sounds of swords clanging rang out from outside, and your captor crumpled to the ground before he could even react and you were so glad it was too dark for you to see his blood coating Simon’s sword; the smell alone had you gagging. Though it was forgotten as Simon rushed to cradle you.

Then they were there- all of them. John’s hands shook with rage as he knelt beside you, pulling at your bindings with urgency. Kyle hovered just behind him, dagger stained, and Johnny was at your other side, pressing his hands to your face, whispering reassurances even as his voice wavered.

“You’re safe, love. We’ve got you. We’ve got you.”

The ride back home was quiet, save for your stressed weeping. They didn’t ask questions- not yet. Instead, they focused on keeping you warm, wrapped in John’s coat as Kyle’s arms held you steady in the carriage. Johnny never stopped touching you, even if it was just to brush his fingers against your hand.

They did not stop your tears; they let you sob it all out, as much as possible. The fear, the panic, everything, and you simply clung to them.

It was only once you were home, surrounded by the familiarity of your rooms and you were calmer, that the questions came.

“Are you hurt, my love?” John asked first, his voice gentle but commanding. “Did they…” He couldn’t even finish the question, his throat tightening.

“No,” you said quickly, voice hoarse, reaching for his hand. “They didn’t. I swear it.”

Relief flooded his face, but it was fleeting. Kyle had already left to prepare a bath, and Simon stood by the door like a sentry. Johnny sat at your feet, eyes locked on yours.

“Ye need to eat,” he suddenly said, as if being reminded. His face softened when he caught the way your lips twisted. “I ken ye probably have no appetite, but ye gotta hold something down, lass.”

They didn’t leave you alone that night. Not even for a moment, and they were the ones to help you shower and dress. They held you close, touches gentle, soothing. Simon’s dogs were there, as well, napping by the fireplace.

And when you woke up in the middle of the night, trembling from the remnants of fear, it was Simon’s voice that soothed you.

“You’re safe, darling,” he whispered against your hair, arms wound around you like a cocoon of safety and security. “No one will ever touch you again.”

You believed him. You did. And yet- you still clung to him, to all of them, desperate for any touch that would remind you where you are.

And they were all too willing to soothe your fears (they needed it as much as you did, anyways).

[pjmxtra]

trusting you⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

paring: experienced! 니키 x virgin!fmr

warning: smut! angst! fluff! fingering, size kink, p in v

an: first request thank you sm!! hope i did well. i had so much fun writing it.

“I don’t want to disappoint you, Ki,” you whispered, voice barely audible, swallowed by the closeness of his mouth on your neck. His lips moved slowly, reverently down the delicate line of your throat, lingering at each pulse point as if memorizing your rhythm.

You felt so small beneath him—so tiny and breakable in his lap, dwarfed by the width of his frame, the strength in his arms. He made you feel like porcelain, something fragile, precious. Untouched. Which, in a way, you were.

You’d never gone this far with anyone. Not because the chance hadn’t been there, but because it had never felt right. It had never felt safe. Until him.

Riki’s lips paused against your collarbone. Slowly, he lifted his head from the crook of your neck, and his dark eyes caught yours. There was no teasing smirk this time—no playful edge. Just concern. Just quiet, open patience. Your soft eyes stared up into his, wide and glossy, your brows drawn together as your hands twisted nervously in your lap.

You didn’t want to think about the others he’d been with—those nameless shadows that came before you. You knew he had experience. You knew he wasn’t coming into this with the same shaky hands and fluttering chest that you were.

And maybe you’d tried to convince yourself it didn’t matter. But it did. You hated that it did. It dug in deep, curled cold around your stomach, a silent insecurity you tried so hard not to let surface.

But it always found a way to rise.

Riki’s expression softened even more when he spoke. “Where’s this coming from, hmm?” His voice was deep, low like a rumble against your skin. His hands, large and firm on your narrow waist, tightened just a little—just enough to ground you. Just enough to remind you that you were here, in his arms, not some distant thought drifting away.

You looked down, unable to hold his gaze anymore, your vision blurring as your fingers clutched the hem of your shirt in your lap. You sat cross-legged on top of him, practically folded into his body, the top of your head barely reaching the underside of his chin. It made everything feel more intense, more real—the stark contrast between his strength and your vulnerability.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, your voice thick with the tears you didn’t want to shed. “I know it’s dumb, I just… I can’t stop thinking about how I’ll never be like the others. I’m not… I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m scared I’ll mess it up. That I’ll mess us up.”

Riki’s jaw tensed for a second, like the thought of you feeling that way physically hurt him. His hand moved up from your waist, big palm cradling your cheek, gently turning your face back to his.

Your eyes brimmed with tears, lashes damp and trembling. You tried to turn away, embarrassed, but he wouldn’t let you. He held you there, his touch so careful despite how easily he could hold you still.

“Hey. Don’t cry, sweet girl,” he murmured, his voice quiet and full of something unshakably tender. “Don’t let that pretty head of yours ever think you could disappoint me.”

He kissed your tears away—first your eyes, then the tip of your nose, then your trembling mouth. The kiss wasn’t rushed or rough. It was soft. Slow. As if time didn’t matter. As if all that mattered was making sure you felt it—that you knew it.

His arms wrapped tighter around you, drawing you impossibly closer until your chest was pressed to his and you could feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your hands.

You were completely enclosed in him, wrapped in his warmth, his strength. His scent. Like nothing else existed beyond the shell of his embrace.

“I want this with you,” he said, his voice just above a whisper now, his breath brushing your lips. “Not because you’re perfect. Not because you’re experienced. But because you’re mine. And I’ll take care of you… every step of the way.”

You nodded against him, your body relaxing in the safety of his hold. Your breath hitched when he said it—you’re mine. Something deep inside you ached at those words, a kind of ache that wasn’t pain, but longing.

You nodded again, too full of feeling to speak. You clutched at his shirt, tiny hands fisting into the fabric like you needed to hold on to something solid or else float away.

Riki pulled back only enough to see your face. His thumb brushed along your cheek, and then down to your chin, tilting your head up.

You looked so small beneath his gaze, so delicate in his lap, legs draped over his thighs like a doll placed in the arms of something far bigger. His size made you feel nervous, but not in the way that made you want to pull away. It made you want to fall deeper, to give yourself over completely and trust he’d catch you.

“Lie back for me,” he murmured, voice low, guiding you down onto the bed like he was laying down something precious. His hand stayed at your waist as you shifted, your body trembling faintly beneath him.

He moved with careful slowness, one knee resting between your legs, his frame casting a shadow over yours. Your breath caught again when his hands slid up your sides—slow, reverent. Like he was memorizing the shape of you.

“You okay?” he asked, and his voice was softer now, velvet-smooth, all the teasing long gone. “You can tell me to stop. Anytime. I mean it.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. Your voice shook, your fingers clinging to his arm. “I just… I’m scared.”

“I know, baby.” His lips brushed your forehead. “But you’re not alone. I’ve got you. I’ll take care of everything.”

The mattress dipped as he leaned down, his mouth ghosting over yours. His kiss this time was deeper, a little firmer. He kissed like he meant it, like he wasn’t just trying to make you feel good—he was trying to make you feel safe. Like this wasn’t just about bodies, but about trust. About you handing yourself over to him completely—and him treating that with the weight it deserved.

He took his time, undressing you slowly, piece by piece, whispering soft praise the entire way.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes roaming over your body like it was art. “So fucking soft. I could spend all night just looking at you.”

You trembled under the weight of his gaze, hands instinctively moving to cover yourself, but he stopped you gently.

“No,” he said firmly, but kindly, taking your wrists in one large hand. “Don’t hide from me. Not tonight. Let me see you, baby. Let me have you.”

You swallowed thickly, your chest rising and falling fast as you slowly lowered your arms. You felt bare in every sense—not just naked, but exposed. But Riki didn’t leer. He didn’t compare. He didn’t hesitate. He just looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

His hands were everywhere.

Large, warm, calloused—so much bigger than yours, and they moved over you like you were something delicate he had to treat with reverence. His touch was slow, deliberate, every sweep of his palm down your trembling sides igniting a fresh wave of heat that settled low in your belly. He leaned over you, his frame easily caging yours in. His chest hovered just inches above your own, his forearms braced on either side of your head, muscles taut with restraint.

Your body was already trembling beneath him—nerves, anticipation, raw vulnerability all coiled into something electric. And he felt it. You could see it in his eyes, blown dark and focused entirely on you, and you could feel it in the way he touched you—not rushing, not pushing, just guiding, always waiting for you to follow.

“Spread your legs for me, baby,” he murmured, voice low, coaxing. “Nice and slow.”

You obeyed, heart pounding so loud you could barely hear your own breath. Your thighs parted shakily beneath him, small legs spreading around his hips, and his gaze dropped between you for a moment before he groaned softly, something deep and rough in his throat.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he muttered, running his hand up the inside of your thigh. Your skin jumped under the heat of his palm. “So soft. So tiny down here…”

You gasped as his fingers grazed over your folds, his touch featherlight but deliberate. He took his time exploring you, mapping out every twitch, every gasp, every time your hips lifted off the mattress in search of more. His other arm held you still, anchored across your waist, the sheer size of it a stark reminder of how easily he could pin you down completely if he wanted to. But he didn’t. He never took. He asked.

“Does this feel good?” he asked, dipping his head beside your ear, his breath hot against your flushed skin. “Tell me if anything’s too much.”

“N-no, it’s good,” you whispered, voice barely holding steady. “It’s really… it’s good.”

He smiled against your skin, lips brushing just beneath your jawline as two fingers slid between your folds and circled your clit, slow and lazy. You cried out softly, hips twitching up against his hand, and he hummed in approval.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured. “Look at you… already so wet for me.”

Your cheeks burned, but the praise only made the heat between your legs build. Your breath came in shorter gasps as he worked you open with his fingers—first one, then another, stretching you so carefully, gently easing you toward the point where your body would be ready to take more.

His fingers were thick, his knuckles pressing just enough to make your walls clench, and you could feel how much bigger he’d be than this.

“Doing so good,” he whispered. “So tight. You feel how your little pussy holds onto me? That’s just from my fingers, baby.”

You whined, eyes squeezing shut, thighs trembling around his hips. He withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean as he watched you with half-lidded eyes.

Then, he settled between your thighs again, one hand guiding himself to your entrance.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised, kissing the center of your chest, just over your heart. “I’ll stop the second you say the word.”

You nodded, breath shaky. “I trust you.”

That was all he needed.

You felt the head of him press against you—thick, hot, and unforgiving. The stretch made your breath catch, eyes wide as you instinctively tried to draw back, but his hand returned to your waist, holding you still, grounding you.

“Shh,” he soothed. “Just breathe, baby. You’re okay. Just a little more…”

Every inch was a new kind of overwhelming—his size, the fullness, the way your body struggled to accommodate him. He didn’t force it. He eased in slowly, watching every flicker of emotion on your face, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your trembling lips.

“There you go,” he whispered when he was fully seated inside you, chest rising and falling heavily against yours. “You took all of me, sweet girl. Just like that.”

You could barely breathe, but the fullness… it was intoxicating. You felt split open, claimed, utterly owned. He stayed still, letting you adjust, his thumb stroking soothingly over your hip as he kissed along your jaw.

“Tell me when you want more,” he said softly, voice barely holding back the tension straining in his body.

“I want it,” you breathed, clutching at his shoulders. “Please.”

He groaned again, deeper this time, and began to move.

Each thrust was slow, controlled, his hips rolling against yours with a careful rhythm. You could feel how he tried to hold back, to make it good for you before himself. Your body gripped him tightly with every movement, the stretch still just shy of too much, and it only added to the intensity.

“You feel that?” he murmured against your ear. “That’s how deep I am inside you. Only you get this, baby. Only you get to have me like this.”

His hand slid beneath your lower back, lifting your hips slightly to change the angle, and suddenly the friction hit just right. Your back arched, a strangled moan escaping your lips, and he groaned in return, thrusts faltering for just a moment.

“That’s it. Right there, huh? There’s my good girl.”

You couldn’t speak anymore—only whimper, lost in the drag and push of his hips, the way he filled every inch of you so perfectly. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, breathless and trembling, as his pace built just a little faster, rougher—but never losing the tenderness.

His thrusts deepened, slow but powerful, each one pressing you down into the mattress with the full weight of him. You were small beneath him—stretched wide, trembling, completely pinned by the press of his hips and the sheer length of him inside you.

Your hands clung to his shoulders, nails digging in, and he didn’t flinch—he welcomed the mark, gritting his teeth as you arched under him, your moans soft and broken.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Take it—just like that. Let me feel you.”

The pressure was building fast now—hot, thick, overwhelming. It started in your core, a slow tightening coil that grew sharper with every drag of his cock along your walls. He hit something inside you that made your breath catch, your eyes go wide as your body jerked beneath him.

“There?” he rasped, voice suddenly rougher, rawer. “Right there, huh?”

You nodded frantically, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from how much it was. The pressure. The pleasure. Him.

“I can’t—Riki—” Your voice broke, your body twitching. “I-I think I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he growled, suddenly burying himself deeper, his hips grinding hard and slow. “Come on, sweet girl. Let me feel how tight this pretty little pussy gets when you fall apart for me.”

Your whole body locked up beneath him. The orgasm hit hard, rushing through you like a wave that tore the breath from your lungs.

Your back arched off the bed, mouth falling open in a silent scream, legs trembling violently as your body clamped down around him. He groaned through gritted teeth, hips stuttering against you as he fought to stay steady through your climax.

“That’s it,” he hissed, watching you unravel beneath him. “Fuck, look at you…”

You were shaking, tears streaking your flushed cheeks, unable to stop the helpless whimpers as the aftershocks pulsed through you. Your body twitched every time he moved inside you, too sensitive, too full, too much—and still, you didn’t want him to stop.

“I-I can’t—” you whispered, broken, clinging to him.

“Yes, you can,” he said, voice softer now, lips brushing yours. “You’re okay. You’re doing so fucking good.”

And then, with a deep, guttural moan, his hips slammed flush against yours, and he spilled into you, filling you with thick warmth. You could feel every pulse of it, deep and slow, his breath ragged as he pressed his forehead to yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved—just tangled together, breathing each other in.

When he finally pulled out, he did so carefully, cradling you like you’d break. You whimpered at the emptiness, body still pulsing around nothing, and he shushed you gently, laying soft kisses on your cheeks, your jaw, your lips.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, gathering you into his arms, pulling you onto his chest like you weighed nothing. “You did so good for me. So perfect.”

You curled into him, limbs trembling, skin slick with sweat. You felt raw—used and loved all at once, stretched and filled and held. His hand ran slowly up and down your back, grounding you as your heart slowly returned to a steady rhythm.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice no longer rough but achingly tender. “Talk to me, baby.”

You nodded, still pressed against his chest. “Yeah… just overwhelmed.”

His arms tightened. “I know. I know, sweet girl.”

He kissed your forehead, holding you close, letting you rest there in the soft silence that followed. The bed sheets were damp, your body sore and tingling in the best way, but none of it mattered. Not with him holding you like that—like you were the most precious thing in the world.

“I love you,” you whispered, surprising yourself.

Riki didn’t hesitate.

“I love you too,” he murmured, voice a low, steady vow. “And I meant what I said. You’ll never disappoint me. You’re mine… and I’ll take care of you. Always.”

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, letting yourself melt into him completely—safe, wanted, loved.

And this time, you believed it.

[linoxpudding]

No Escape- Kim Seungmin

summary: your life is turned upside down when a ruthless mafia leader falls for you— his obsession growing stronger each day, pulling you deeper into his dark, twisted world

pairing: mafia!seungmin x fem!reader

genre: slow burn angst, dark romance, yandere, mafia au

word count: 7809 words

warnings: kidnapping, obsession, possessiveness, forced confinement, emotional manipulation, mentions of violence, toxic dynamics, controlling behavior

a/n: okay, but seungmin in those chaumet event photos? like, he’s living rent-free in my brain at this point. the white suit is giving prince energy, but the black one though? MAJOR mafia boss vibes. help me, I'm down bad

PART TWO

Masterlist

~°~

It was a random Tuesday evening.

The sky had cracked open without warning, releasing a cold, relentless rain that soaked through your sweater in seconds. You didn’t have an umbrella, your tote bag was already damp, and your fingers trembled as you hugged your books against your chest.

You’d meant to head straight home after classes, but something about the storm made you duck into that little café across from the industrial district instead. It was warm inside—quiet, dimly lit, with rain tapping gently on the fogged windows. The kind of place that smelled like old wood and cinnamon.

You found a spot by the window and sank into it, grateful. Ordered a latte, pulled out the book you were currently reading, and let the storm settle around you.

Across the street, he noticed you the second you ran into view.

From the backseat of a matte black car, tinted windows rolled halfway down, Seungmin’s fingers paused around the rim of a crystal tumbler. Amber scotch swirled lazily inside, untouched. The man beside him—older, in a gray coat, mid-sentence about offshore accounts and numbers Seungmin didn’t care about—went ignored.

Because you had caught his eye. You were nothing like the world he usually lived in. No designer heels, no bloodstained alliances, no veiled threats behind fake smiles.

Just you.

Soaking wet, eyes squinted against the rain, half-laughing as you darted across the street, nearly slipping. Your hair clung to your face. Your bag bounced at your side. You looked annoyed, tired… human.

And you disappeared inside the café like a whisper.

Seungmin leaned forward slightly, ignoring the impatient look his associate gave him. The sharp sound of rain on the windshield, the glow of café lights through the haze—everything else dulled in comparison.

He didn’t even blink.

“Are you listening, Kim?”

The man’s voice broke through the quiet.

Seungmin didn’t respond at first. Just narrowed his eyes at the café door.

Then finally, he exhaled through his nose, cold and flat. “Repeat that.”

The man clicked his tongue but did.

Yet Seungmin’s mind was still elsewhere.

He hadn’t seen anyone like you in a long time—someone who didn’t look like they belonged to the world he owned. And something about the way you carried yourself, even in the most mundane way… it scratched at something deep in his chest.

He needed to see your face again. To know your name. To understand why he suddenly didn’t care about the deal he’d spent weeks arranging.

But when the meeting ended and the man finally left the car, Seungmin turned his head back toward the café but you were gone.

The corner booth was empty. Your drink half-finished. Chair still slightly askew. Gone. Just like that.

He blinked once. Then twice. Sat forward in his seat like it would bring you back into view. Nothing. His hand tightened around the glass of scotch until it cracked.

“Where the fuck did she go?” he hissed, tossing the glass to the floor as the door opened.

Han Jisung slid into the backseat, raising a brow at the shattered mess. Han was one of Seungmin’s most trusted men. His consigliere. The silver-tongued devil who could talk a rat into a cage. He charmed politicians, bribed judges, made enemies feel like friends before they bled out on concrete.

Han looked at the mess before speaking, “Did that dude say something stupid again or—”

“She’s gone.”

“Who?”

“The girl.”

Han frowned, turning his head toward the café. “There was a girl?”

“Corner booth. Reading. Wearing white.”

“I didn’t see anyone when I came out.”

“That’s the point,” Seungmin growled. “She was there. Then she wasn’t.”

Without another word, he opened the door and stepped out into the drizzle. Crossed the street. Pushed into the café.

The bell over the café door jingled softly when he walked in. Heads turned. The few customers glanced up in mild curiosity—then quickly looked away when they saw his face.

Because he wasn’t just anyone.

He was Kim Seungmin. The name you only whispered when you were absolutely sure no one else could hear. The name associated with disappearing debts, bodies found floating in rivers, and entire criminal families reduced to ashes.

He didn’t run a mafia. He was the mafia.

Ruthless. Calculated. Obsessively private. His power was the kind that didn’t require guns drawn in public—people made space the second they recognized him. Because if Kim Seungmin had to show up in person… it meant you were already too late.

And tonight, he didn’t care about stares.

He walked straight to the counter, dark suit still perfectly pressed, eyes razor-sharp under the soft lights. The scent of rain still clung to his coat, a few stray droplets falling from his sleeves as he placed both hands on the polished wood.

The boy behind the counter blinked twice before his hands nervously reached for the register. “W-What can I get for you, sir?”

“Girl. Corner booth. Just now.”

The barista blinked. “Oh, uh, yeah. She was here. Didn’t order much. Latte, I think. Stayed maybe an hour?”

“Her name?”

“She didn’t give one.”

“Card?”

“Paid cash.”

“CCTV?”

His face paled. “Camera system’s been broken for months, sir. Sorry.”

Seungmin stared at him for a beat too long. Then turned sharply, storming out, Han hot on his heels.

“Boss—”

“Every angle of this street,” Seungmin barked, already pulling out his phone. “Find her. I don’t care if you have to tear this district apart.”

And that was the moment it began. Not a crush. Not curiosity. Obsession.

The café became a checkpoint. He sent someone to ask for the receipts that night. Pulled surveillance from nearby businesses. Tapped traffic cams.

Just to see your face again. Just to find you. Because he wasn’t used to wanting something he couldn’t immediately take. And that made you dangerous.

But even more than that it made you his. You just didn’t know it yet.

*********************

The next few days blurred.

Han returned hours later, drenched and irritated. “No CCTV. The one across the bakery’s busted. The pole cam on the street’s been non-functional for three weeks.”

Seungmin didn’t respond.

He stood by the window of his penthouse suite, city lights sprawling beneath his feet. Hands in his pockets. Jaw tight.

“She’s untraceable,” Han said. “Like a ghost. I mean, you sure this wasn’t just—”

“She’s real,” His voice was low, threatening. “And I’m going to find her.”

It should’ve been easy to find a girl in a small city. You should’ve been traceable in hours, maybe days—at most a week.

But you weren’t. You disappeared like a whisper on the wind.

Han wasn’t the only one frustrated. By week two, even Lee Minho—Seungmin’s most level-headed lieutenant—was starting to lose his calm.

“Tell me how a goddamn street full of million-dollar real estate has no working cameras?” Minho snapped, slamming a thick folder onto the desk.

“Don’t raise your voice,” Seungmin muttered without looking up.

“I’m not raising it. I’m explaining how stupid this is.”

Minho paced the floor of Seungmin’s study, black-gloved hands clenched and twitching. “You’re telling me that in your territory, there’s an entire street with zero surveillance. That a girl—one girl—shows up, disappears, and we have nothing on her?”

Han exhaled from the armchair. “We tried tracing the route from nearby businesses, traffic cams—half of them are fake or broken. And the only useful one was facing the other side.”

“She wasn’t a plant, right?” Minho asked sharply. “No one sent her?”

“She didn’t even look up,” Seungmin said darkly. “She wasn’t aware of anything except her book.”

Minho narrowed his eyes. “And that’s what got you so obsessed?”

Seungmin stood abruptly.

It was the first time in days he’d shown emotion louder than a breath.

“Something about her didn’t belong in this world,” he said, almost to himself. “Like she was dropped into it by mistake. And I…” he dragged a hand through his hair, something unhinged glinting in his eyes, “…I needed to have her.”

Minho didn’t speak. But his jaw ticked.

“If we don’t find her soon,” he said finally, “someone else might. You’re not the only one who noticed you were staring.”

“She’s mine,” Seungmin snapped. “Let them try.”

*********************

Weeks passed.

No face to match. No name to trace. No leads.

He remembered the way your fingers curled around your mug. How your eyes flicked over the page like you were drinking the words. You didn’t even look up when the thunder cracked. You were that absorbed.

You were… different. Something about the stillness in you made the world around you fade.

And it drove him insane.

He dreamt of you.

Sometimes you were sitting at the booth again, sunlight hitting your hair. Sometimes you were on the other side of the window, face pressed to the glass, mouth forming his name. But when he reached for you, you vanished.

By the third week, Seungmin had men positioned around every café, bookstore, and university campus in the district. He scanned police records, hospital visits, university logs. Checked social media using facial sketch renderings. Had artists draw from memory.

He started carrying that small sketch folded in his wallet. An artist’s attempt to draw you from memory.

Han saw it once. “You really think this will help?”

Seungmin didn’t answer. Just stared at the drawing, his thumb brushing across where your mouth would be.

He was furious. And yet still enthralled. Because the harder it was to find you, the deeper you embedded yourself inside his mind.

You became a challenge. A puzzle. An ache he couldn't scratch away.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered one night, slumped back in his leather office chair, brows furrowed deeply as a glass of scotch sat untouched on his desk.

“I always find what I want.”

The search turned violent after that.

Bribes weren’t working, so Seungmin turned to threats. A few coffee shop owners went missing. A college registrar’s office burned down. Rumors started swirling about a “ghost girl” and the man obsessed with her.

But no one could give him your name.

The longer you evaded him, the worse his temper got.

Minho stopped arguing with him. Han spoke in a calculated tone. The entire gang operated under a cloud of tension, walking on eggshells because Kim Seungmin was unraveling.

“Find her,” he growled. “Or you’ll wish you were never born.”

Each night, in the silence of the mansion, he sat by the window — scotch in one hand, your sketch in the other.

Every night, that same question: Where the hell are you?

*********************

Three months in.

Minho entered his office with a grim look. “I think I got a hit.”

Seungmin straightened immediately. “Where?”

“College campus. Some girl matching your description helped a classmate with a presentation. One of the guys mentioned a book you were reading… it matched the one from the café. Niche edition. Rare.”

Seungmin was already grabbing his coat.

“I want eyes on every exit,” he ordered, voice low but sharp. “We move only when I say.”

The next hour passed like a countdown. Minho took the wheel. Jisung slid into the passenger seat beside him. Seungmin sat in the back, silent, unreadable, one hand tapping slowly against his thigh. Rain drizzled over the windshield as they pulled up outside the university’s east gate.

They waited.

Minutes stretched. Students trickled out in clusters—hoods up, laughter rising faintly even through the closed windows.

And then you finally stepped out of a building with a few other students, hoodie pulled over your head, laughing at something someone said.

He knew instantly.

Even before your face turned toward the road—he knew.

His breath hitched.

“That’s her,” he muttered, barely audible.

Han followed his gaze and smirked. “Three months of hell, and we finally found her.”

Seungmin watched you from the shadows, his eyes wild with something dark and aching.

“There you are,” he murmured.

Three months.

Three months of madness. Of obsession. Of sleepless nights and fraying patience.

And there you were. Just walking. Just breathing. Just existing like you hadn’t haunted him all this time. He smiled slowly but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Let her walk home,” he said. “I want to know exactly where she lives.”

Seungmin’s eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. His chest rose once, then fell slowly.

He leaned back in the leather seat, fingers tapping the armrest in thought. Han was already dialing someone.

“Got her,” Han murmured into the phone. “University campus, east side. She just exited Building C. Heading south.” 

Pause.

“No. Boss says let her walk. Tail her. We need a confirmed residence before anything else.”

He ended the call and turned back slightly. “She doesn’t even know what’s coming, huh?”

Seungmin’s gaze was razor sharp. “Not yet.”

From the driver’s seat, Minho glanced in the rearview mirror and smirked. “I gotta say, I didn’t think anyone could get under your skin like this. But here you are. Reckless, obsessed, and even more stubborn.”

Han crossed one leg over the other, still casual. Still light. “You’ve had senators beg for your favor. Rival bosses fear your name. But a girl reading in a café?”

Seungmin’s voice dropped to a cold murmur. “She made everything else disappear. Just for a second. I’ve never had that before.”

Han, the ever-loyal consigliere — second-in-command and Seungmin’s most trusted mind — finally sobered. He saw it now, the storm building in his boss’s eyes.

“Alright,” Han said, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. “Then let’s do this right. Clean. Quiet. No mistakes.”

The rain had stopped, but the streets were still slick with its memory. You walked briskly, headphones in but music low, the weight of your backpack tugging against your shoulders with every step. A faint fog curled around the edges of the sidewalk as streetlamps flickered to life, casting long, lonely shadows.

At first, it felt like any other week night. You’d stayed late for a study session and were on your way back to your apartment. Tired. Hungry. Ready to collapse.

But then that feeling.

The kind you couldn’t quite place. A tingle along the back of your neck. That primal whisper in your bones that said you’re being watched.

You glanced behind you.

Nothing. Just a sleek black car parked down the block. Engine purring low. You thought you’d seen it earlier near the campus gates, but maybe you were imagining things. You weren’t used to this part of the city. Maybe it belonged to someone in one of the new apartment complexes.

Still.

You crossed the street.

And when you turned again, the car had moved. Just a few meters forward. Slow. Deliberate.

Your steps quickened. The car matched pace. That’s when your stomach twisted.

You tugged out your phone and pretended to answer a call. “Hey. Yeah, I’m almost home. Just two blocks away. Yeah, can you come down and meet me at the door?”

Your voice was loud. Sharp. A deterrent. But the car didn’t stop. From the backseat of that car, Seungmin watched. Silent. Focused.

“She’s smart,” Han muttered beside him. “Caught on faster than I expected.”

Seungmin didn’t respond.

He watched you turn again. Eyes scanning the street. Your chest rising just a bit too quickly. The panic blooming behind your calm façade. He could tell. And fuck, did it make him feel alive.

He had waited three goddamn months for this. Scoured the city, bribed officials, threatened civilians, pulled every string he had just to find a girl he knew for maybe thirty seconds.

But those thirty seconds had ruined him.

“Don’t grab her yet,” he said quietly.

Han blinked. “Why not? We know where she lives now. She’s vulnerable.”

Seungmin leaned forward slightly, his voice low. Controlled. Dangerous.

“She ran once. I want to see how far she thinks she can go before she breaks.

You didn’t look back again. You couldn’t. Your heart was hammering now, your legs carrying you faster than you thought possible, the edges of your vision blurring. You practically ran the final block, breath shallow, keys already clenched between your fingers like a makeshift weapon. Just in case.

And then someone grabbed you.

Not harshly. Not like you expected. Just a firm hand around your wrist, a second one over your mouth. The shock of it froze you. Then you thrashed.

You kicked, screamed into the palm muffling your voice, tried to bite, claw, anything—

But another set of hands caught you from behind.

“Careful,” a voice muttered near your ear. “She’s feisty.”

That unfamiliar voice was low, smooth. Tinted with casual amusement, like this wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Like this was just another Wednesday for him.

“I told you to bring the damn chloroform sooner,” another voice snapped. Cold. Dispassionate. Less amused, more… efficient.

Something sweet hit your nose. A soaked cloth pressed against your face. Your body instinctively struggled, adrenaline trying to fight the chemicals rushing through your system.

“Your apartment’s way out of the way, couldn't you just stay in the campus dorm, huh?” Han sighed. “Would’ve saved us the gas.”

You struggled weakly, everything swam and then the world blurred.

“Shut up,” Minho said flatly. “She’s out.”

Minho lifted you without a word, his arms steady as he carried your limp form towards the car parked a bit the building. Han walked in front and opened the backseat door. 

Inside, Seungmin was waiting.

The moment Minho leaned in and passed your unconscious body to him, Seungmin reached out, almost too quickly. His arms wrapped around you carefully, protectively, as if afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle enough.

“You were real,” he whispered, watching you like a starved man. “God, you’re even more beautiful than I remember.”

He was brushing the strands of hair from your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin like you were something sacred. His expression unreadable. Han closed the door behind them with a soft click.

Rain pattered on the roof. Inside, it was silent.

Seungmin leaned closer, his lips ghosting against your forehead—not quite a kiss. Almost reverent.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you,” he whispered.

One hand cradled the back of your head. The other traced the line of your jaw, feather-light.

“You disappeared like a dream that night,” he murmured. “But I’m done dreaming now.”

His voice was calm, steady, but something about it sent a chill down even Minho’s spine.

“Mine,” Seungmin whispered again. “Finally… mine.”

*********************

Your head pounded. The first thing you registered was the softness beneath you—silken sheets, a mattress far too plush to be your own. Then the light. Dim, golden, filtering through sheer curtains that danced lazily with the breeze.

You blinked groggily. Your limbs felt like they weighed a ton, but your heart quickened with the creeping realization that this wasn’t your room.

This wasn’t your home.

You sat up slowly, panic curling in your gut. The room around you was lavish—elegant, but unfamiliar. Marble floors, velvet drapes, carved furniture that looked too expensive to touch. A mansion.

Someone had taken you. You had been kidnapped.

Your hands trembled as you looked down—still wearing your shirt and jeans.No injuries. No bruises.

Suddenly, the door opened and a man stepped in like he owned the world. And he did. In a way. Dressed in a sharp dark suit over a shirtless vest in deep green marble-textured hue with a metallic sheen. His hair was neatly styled— parted slightly off-center with long, layered bangs that softly frame the face and sweep naturally across the forehead. His face wore a chilling calm. The kind that didn’t need anger to be terrifying. 

You knew that face. You’d seen it whispered about in headlines, splashed across grainy surveillance images and blurred news clips.

Kim Seungmin. The ghost in the criminal underworld. The youngest and most merciless of them all. The mafia prince with a smile that made people disappear.

Your blood ran cold. You tried to stand but stumbled.

"Don’t rush," he added, walking in like he owned the air you were breathing. "The drugs take a bit to wear off. It’s a custom blend. Just enough to keep you quiet. Not enough to hurt you."

He approached you slowly, his footsteps soft on the marble, his presence impossibly overwhelming. He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, not saying a word, and gently cupped your face in his hand.

That’s when you really saw him.

Seungmin's features were carved with precision. His skin was smooth and fair, glowing faintly in the golden light. His jawline was sharp and elegant, and his lips—soft, plush, and slightly parted—were tinged with an unreadable expression.

But it was his eyes that held you captive. Dark brown, deep like ink and impossible to read. They were cold, yet curious. Soft, yet calculating. They flicked across your face like he was memorizing it—committing it to his memory.

You noticed the tiny moles on his face— one on his left cheek and the other one on his nose, making him look even more endearing. 

You wanted to look away. You should’ve looked away.

But you didn’t.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice low, smooth—like velvet laced with steel. “Good.”

Your pulse thundered. 

Seungmin tilted his head slightly, the barest smile pulling at his lips. “You’re scared. That’s good. Means you understand who I am.”

His fingers brushed your cheek with dangerous tenderness. His eyes were void of mercy. 

“You’re mine now,” Seungmin whispered. “I don’t share. I don’t let go. And I sure as hell don’t lose.”

You froze.

The chill in his voice laced with something darker than possessiveness—it was certainty. Finality. Like your fate had already been sealed the moment he laid eyes on you.

Seungmin took your wrist and then he brought your hand up to his chest, resting it over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—tauntingly calm compared to your own frantic one.

“You feel that?” he murmured, eyes locked onto yours. “That’s how steady I stay… even when everything else burns.”

You turned your face away, jaw clenched. His proximity suffocated you—his expensive cologne, that quiet dominance in his posture, the way his eyes drank in your fear like it thrilled him.

“Why am I here? Why.… why did you take me?” you asked. “Why are you doing this? I didn’t do anything to you…”

“You did everything,” he said. “You stole from me.”

Your brows furrowed. “What…? I didn’t steal anything—”

“Yes, you did.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You stole my heart. You belong to me now.”

You went still.

“I don’t belong to you,” you said, your voice shaking despite your best efforts. “You can’t just take people.”

He leaned in slowly, lips ghosting near your ear.

“I didn’t take you,” he breathed. “I claimed what’s mine.”

You trembled, torn between fury and fear. “No, please, let me go.”

A low chuckle escaped him, warm breath grazing your neck. “I’ve been searching the whole world for you, love.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again, the cruel amusement fading, replaced by something far more dangerous—intent.

“Let you go?” He scoffed, “I had to find you. Had to dig through shadows, burn cities, turn every stone until I felt the ghost of your presence. You think that was easy?”

“Please,” you begged, your voice cracking. “Let me go.”

Seungmin’s gaze hardened, his stare now sharp as glass. “I’ll give you everything you could ever want,” he said, his tone softer, but colder. “But don’t mistake that for freedom. If you ever try to leave...” 

He let the words hang in the air, thick with threat, “I’ll make sure you forget what the outside world even feels like.”

You tried to push him away, but his hold only tightened.

Then, without warning, he kissed your temple. Soft. Almost loving. The contradiction made your skin crawl.

“Rest,” he said, guiding you back toward the bed like a twisted lullaby. “You’ll need your strength. There's so much I want to show you.”

And as he pulled the covers over you, like a lover might, he whispered once more—

“Everything you were before… is over. You're mine now.”

The door clicked shut behind him, the echo of his footsteps retreating down the marble corridor. Only then did your lungs finally expand in a full breath.

You sat upright, trembling beneath the weight of his words—You’re mine now.

The echo of that sentence coiled like barbed wire around your chest. A moment later, the door opened again.

But this time, it wasn’t him.

A woman stepped inside — middle-aged, expression blank. She wore a simple black uniform, the crisp white apron spotless. Her eyes didn’t meet yours as she silently walked over to the edge of the bed, setting down a folded dress of deep emerald silk beside you.

“You’re to wash and change,” she said in a clipped tone. Her voice held no emotion. “The master wants you presentable.”

You stared at her, your voice still unsteady. “Wait—please. Can you tell me—where am I? Why is he—why is this happening?”

But the woman had already turned.

“Please!” you tried again, louder. “Can you just help me—just tell me if someone is coming for me—”

She paused at the door but didn’t turn back. Her voice was low and eerily calm, “Don’t try to run. There are guards outside. They have orders.”

And then she left.

You scrambled from the bed and ran to the door, but the handle didn’t budge. Locked.

Just outside, you could hear faint murmurs—low, male voices. Guards. Just like she said.

You turned slowly, the room no longer luxurious but suffocating. A cage dressed in silk.

Your eyes dropped to the dress.

It shimmered faintly in the light. The fabric was soft to the touch, tailored perfectly to your size. You hadn’t told him your size.

He knew.

You swallowed hard, hugging your arms around yourself. Somewhere in this palace of quiet horror, Kim Seungmin was waiting. 

You paced the room like a caged animal. The dress lay untouched on the edge of the bed—silky, delicate, expensive. Just another reminder that you weren’t a guest here. You were a possession being wrapped up like a gift.

You’d tested the windows. Locked.

Tried the balcony. Too high up. No phone, no landline, not even a clock. The guards stationed outside your door hadn’t moved in hours. No way to slip past them, no chance to ask the maid anything—she’d disappeared before you even got a word out.

Your mind raced through escape plans, every single idea falling apart the moment it met the cold weight of reality.

You didn’t even hear the footsteps until the door slammed open.

Seungmin.

His presence sucked the air out of the room.

His dark suit’s jacket sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the veins in his forearms prominent as he pushed the door shut with a force that made the walls flinch.

"Why," he said slowly, his voice low and sharp as a blade, "are you still in those clothes?"

You froze, eyes widening as his gaze bored into you. The clothes you were wearing from the day before—had become a silent statement, a refusal to accept the reality he had forced you into. But now, with his anger simmering and his jaw clenched tight, you knew that defiance was no longer an option.

His voice lowered further, a quiet growl that sent a shiver down your spine. “I didn’t bring you here to have you walking around in those filthy things. Freshen up. You’ll wear the new clothes I had prepared for you. Now.”

Your heart raced. The last thing you wanted was to comply, but the tension in his voice made it clear that disobedience would come with consequences you weren’t ready to face.

“I give you comfort, safety, everything, and you can’t follow one simple instruction?” He snapped.

You stepped back as he strode forward, cornering you without touching you. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was a wall.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he hissed, eyes narrowing. “Pacing like that. Looking at the window. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I just want to go home,” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “This is your home now.”

Your fists clenched. “You’re insane.”

His lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. “Maybe. But you’re still here. So what does that make you?”

He grabbed the dress and shoved it into your hands, gentler than you expected—but the threat in his voice was unmistakable.

“Put. It. On.”

Then he leaned in close, lips brushing against your ear again, the same way he had hours ago when he stole the ground from under your feet.

“If you ever want to walk through that door without chains on,” he whispered, “you better start learning how to play your part.”

And with that, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood frozen for a few long seconds, heart hammering in your chest like it wanted to shatter your ribs. You realised you had no choice but to play along. For now.

You made your way to the en-suite bathroom. It was massive—gold-trimmed mirrors, a claw-foot tub, rainfall shower, the kind of place that felt too luxurious to be real. You stared at your reflection under the soft vanity light. Your skin looked dull. Eyes hollow. But there was a spark behind them. Defiance.

You carefully undressed, stepping into the steaming shower. Every movement calculated. You let yourself feel human again under the water—just for a moment. But even in there, your mind worked overtime.

There were no cameras in the bathroom, as far as you could see. No microphones either… you hoped. Maybe Seungmin thought you were too drugged, too scared, too broken to strategize.

Good. Let him think that.

Let him think you were weak.

When you stepped out, the emerald dress clung to your damp skin like liquid temptation. You fastened the clasp, staring at yourself again.

You looked like someone else. A doll. A bride dressed for a marriage you never consented to.

But your eyes were yours. Burning now.

Back in the bedroom, you scanned again. Window. Balcony. Furniture. You knelt beside the bed, ran your fingers along the underside of the frame. Nothing yet—but you’d keep checking. If there was a way out, you’d find it. And if not? You’d make one.

The guards were still posted outside. You tested the lock with a twist—it was electronic. Impossible to open without access.

But that meant something important: it could be hacked.

Your brain began mapping every possibility. All you needed was a device. A phone. A wire. A keyboard. Anything.

You sat down at the vanity table and opened the drawer. It was full of makeup products and accessories, but you weren't looking for lipstick or brushes. Your fingers trembled as you dug through the items, praying for something—anything—that could help you. Nothing.

*********************

You tried to escape two nights later.

The door hadn't been locked. You had waited—counting the seconds, memorizing the guards' rotation, mapping out the halls like your life depended on it.

And it did.

The moment the opportunity presented itself, you ran.

But you didn’t make it far. He was already there.

His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable. “You never learn, do you?” he muttered, his voice a low rasp that sent chills down your spine before he grabbed you by the waist and forced you into your room before throwing you back onto the bed with a force that stole the air from your lungs.

You screamed, kicked, scratched, fought with every ounce of strength you could muster.

“Let me go, you fucking asshole!” you cried out. “Let me go!”

He didn’t even flinch. With a calmness that made your skin crawl, he pinned your wrists above your head, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress.

And just like that, the storm inside you quieted—he had control. Again.

"You’re testing me," he growled, his grip tightening, "and I don’t think you want to see what happens when I’m truly tested."

Your heart raced, pulse thundering in your ears, but you met his eyes with all the defiance you had left.

“You’re disgusting,” you spat, words trembling with fury. “You’re sick.”

His face remained unchanged. The same icy calm.

“I let you breathe,” he whispered, leaning closer, his breath hot against your skin. “Let you sleep in silk. Treat you like a queen. And you still curse me?”

You could feel the heat of his proximity, his lips grazing the side of your jaw, sending a sickening thrill through your body.

His words came in a murmur, soft and deadly. “You’ll learn to love me,” he promised. “You will.”

*********************

The guards came twice a day—once in the morning, once before sunset. They never said a word. Their footsteps echoed against marble floors, and their eyes never left your face. Each tray of untouched food was replaced by a fresh one, steaming and seasoned, taunting you with the scent of meals you once loved. You didn’t eat. Not out of rebellion anymore—but because your stomach couldn’t bear to keep anything down.

Sometimes, you woke to the soft rustle of fabric at the foot of your bed—new clothes, pristine and folded with meticulous care. Dresses that shimmered like liquid gold, silks in soft pastels, heels you’d once admired in glass store windows.

Other mornings, it was flowers. Always your favorites. How did he know? The answer was simple. He had dug through your past and he used it against you.

He always came to see you in the mornings before leaving for work—and again at night.

Like some cruel tradition, he arrived after dark, just as the silence began to settle over your bones. You could feel him before you saw him—his presence thick in the air, like a storm waiting to strike. 

The fifth night, you cracked. 

You were shaking—cold, exhausted, hungry, and unraveling. Tears blurred your vision as you were curled up on the bed, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, when the door creaked open. You didn’t move. Not even when the sound of his shoes broke the quiet, soft against the carpeted floor.

Carrying a bowl of soup in one hand and a glass of water in the other. You sat on the edge of the bed, silent, unmoving.

“You look thinner,” Seungmin said, his voice calm, but with a weight beneath it. “Are you trying to punish me?”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m not playing with you anymore,” he said, placing the bowl on your bedside table. “You’re going to eat.”

You turned your head, “No.”

His jaw clenched. He took a deep breath, walked to your side, and crouched so your eyes were level.

“You haven’t eaten in five days!”

“Good.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up the spoon, scooped some soup, and held it out to you.

You stared at it, “I will spit it in your face.”

He said nothing. Just brought the spoon closer. You slapped it away. Hot broth spilled over your blanket, staining it. His eyes darkened.

“That’s enough.”

He moved faster than you could react—gripping your jaw tightly, prying your mouth open with terrifying precision.

“You don’t have to like it,” he said coldly. “But you will survive.”

The spoon came again. You turned your head. Fought. But he held you in place, firm and unyielding, forcing the liquid down your throat one spoonful at a time.

You coughed. Gagged.

Tears streamed down your cheeks—not from pain. Not even from fear. But from the helplessness.

When it was over, he wiped your chin gently with a napkin, then rose to his feet.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

You glared through your tears. He didn’t smile this time. He just left.

The next morning, you woke with a sharp sting in your arm. You groaned, instinctively trying to move—but your wrist tugged against a soft restraint. That’s when you saw it. A thin IV line trailing from your vein to a clear drip bag hanging beside your bed.

“What the hell—?”

“Don’t move too much,” came a calm, unfamiliar voice from the corner of the room.

You turned your head sharply.

A man stood there, clipboard in hand, white coat hanging open over all-black clothes. His face was calm. Hands gloved. Eyes unreadable.

“I’m Dr. Bang Christopher,” he said. “But you can call me Chan.”

“…His doctor?”

“Personal physician,” he corrected, walking over to check the IV. “You were dangerously dehydrated. Malnourished. Refusing food, I heard. So this was the next best solution.”

You yanked your arm again. “Take it out.”

He didn’t even blink. “I can’t.”

“Take it out!”

“I take orders from Mr Kim,” he said flatly, adjusting your pulse monitor. “Not you.”

You stared at him in horror. He looked back at you, then down at his notes.

“Don’t try to pull it out yourself. You’ll bleed.”

With that, he scribbled something, removed his gloves, and turned to leave. At the door, he paused.

“He cares for you, you know,” he said, without looking back. “As much as a man like him can.”

Then he was gone. Leaving you restrained, broken.

*********************

Seungmin came into your room again later at midnight. He crouched beside you, hands resting loosely on his knees. He studied you the way a collector might inspect a rare object—something precious, but already cracking.

“You’ve been here for a week,” he murmured. “And still, you fight me.”

Your eyes lifted, burning. “Because I’m not yours.”

Something in his jaw tensed. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You jerked away.

He sighed. “I’m not your enemy.”

That made you laugh—a bitter, broken sound.

“You kidnapped me,” you hissed. “You locked me up like a doll in a glass box and you expect gratitude?”

He tilted his head. “No. I expect understanding.”

“Understanding?” Your voice rose, wild with disbelief. “You think this is love?”

He was quiet for a moment.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that love can grow in strange places. Even in cages. Even in silence.”

You shook your head. “You’re insane.”

“And yet,” he murmured, leaning in, “you still look at me like you’re waiting for me to crack.”

He wrapped his arms around you as you resisted. But he held you tighter.

“I can wait,” he whispered. “I can wait longer than you can resist.”

“Let me go! Ple—please, just let me go!”

“You’re hurting yourself,” he whispered into your hair. “Stop. Please.”

You sobbed in his arms, trembling, hating yourself for how warm he felt. How safe. How his cologne smelled like cedar and regret and something that almost made you ache.

“I hate you,” you whispered. “I hate you, I hate you—”

He pressed a kiss to your cheek and stood up to leave. The door closed behind him with a click.

And you were alone again—with your breath quick, your fists clenched, and your fear folding itself into anger.

Just like that a month passed already.

You hadn’t said a word to him.

Not when he brought you new clothes. Not when he knocked. Not when he stood silently in the doorway, watching you with eyes full of something far too close to obsession.

You reluctantly ate food just enough to survive. Kept tearing the flowers he sent to shreds.

And when you looked up at the camera blinking red above your bed, you made sure he saw your middle finger.

Still, he never stopped watching.

He sent books. Jewelry. A bottle of expensive perfume you used to love.

All unopened. All untouched. You wouldn’t let him win.

Until that night.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him. Measured. Unhurried. Like he already knew how this would end.

The door creaked open. He stepped inside, and immediately, you knew.

Something was wrong.

He wasn’t composed like usual. He wasn’t cold or calculated. He looked... exhausted. Frustrated. Dangerous.

“You’re still doing this,” he said quietly, voice rough like he hadn’t spoken all day. “Still pretending like you hate me.”

You didn’t respond. Just glared at him from where you sat on the edge of the bed. He stepped closer.

“I’ve done everything for you,” he continued, his voice low, controlled—but trembling at the edges. “I found you. Brought you here. I gave you everything. And you act like I’m the villain.”

You stood up, slowly. “You are the villain.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

“You kidnapped me. Drugged me. Threw me in a stranger’s house and tried to dress it up like a castle.” You shook your head, biting down the trembling in your throat. “That’s not love, Seungmin. That’s psychotic.”

He flinched at the word. Actually flinched.

You pushed further. “You want to keep me here like a doll in a cage, then go ahead. But don’t pretend it’s about love.”

He reached for you, sudden and sharp, grabbing your face in one hand. You gasped.

“Don’t ever call me that again,” he said, voice shaking now. “Don’t look at me like I’m a monster.”

“I don’t have to look at you like that,” you snapped, breath catching. “You are one.”

He stared at you—really stared. His expression was blank and cold.

“You’ll come around,” he said finally. “You’ll understand.”

“No,” you whispered, fury rising behind your ribs. “I will never understand this. I will never want you. I would rather die than love you.”

Something cracked. His hand dropped. He stepped back like your words had sliced him open. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then he turned to the guards at the door, voice ice.

“Don’t let her leave this room. Not unless she changes her mind.”

“Seungmin—” you began, but the door slammed behind him before you could finish.

And then there was silence.

You collapsed, back hitting the edge of the bed as your knees gave out. Tears gathered in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You were trembling, you were afraid and a heavy sigh escaped you as hopelessness settled in.

*********************

Crying had become a routine— not from fear. But from frustration. Because you deeply loathed him.

You hated the way he stared at you like you were his salvation and his possession. You hated the way his voice sank into your bones, the way he touched you like you’d shatter, the way your body had stopped resisting even when your mind still screamed.

You hated that no one was coming.

And worse, that a part of you had stopped hoping they would.

You curled under the sheets, fists clenched, teeth biting into your sleeve to muffle the sobs. Every shadow in the room felt like him. Every creak in the walls sounded like his footsteps.

You didn’t want to need him.

But your body was weak, your mind even weaker, and the isolation was breaking you apart thread by thread.

You thought of your family—did they even know you were missing? Were they looking for you? Had they given up?

The door creaked open. You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. You already knew it was him.

Seungmin stepped inside slowly, quietly, like he’d done every night since you arrived. He sat at the edge of the bed without a word.

And you didn’t tell him to leave. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t say anything. He just sat there in the dark, a silent presence—watching, breathing, waiting.

Eventually, you rolled onto your back, your eyes meeting his in the low light.

“…I can’t escape, can I?”

His silence answered for him.

You swallowed hard, the bitterness lodged deep in your throat.

“I’m never getting out of here.”

Seungmin’s gaze softened—sad, gentle, but far from apologetic.

“No,” he said quietly. “You’re not.”

Your chest rose and fell slowly. Shallow breaths. Eyes dry now. You looked up at the ceiling. The moonlight washed over your face.

“…Fine.”

Your voice was hollow. A whisper of surrender. Not love. Not forgiveness. Not even understanding. Just the cold, empty truth. There was no escape. So you stopped trying.

And when Seungmin’s hand slowly reached for yours—this time, you didn’t pull away.

You didn’t hold it either.

You just let it happen.

Because maybe that was all you had left.

The next morning, Seungmin entered your room.

His day always started better when he saw you—still asleep, curled up beneath the soft sheets like something fragile and precious.

You didn’t stir when the door creaked open. He stepped inside quietly, like he always did, careful not to wake you. The sight of you—peaceful, unmoving—eased something deep in his chest.

You looked… soft today. Less angry. Less hollow.

He approached your bedside and crouched beside you, letting his fingers graze the blanket near your hand. Not quite touching. Just close enough to feel your warmth.

He’d memorized you like scripture—the way your breath hitched when you dreamed, the way your lashes fluttered just before you stirred, the way your fingers used to clench the sheets when he entered.

But now, they were still. You didn’t flinch anymore. That tiny shift meant everything.

Seungmin sat there for a moment longer, just watching. Admiring. Loving.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath. “Why don’t you see it, baby?”

He reached forward, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. You shifted slightly in your sleep but didn’t pull away. His hand lingered for just a second more before retreating, trembling with restraint.

You looked like peace.

But he knew the battle inside you hadn’t ended. Only changed shape.

Still… he could feel it. The quiet acceptance in the way you no longer resisted his presence. The way your body allowed his closeness. The way your fingers had once grazed his hand and didn’t pull away.

You hated him. He knew that. But in time, he would rewrite that hate. He would replace it—slowly, methodically—with something warmer. Something softer.

“You know me now,” he continued, his voice low, almost hypnotic. “You hate me but that’s also an emotion, right? You feel something for me.”

He stood, stealing one last look at you before leaving for the day. His heart ached, swollen with the weight of longing and victory.

You were still here. You hadn’t run. And last night, for the first time… you had let him hold your hand.

“You can deny it all you want,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with an undeniable certainty. “But we’re bound now. You’ll see.”

As he closed the door behind him, his lips curled into the faintest smile.

----------------

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[melk-maid]

warnings: everyone is aged up 21+, afab/fem reader, reader is nagi's girlfriend, cheating, weed smoking, piv sex, degradation kink, spit kink, begging, drugged sex, creampie, couch sex, guilty confessions synopsis: You show up at Reo's front door soaked from the rain and sobbing into his chest. After a fight with your boyfriend, you run into the arms of his best friend and quickly get over one man for another.

note: this is a commission for the darling @antique-remains!! thank you again for commissioning me and trusting me with this idea, and it being my first time writing reo/bllk!! i did have so much fun with this i love this downbad loser hehe enjoy~♡ minors & ageless blogs dni - you will be blocked

Reo shares everything with Nagi.

They share similar interests, goals and ideals. Shared living spaces, bathrooms, toothbrushes. On occasion they've shared a bed, shared food with one another, shared dark secrets no one else knows about.

So why does he feel an intense bout of guilt when Nagi's girlfriend is riding his cock?

Paper splits against Reo's fingers for the fourth time and he growls in frustration, clenching his jaw to stop a childish temper tantrum. He's one of the best, most sought after soccer players in the world, and yet he can't seem to effectively roll his own joints. Something that was supposed to relax him during the off season is becoming another pain in his ass. Nagi's words ring around in his head mockingly, grimacing at the fact he turned down having them rolled for him because he thought he could do it himself.

Unfolding the destroyed craft and spilling the ground nuggets onto a fresh roll of paper, Reo is soon distracted by the doorbell notification on his phone. It's a weekday evening and he planned to spend it alone — that plan turned around pretty quickly when he saw you on the other side of the camera.

After ogling at your pretty face — entirely ignoring the way your lips are drawn into a frown, arms wrapped around yourself in rain-drenched clothes — Reo realises you're on your own.

It's rare to see Nagi without you since you're often his point of authority, encouraging and babysitting him into training and attending other events. It's even rarer to see you without Nagi.

Reo is eager to open the door, catching you easily in his arms when you throw yourself at him. His heart races, thumping wildly in his chest. You've never been this close to him before and despite soaking his clothes, he couldn't be happier for the contact.

"Where's Nagi?" He asks before anything else.

It's then he realises you're sobbing into his chest. Words muffled by his shirt as he catches "Sei" "fight" and "kicked me out" between jumbled cries. While he often tries to stay out of his best friend's private life, Reo can't help but feel sorry for you; a damsel in distress in need of being saved. This will gain him favour with both you and Nagi.

The cold rain transfers from your clothes to his but he wraps both his arms around you anyway, pulling you inside and pushing the door closed. Each of your sobs echoed throughout the near empty mansion, bouncing off of white marble walls and back to Reo. Of course seeing you upset tugs at his heartstrings, but he can't help himself from being entranced with the way your chest is pressed against him.

While you're in his guest room changing into some dry clothes, Reo returns to the living room and contemplates texting Nagi about your whereabouts. He knows his best friend well, and even if he doesn't show care or worry outwardly, it's likely that Nagi will begin to wonder and worry where you've gone — especially if all your friends report back that you aren't with them. The idea is tossed out of the window and subsequently blasted into space when you walk into the living room. Hair still a little damp from rain, your make-up cleaned up, you fit into one of Reo's old football kits a little too well.

"Thanks for letting me borrow these." You say with a grateful smile, making yourself comfortable on the couch. The shorts ride up your thighs when you pull your legs onto the couch to sit sideways, nylon tightening around supple flesh and Reo can't help but stare.

Snapping out of his trance, Reo beams. "It's okay, anything for my best friend's girlfriend." It was a vocal reminder to himself.

Looking down at the egregiously expensive coffee table that houses his failed craft, Reo sighs short through his nose and drops to the floor to return to rolling. The mansion is silent and empty — no music, no TV playing in the background, no one else roaming around fulfilling their paid duties. It gave you an opportunity to watch, crawling onto the floor next to him; not close enough to touch him but not too far away either.

"What're you doing?"

Looking up he catches your gaze, heart fluttering as he wonders if you're looking at him like that on purpose. A sultry smile, curious eyes, your body leaning towards him ever so slightly. Every night he thinks about you; the way you look at him compared to anyone else, how your hands feel on his arms when you laugh a little too loud at something he's said. Sometimes it's hard to remember you're Nagi's girl and not his — unavailable, off limits, out of bounds.

Yet you allow him to do and say certain things to you that would earn him a fist to the jaw if it were anyone else.

His hands would find their way onto your hips if he passes behind you at the club or an event, the same hands resting low on your back when he hugs you. He compliments your outfits in a way only your lover would — Reo pushes the boundaries every day. By now Nagi should've said something — or you — but to maintain favour with his best friend especially and keep his football career, Reo tries to hold himself back on a tight leash.

The paper tears in his hands again, though this time he had hardly begun to roll. Instead, he was lost in his racing thoughts and battling a dry mouth after locking eyes with you, a little too rough with the delicate material. There's a furrow of his brows as he looks down in frustration, threading fingers through his long fringe and tossing his loose hair back. "I'm trying to roll but I keep breaking it. I should've asked Nagi to help."

There was an apology on the tip of his tongue at mentioning your boyfriend who you're upset with, but when he looks up, you seem entirely unfazed. Instead, you reach out and slide the broken paper towards yourself, taking control of the task and rolling with ease. Reo watches the way your fingers move so nimbly. It was like watching a professional at work. Sweat begins to build across his forehead seeing the peek of your tongue wet the paper. You smile as you hold the joint out towards him by the tip; easy work when he'd been trying and failing for the past half hour.

"Thanks," He says almost breathless as he tries to ease his aching heart. "I didn't know you knew how to roll."

You shrug. Careless, casual and cool. Reo can't look at you. Rather, he tries to find his lighter and remind himself you are not available, you are not single.

But the challenge makes you all the more tempting.

"Sei taught me when we first started dating." The way you say his name shouldn't be a stab in Reo's gut like it is. "Are you planning on sharing?"

Your smile was so sweet and mischievous as you looked from the joint to Reo — as though he would ever say no.

He lights up and draws a couple of breaths, passing the joint to you. When your fingers brush against one another, he inhales a little too fast, causing him to cough uncontrollably. You giggle and take your own drag, inhaling and exhaling with ease before checking if he's okay.

"Yeah," Reo gasps out as he nods, "Bad take."

Passing the joint back and forth, you each take your turn until Reo hit the filter, stubbing out the last of the flames in the ashtray. He felt a little more at ease, though expected the effects to keep kicking in. When your eyes meet — because you had been staring at him for his attention and Reo was trying not to indulge in his fantasies — you giggle and lean forward.

"Reo~" You sing, face so close to his he can feel your breath on his lips. It feels shameful to smile at your proximity but he couldn't help it.

"Yeah?"

"Why are we sitting on the floor? Are we teenagers?"

He licks his lips and balls his hands into fists at his sides, screaming internally not to reach out and lick your lips. Instead, Reo huffs out a laugh, responding in a low voice. "I was hoping to channel my inner teenager when rolling."

You hum and lose your balance, leaning forward with your legs at an awkward angle from being sat down, but your hands planted on the floor between you both. Whether you lost it purposely or not is unclear, but it results in your nose brushing against his and your lips barely missing each other. With a squeal and laugh you fall into Reo, head landing on his chest while he throws his back, mouthing a curse into the high ceiling of his mansion.

"Whoops! Sorry Reo," You giggle and crawl off of his lap, your hands a little too nice on his thighs. "I forget smoking hits me pretty fast."

Every moment becomes harder to tame himself. This is probably one of the first times you've been alone together — without Nagi, any other friends, paparazzi. It's the perfect opportunity to take what he wants, to indulge in this year's long challenge, but Reo cares about his friend. And he also cares about your relationship with his friend, of course.

Before he possibly gets too high and melts into the floor, Reo stands and reaches out to offer a helping hand. "Let's sit on the couch."

You look so angelic underneath him, even so far away. Hair splayed out across his floor, a wide smile on your face, vulnerable. Giggling, you reach out and let him help you up and throw yourself onto the couch. Reo is quick to follow, placing himself a comfortable distance from you — though that doesn't last long when you immediately shuffle closer to his side. Your bent knees on the couch are pressing into his thigh, resting your head against the back of the couch, he turns on the TV as a distraction for himself.

A random show plays, one neither of you recognise nor do you care about, honestly. Reo was more focused on keeping his hands to himself, sinking back into the couch and letting his high take effect. It felt like time was moving slow when all he could think about was you. Shuffling in his seat and repositioning his arms a hundred times a minute, he couldn't find a comfortable position that didn't involve his hands spread across your thighs.

When you giggle it pulls him from his thoughts. Turning towards you feels like he's moving in slow motion, as though his eyes are lagging. It takes his brain just as long to process you, realising you're looking at him and just how close you are. He smiles at your presence, laughter bubbling in his chest before sticking his tongue out at you.

Reo doesn't hear his own moan when your lips wrap around his tongue. He barely registers the delicate way your hand cups his face. Eyes falling closed instinctually, he leans in to you, chasing as you pull away. Your lips release him with a suckle, giggling at his flushed features. It doesn't feel real. Did you actually just do that? The sparks that linger on the tip of his tongue tell him it was real, especially the way he tastes you when returning.

Nagi's name is caught in his throat. Swallowed like venomous bile, he tries to convince himself you're not in a relationship with his best friend.

Instead, he mutters, "We shouldn't do that."

You laugh and he feels like a child who said something so naive to an adult. It wasn't your intention but he feels small under your gaze. His high is hitting him so fast — or maybe he lost track of time when telling himself not to give in to impulses.

"Why not?" You play dumb and Reo bites his tongue watching you tilt your head. Acting so cute and innocent, as though you didn't just suck on his tongue like a harlot.

There's a war that rages inside of him; one side fights for his best friend, his teammate who he deeply cares for. The other side fights for his personal desires, arguing that what Nagi doesn't know won't hurt him. You made a move first, not him — though he wouldn't be any better if he didn't stop you.

Reo is an international footballer, he can have anyone he wants. Women fall at his feet all the time. Super models approach him at events and galas for a chance to be with him, the most beautiful women in the world throw themselves at him, he's blessed to have the pick of the litter when it comes to relationships and sex.

Except they're all too easy. Boring and uninteresting. None of them provide a challenge or sense of danger like you do. As gorgeous and ethereal as you are, there's an added layer of risk. It's not so easy to have you. Reo can't have you eating out of the palm of his hand without severe consequences that follow. Although before tonight, you hadn't been handing yourself out on a silver platter for him.

His response is just as childish as he feels. "You know why."

Your grin widens and Reo can't be sure if you're closing in on him again, it feels like his brain is so slow but his heart is so full of excitement and desire. The sparks of your touch still burst like tiny explosions against his cheek and the taste of you lingers as a delicious treat.

"Don't you want to kiss me?"

It's whispered against his lips, a hum of temptation following it. Reo can practically see the words behind his half closed eyelids, it feels like he's going to start drooling if you don't stop him, but there's still a small part of his brain working hard to keep him back. Your nose bumps into his face next to his own and you giggle, a soft and delicate hand finding a place high on his inner thigh — he can't hold back any longer.

Reo kisses you like a man starved. It's aggressive, hungry and desperate. He would devour you right here and now if he could. Your lips are soft and wet against his own, tongues immediately mingling with one another like long lost friends. The way his hands grab onto you and pull you closer is a little more forceful than he intended, causing you to moan in response, noises that Reo swallowed eagerly.

All of this feels like a dream; the hungry kisses, fingers threaded through your hair, the weight of your chest pressed against his as he pulls you closer, your hand palming his half-hard cock through his pants. If he didn't think about it too hard, Reo would convince himself that none of this is real. A wet dream he had one night. He would wake up full of shame covered in his own cum, forced to clean his own bed sheets and shower away the guilt, vowing never to speak of it to anyone.

Except it's real.

Much like he swallowed all your moans, you happily accept all of his noises. The curse that's croaked out against your lips in a brief moment of respite causes you to smile, dragging your thumb along the underside of his cock that stands from your attention, sucking on his bottom lip with a hum.

"Still don't think we should do this?" You ask and it momentarily sobers Reo. He blinks and sees you so clearly, thinking about Nagi and all the times he's seen you both share a kiss. It must have shown on his face because you laugh, pulling back to lie across the couch, thumbs hooked under the elastic waistband of his shorts you're wearing. "What's the matter? Don't want to fuck your best friends girlfriend?"

You shouldn't say it — it only makes his cock harder. Twitching against the fabric of his pants, hot and heavy, Reo groans and pants like a dog. His eyes grow hazy as his mind begins to lag again, wiping his mouth where it feels like he's drooling. Your giggle bounces around the walls of his skull like a pleasant symphony. Even your foot on his chest that's keeping him from closing in on you feels like heaven. Reo wraps his fingers around your ankle, pulling your foot up towards his face. It feels right when his lips find your delicate skin, missing the way you pull down his shorts with underwear in tow, dragging his tongue and teeth along flesh.

"I didn't know you were into feet, Reo." You tease and Reo feels the heat on his cheeks. Fire on his face, it burns and grows when you hook your leg over his to straddle his lap. It's instinctual the way his hands grab your hips. "You're a little freak, aren't you?"

Talking feels impossible because none of this feels real. Mouth dry and at the same time oozing with saliva, Reo's mind roaming a mile a minute yet he lags in processing what's happening. Every few seconds it feels as though he's forgotten it's you in front of him. Hazy and angelic, he's living through a dream.

And at the same time, everything feels so very real. Your skin under his fingertips is like touching silk. The weight of you in his lap brings about a sense of comfort he hasn't felt since he was a child. Every slight motion of your hips against his cock is like fireworks.

Reo can and can't believe this is happening.

"I'm into anything you want, baby." He says, the words forcefully pushed out between the invisible cloth pressed against his tongue.

A collective gasp fills the room when his cock is freed from his pants. You were surprised and excited at just how thick and hard he was, while he drew breath between his teeth from the relief. Stroking him in a languid motion pulls out a long moan deep within his chest.

"Tell me what you want." You tease, still sitting in his lap with his cock in your hand, so close to your exposed cunt. "Tell me you want to fuck me. Say how much you want to fuck Sei's girlfriend." There's a curse that falls off of Reo's lips when you squeeze his sensitive head — he's forced to hold his breath to keep a squeak from following. "Come on, say it. You wanna fuck your best friends girl."

His head spins, flashes of Nagi swirling through his mind, an attempt to connect to his consciousness. The horny part of his brain is too much, though it still proves difficult for him to say it.

"Please…" Reo murmurs, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, as though it will keep him safe from judgement.

"Not what I asked." You squeeze his tip again, leaning in to bite his bottom lip. "How bad do you want it?"

"…Bad, really bad."

Reo's hands on your hips tighten, pulling you closer with a whine. "Then say it."

Never has a handjob felt so good and Reo fears he might cum already if you keep stroking him like this. Each swipe is an adrenaline rush, a pleasant punch to his gut. Grinding his teeth, he leans into you, face buried in the crook of your neck.

"I want…I wanna fuck you."

"You wanna fuck who?" Your free hand laces through his hair and Reo feels like he could cry.

"You, please."

"Who am I to you?"

His balls tighten and he's forced to take a breath and focus on not cumming and speaking.

"Nagi's girlfriend."

You hum. "Good boy."

How Reo didn't cum as soon as you began to sink down on his cock, he may never know. Teeth clenched, body taut beneath you, he closes his eyes and breathes deep through his nose. You're so warm and tight and wet, it's everything and more than he ever imagined. Everything has been amplified to the max; his cock hypersensitive to every little move you make, feeling the way your walls flutter ever so slightly as you begin moving, hearing each tiny pitch change as you breathe.

Of course he enjoys sex but this was different. Whether it's because it was with you or because he was high, Reo felt like he was in the clouds.

You bounce on his cock so easy, finding a solid rhythm fast and sticking to it as your thighs meet in the steady pattern. He didn't even have to do anything — just enjoy the sight before him, watch the way your tits bounce beneath one of his old football shirts. Reo's eyes were glazed over as he held onto your hips, convinced he was drooling like an animal despite his arm remaining dry whenever he wiped his lips.

It's sickening what you're doing. Cheating on a good man like Nagi. Having a fight and being kicked out for the evening isn't an excuse to fuck your boyfriends best friend. Reo wonders if you did this on purpose. Was your intention to come over and seduce him this whole time? Sure, he's been caught by you with wandering eyes and overly friendly hands but that's innocent. Never did it lead to this.

At the same time, Reo can't deny how his cock drooled over your hand when you forced him to tell you how much he wants to fuck you.

Even your moans are more heavenly than he ever expected. It's shameful the thoughts he's had about it, replaying everything you've ever said, every noise he's heard you make in an attempt to imagine what you'd sound like in this position. It's better than any music. Like a blessing, he needs to hear it over and over again.

You smile at Reo as you bounce in his lap, kissing him with hunger akin to a starving beast. It feels like you'd eat him alive if you could — shamefully, he'd let you.

Reo follows the kiss when you pull back, unwilling to let you escape him just yet. Your hips had stopped moving and he was left buried deep in your pussy, helplessly twitching against your warm walls, he leaks against your cervix. Wrapping his arms around you, Reo moans into your mouth, head tilted all the way back. When you finally pull away, you hold his mouth open with a thumb on his chin. The lavender of his eyes is almost entirely overshadowed by the size of his pupils, watching as you purse your lips and roll your tongue. Reo happily accepts the spit that's slowly hanging from your mouth into his, groaning when it hits his tongue. The taste of you is delectable. You giggle and follow your saliva, tracing your tongue along his to spread yourself all over his mouth.

Disgusting, immoral, so fucking good.

His hips begin to move into you, thrusting in the non-existent space he occupies between you and the couch. More, more, more. He can do this all day but he needs to feel you moving, to memorise the way your walls clench around him, permanently etch your moans of his name into his memories.

In a flurry of motion, you're flipped onto your back. Reo is quick to follow, not for a moment did he let you detach from his cock or his mouth when he moves you. The thump of your head hitting the arm of the couch rattles your brain but the pleasant high that fogs your mind blurs the pain. It's exciting when Reo takes over and fucks you how he wants, because he's relentless.

Much faster than when you were riding him, Reo fucks you like winning the world cup is on the line. He pulls out until just the tip is still inside of you, quickly and forcefully burying himself back into your heat, his pubes flush against your clit. Panting into your open mouth like a dog, Reo is at your mercy.

You cry out in pleasure, moaning his name like it's the only word you've ever known. It makes his eyes roll, balls tightening in his sack, his hands gripping onto your hips so hard you're bound to bruise. Reo has wanted this for years. Ever since he first laid eyes on you, he knew he wanted you sheathed on his cock.

When you wrap your arms around his neck and throw your head back, he honestly believes he's in love.

Your walls pulse around him violently, clenching and releasing, daring to milk him for all he's worth. He's on the edge and he's been staving it off this entire time. Never does he want this to end but seeing you finish like this was all worth it. His teeth drag against your throat, feeling you flex underneath him, you tighten around his cock as you whimper. He doesn't relent — all he wants is to fill you to the brim with his seed.

Licking, biting, kissing. Reo tries desperately to remind himself that he can't mark you. You're not his and the fact only makes his cock throb. Each stroke along your walls makes him dizzier, losing his grip on you and reality itself. Finally, he lets go, burying himself deep as he cums inside you.

Half expecting the post-nut clarity to hit, Reo is elated to find the haze still clouding his mind. Never has he experienced such elation. His mouth finds yours again in a lazy, hungry kiss and you moan into his touch. If he could remain like this forever, then Reo might never have any problems ever again.

Reo has a problem and it won't leave him alone.

Every night he struggles to sleep. His training coach has begun to point out the bags that rest under his eyes, scolding him for sloppy footwork and lack of speed. All his moves are sluggish and no amount of berating is helping him get his act together. When he's forced to sit on the sides and watch the rest of his team practise, he's left stewing on his own thoughts.

It was the best and worst night of his life. He thinks about it constantly, stroking himself to completion over and over again to the thought of you on top of him, remembering how you felt around his cock. The way you say his name, how sweet your moans are.

Then he remembers Nagi.

No one has mentioned it since. You haven't brought it up or tried to contact him about the night, not even to tell him to keep it a secret. That much was obvious but he thought you'd say something. He's seen Nagi numerous times since the incident and he seems none the wiser. Treating Reo like he normally does with a lazy attitude and disinterest. The normalcy puts him on edge more than ease his worries.

"You look tired."

It's embarrassing the way Reo jumps out of his skin upon hearing Nagi. Hoping that he didn't notice, Reo chuckles and offers a light "Yeah," in response, returning to changing into his regular clothes.

"Being tired is such a hassle."

With his back to Nagi, Reo rolls his eyes and grits his teeth. It's hard to look at his best friend these days — for obvious reasons — nevermind talk to him. He was hoping Nagi would take the subtle hint that he's too tired to talk.

"Yeah," Reo repeats, "It's hard sleeping with the season coming up."

There's a hum and for a moment, Reo believes Nagi has realised he doesn't want to talk.

"Normally you're excited."

Reo stuffs his sweaty kit into his locker; a worry for another day. Right now he needs to get out of the locker room and away from Nagi.

It feels like his chest is being torn apart. Hands clawing at his ribs, breaking one at a time, clambering to extract his organs so the guilt he feels can make a comfortable home. It's hard to breathe, hard to think of anything but Nagi's girlfriend moaning in his mouth. You were so beautiful. How can something so perfect cause him such guilt?

"Mikage?"

Finally, Reo turns and looks at Nagi.

He's laid across the benches in the changing room, shirtless with a sweat towel that once hung around his neck. As usual, his phone was settled between his hands, pointed at him but it's likely he's in between games. Nagi's face doesn't move while looking at Reo. There's no sign of life when his best friend's heart is painfully shown on his sleeve.

Reo slams his locker door shut, head hung low as he gasps for air. He can't say it. There's no way. Nagi will abandon him — as he deserves. The scandal will be blasted all over the media. He'll become public enemy number one and forcibly removed from his team. His football career will be over already and Reo will never know happiness ever again.

But he can't keep feeling like this for the rest of his life. It will kill him eventually.

Swallowing thick, he inhales and lets loose.

"I fucked your girlfriend!"

The changing room is painfully silent. Reo shouted the words with his eyes firmly shut. There's no way he'd be able to look at Nagi as he said it. His head hangs low again, staring at his feet and awaiting the barrage of consequences that he should face. There's immediate relief in his chest after the confession, but the longer the silence draws out, the more nauseous Reo becomes.

When Nagi still doesn't respond, Reo is forced to look up. It's hard — harder than looking at him with his secret — but Reo looks at his best friend. His face is unchanged; the same lidded eyes staring back at him, mouth pressed in a neutral and relaxed pose, staring blankly at Reo.

"I know."

Reo isn't sure how his legs are keeping him upright. His whole body feels like it's collapsing and he can't pinpoint any of what he's feeling. Relief? Regret? Confusion? Speechless. Baulking at his best friend, any and all words are stuck in his throat.

Eventually, he croaks out, "You know?"

Nagi hums, returning to his game and tapping away with his thumbs; as though Reo hadn't just confessed an affair with his girlfriend.

"What does that mean?" Reo asks breathlessly, watching as Nagi sits up, still focused on his game.

"It was my idea." He answers easily before standing and approaching the washroom. "Going for a soak. Bye. Peace."

Two fingers are thrown Reo's way, a friendly gesture before he disappears down the hall. Reo is left by himself in the changing rooms to process the information, tormented by a new slough of emotions that he's going to have a hard time processing by himself. 

[lifeasadorkwithnolife]

Nightmares (Azriel X Reader)

Your nightmares are caused by something Azriel did in the past.

Word Count: 1800

            You found yourself alone in the library a lot, covered by your favorite blanket with a good book in your hand. Sometimes you spent time in the library just for the sake of reading, sometimes it was to spend time with Nesta, but some nights, like these, it was to escape your nightmares.

            The embers of the forgotten fired ebbed across the room, and you set down your book, watching. You loved your life here, the house gave you everything you needed, you trained with Cassian, painted with Feyre, read with Nesta, and even went dancing with Mor. You ate good food and felt safe, for one of the first times in your life.

            Guilt ate away at your stomach as you thought about Azriel, his dark eyes and smile he reserved just for you. You had tried your hardest to get close to the male, and some weeks were better than others. Your feelings were always so conflicted around him, on one hand, you were drawn to his quiet stature, the calmness that seemed to radiate from him comforted you, but when you were asleep, you saw him in your nightmares.

            As you watched the dying embers, the memory of your first encounter with Azriel came back to you.

*

You were running from the Autumn Court, with no money to your name and no clothes but the ones on your back. One minute you were running, and the next, you were colliding with a large figure, which knocked you to the ground.

            You had recognized him as the shadow singer from the night court, and the way his eyes pierced yours, wings tensed as if he was about to take off, was a sight you would never forget. He had grabbed you then, and after hours of flying, you were thrown into a dungeon under a mountain, in the night court.

            You were cold, terrified but knew that even if you escaped, your home was gone, up in flames, and your family….your family was gone too. After only hours, you had lost the will to escape, and after days of no food and water, you finally saw Azriel again.

            He had the high lord behind him, his face was blank, void of emotion. “Well, hi there.” Rhysand stands in the corner as Azriel shuts the door, his arms find his chest as he crosses them. Although Rhysand was the one speaking, your eyes could not look away from the figure before you, his large wings, large stature and the dagger he casually flicked around in his hand.

            “We just have some questions for you, then maybe we can let you go.” Rhysand gave you a smirk, nodding to Azriel who moved forward. You cowered back, your back hitting the damp wall. You looked around, for anything to save you, but all that was at your disposal a few chains and bloodstained walls.

            “Please.” You whispered, hands shaking as you looked between Rhysand and Azriel. “I’ll tell you anything.”

            You felt talons scrape against your mental shields, and your eyes widened at the high lord. “Please no-“ You fought to maintain your shield, something your father had taught you to do, but the exhaustion from your lack of sleep and weakness from no food was catching up to you.

            “What do you have to hide?” Rhys voice echoed around your mind, and you shook your head fervently. You looked to Azriel again, and his eyes bore into yours, no trace of humanity to be found. You only saw evil, a male who would torture, a male who belonged in the night court.

            Then, Rhys entered your mind, taking down your shields with no issue. He flipped through your memories as if they were a book, you fell to your knees, hands pressing to your temples in agony. Then it was over. Rhysand knew it all, Beron’s execution of your family due to the secrets they knew about the Autumn high court- secrets that Rhysand would eventually need you for.

            It had taken you a couple of months to trust Rhysand after that, but getting to know Feyre, his cousin Morrigan, and his brother Cassian really helped. But the nightmares remained, most of them focused on Azriel.

            You closed your book, watching the final ember die out and not flicker back to life. You collected yourself, taking a deep breath and making the walk back to your quarters. You could see the sun rising in the window and you sighed, knowing that it would be a long day of training with little to no sleep.

*

            “Is there something wrong?” Azriel asks you, you two are circling the mat since Cassian wasn’t able to train with you today.

            “Of course.” You try to smile at him, but you know it doesn’t meet your eyes.

            “Are you sleeping alright?” Azriel lowers his fist, his face filling with concern. You look into his eyes as he nears you, they are filled with emotion, but you can’t tell which ones.  

            “Not really.” You admit, putting your fists down as well. “I keep having these nightmares, they won’t stop.”

            “I’m sorry.” Az’s hand twitches towards yours but goes back down to his side. “I…I have them too, you know.”

            You sit down to stretch, and Azriel follows suit. The sun is beaming today, and Azriel is wearing a shirt that is clinging to every inch of his torso. You can’t help but watch the muscles shift in his arms as he stretches it above his head, the lines of his tricep deepening as he reaches over. You blink a few times and realize that he’s speaking.

            “I’m sorry, what did you say?” You stammer, quickly getting into a stretch of your own. Azriel smile grows, and he looks away.

            “I was just saying that whenever I have nightmares, usually flying helps.” He mused, stretching the other arm. “But I guess you don’t really have that option, not having wings and everything.”

            “Are you teasing me?” You scoffed, and he shrugged, looking back at you with a cheeky grin on his face, a grin that he reserved just for you. You looked down yourself, and you could feel the heat rise to your cheeks. He drove you crazy. “Maybe I’ll just have to find you when I have my next nightmare and take you up on that offer.”

            “I would love that.” Az whispers but then clears his throat. “ I mean, I would love to help you out, with the nightmares, I mean.”

            You smile at him, and he stands up, offering out his hand. You take it, feeling the butterflies in your stomach as he helps you up. “I have a book that’s calling my name, I’ll be in the library if you want to read with me.”

            He nods, letting go of your hand hesitantly, and you leave him to go inside.

*

            You’re in the dungeon, you could feel the damp walls under your hands, the slippery floor under your feet, and you can see a dark figure, surrounded by shadow. You press your back to the wall as far as it can go as the figure walks closer. Your hands are suddenly locked above your head, and your feet are chained to the floor.

            Azriel comes back into view, his dark eyes void of emotion, this is not the male you know. “Azriel, please- it’s me.” You beg, fighting against the chains. “Azriel please, please don’t do this.”

            He takes slow, cautious steps towards you, flipping truth-teller in his hand. He cocks his head to the side, holding up the knife is a slow movement, as if trying to figure out where to start. “Az, we’re friends, please.”

            “Actually, Y/N.” He whispers, and his eyes turn from blue to black. “We’re not.”

*

            Someone is shaking you awake, you can feel the hoarseness of your throat because of your screaming. You open your eyes, immediately finding familiar blue ones. A cry leaves your lips as you sit up on the bed, back hitting the headboard.

            “Please, please don’t hurt me.” Your voice shakes, Azriel stares at you. Where was his blade? He was just holding it. You look around, realizing slowly that you’re in your room, and that this is Azriel.

            He just stares at you, an expression on his face that you don’t recognize. He’s sitting on the edge of your bed. You take deep breaths, your chest rising and falling in rapid succession as you two stare at each other. “It was just a nightmare.” Azriel whispers, and you nod your head. “You were shouting my name.”

            “I’m sorry for waking you.” You turn to look at the clock at your bedside, it was before dawn.

            Azriel stares at you a moment longer, then runs his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath. “Why were you shouting my name?”

            “I don’t know.” You whisper, but you both knew it was a lie. The room was warm, and you felt a weird sense of dread fill your chest.

            “Your nightmares, what are they about?” Azriel whispers, his hands clenching into fists.

            “I don’t remember.” You lie again, and he groans, putting his head into his hands. The room was silent, the only sound was the feeling of your heartbeat in your ears.  

            He stands then, heading towards the door and reaching towards the handle. Despite your recent fear, you didn’t want him to leave, but you could see the hurt, the agony, written on his face as clear as day. “Please don’t go.” You whisper, pulling the covers off so you can follow him.

            He shakes his head, eyes closing for a second then reopening, pinned on yours. “Your nightmares, this whole time, the reason you haven’t been able to get a good night sleep, the reason you can’t eat some days- they are because of me?”

            You shake your head and open your mouth to speak, but the tears that fill your eyes are a clear indication. He reaches his hand towards his pocket, and you can’t help but back up, remembering him reaching for truth-teller in his dreams. His hand freezes again, and you can’t help the guilt from coursing through you.

            He finishes reaching into his pocket, slowly grasping something and tossing it on the bed. “I’m sorry.” He whispers, then leaves.

            Tears stream down your face as you hear the footsteps echoing down the hall. You climb back into bed, resting your back against the headboard and your head against your knees. You spot the object on the bed out of the corner of your eye,

            You reached for it and slowly opened the box. It was a necklace, and in the pendant in the middle was a pair of wings. You lifted the necklace up, running a finger over the chain, and you realized a note was in the box.

            “Your own wings, Love A”

[angellily920]

Siberian Nights

Pairing: John Walker x reader

Oneshot... John Walker Masterlist

Word Count: 868

Warnings: none.

Summary: One bed trope! Stuck with John in Siberia!

Harsh, cold winds smacked against you and John as you trudged to the nearest hotel. Stomping the snow off your boots, you and John burst through the doors, warmth flooding your senses. John stalked toward the front desk and started speaking to the man, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but talking to John.

"English?! Do you speak-ugh, forget it!" John shoved his hand into his pocket and slapped some euros on the desk. "A room. Two beds!" John held up two fingers to get his point across.

Your eyes traced John's angry expression as the man behind the desk grabbed the money. John turned to you, soft snow crystals nestled in his hair and beard before pointing to the man. "Can you believe it? He doesn't speak English!"

"Well, we are in Siberia, John." You roll your eyes. "I think the snow froze your thinking."

The man behind the desk held out a key, and you gently took it from him. "Thank you."

As you and John started to walk away, the man started to mutter under his breath. "Crazy American."

John's eyes narrowed, and he tapped your shoulder. "Did you hear that? He can speak English!" He went to turn back around, but you grabbed his tactical belt and dragged him to the room.

"Come on." You shoved the key into the lock and opened the door.

The room was small, but it was better than freezing to death outside. A singular bed lay against the wall and you frowned. John's voice came behind you in a deep rumble.

"Guess we're getting cozy tonight. "

You elbowed his stomach, causing him to let out a pained exhaled. "No funny business Walker."

Both of you took turns taking showers and getting out of your cold clothes. John had suggested you both "conserve" water by showering together but you gave him a hard pass. You tried to fiddle with the comms but you couldn't get anything. Being stranded in Siberia was totally on your bucket list. John exited the bathroom wearing a soft faded Army t shirt and some gray sweatpants. His hair was still damp and you watched as a few water droplets trailed down his neck before disappearing into his shirt. He looked tired.

"Hey." You toss him the comms. "Couldn't get anything."

He caught them with ease. he rolled them between his fingers before setting them down. "We'll try again in the morning. We need to rest." He slipped into the lifting the covers over himself. You turned off the light and settled in one of the corner chairs.

After a few minutes, John peeked his head up. He blinked a few times in the darkness before settling on you. "You okay?" His voice was soft, no hint of his usual cockiness.

"Yeah, I'm okay." Were you though? Your mind was racing with all sorts of scenarios about how the mission could have gone better or how you were gonna get out of Siberia. John grunted in response before sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes.

"I'm not buying it. But I promise we'll figure everything out. You're not hurt, are you?" His voice took a concerned edge. "Frostbite? Hypothermia?"

You shook your head. "No, no, I'm fine."

He seemed to take a relieved exhale. "Good, I don't like seeing you hurt. Now would you come to bed, so we can sleep."

It had been a long time since you've slept by someone. You decided not to risk it. "I, um, I'll keep watch."

John sighed and ran a hand over his tired face. "Don't make me go over there and drag you. I won't bite...unless you want me to." He chuckled softly but when he saw no signs of amusement on your face he grunted. "Sorry, just come to bed."

You could see the soft reflection of the moon in his blue irises and you couldn't say no. You made your way over to the bed and John quickly tucked you against him. The bed was small so you really had no choice. Warmth blossomed against your body and you found yourself enjoying it. John's breath tickled the back of your neck.

"I've got you. Go to sleep."

You decided not to fight sleep any longer and relaxed against him. He hummed in approval and gently tightened his grip. "Good girl."

~~~~~

Sharp banging startled the both of you awake. John instinctively pulled you tight against him as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. His beard gently scratched the back of your neck as he shushed quietly against your hairline. The banging happened again, this time followed with a disgruntled, "It Bucky, open up."

The both of you relaxed and John quickly moved to open the door. Bucky was standing there, a smug look on his face. "You two okay?"

You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and John nodded his head and spoke, his voice still raspy from sleep. "Yeah, we're fine. Thanks for coming to get us. How'd you find us?"

"Your suits have trackers." Bucky tapped the doorframe and clapped his hands together. "Jet's outside. be ready in 10."

He was about to walk away but he turned around and said. "Also, did you know they speak English here? Crazy."