#or im just afraid of lashing out and regretting it

[lousylambsblog]

get a grip dude!!!!

[straykidshavemykids]

Too much tension, not enough control.

you start a new job at a trendy downtown café and quickly becomes friendly with your charming coworker, Theo. You’re just friends, but your boyfriend, hyunjin, doesn’t see it that way. He’s never liked how easily other guys smile at you — and Theo is no exception.

At first, hyunjin tries to play it cool. But when he catches Theo dropping you off after a late shift, something in him snaps. The tension builds as hyunjin’s jealousy starts to turn possessive — showing up unannounced, questioning your phone, getting territorial.

you start to push back — torn between love and the suffocating grip of hyunjin’s obsession. But hyunjin is determined to prove that Theo wants more than just friendship. When things come to a head at a party where Theo innocently kisses you on the cheek, hyunjin’s jealousy finally explodes.

You walk out the persons house where the party is held,slamming the front door behind you

“this is bullshit.”

Hyunjin storms out of the house moments later, his face contorted with rage and jealousy. He sees you standing on the sidewalk, shaking with anger and hurt. Without a word, he grabs your arm roughly and spins you around to face him. His grip is painful, fingers digging into your skin.

“what the fuck is your problem? seriously get a grip! just admit you’re insecure and afraid ill find someone better than you!” you throw your hands in the air as you resist his grip, quickly losing your temper and becoming agitated yourself.

Hyunjin’s face turns red with humiliation and anger at your accusations. He jerks you closer, his face inches from yours, spitting out venomous words.

“You think I’m insecure? You think I’m afraid you’ll find someone better? Fuck you!”

You scoff at his childish nature.

“fuck me? no seriously, fuck you! *you push his hands off you and stumble off, a mixture of pain from your heels and anger causing you to struggle walking*

Hyunjin watches you stumble, his expression a mix of anger and something else—perhaps regret. He takes a step forward but stops himself, clenching his fists at his sides. “Where are you going?” he shouts after you, his voice echoing down the street.”

You wave your arms at him, signalling that you don’t want him to follow.

“home! i’m done with your shit for tonight. i’ll see you later.”

*time skip:3 hours later at home.*

You're sitting on your couch, scrolling through your phone aimlessly when you hear a loud knock at your door. It's past midnight and you're not expecting anyone. The knocking persists, growing more insistent and aggressive by the second. You recognize the pattern—it's Hyunjin's knock.

You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath to prepare yourself before forcing yourself off the sofa and dragging yourself towards the door.

“what do you want.” You open the door with an expressionless face, but it’s clear you’re infuriated.

Hyunjin pushes past you as soon as you open the door, his eyes wild and his hair disheveled. He looks like he's been drinking, but his movements are still sharp and controlled by anger. "Why didn't you answer my calls?" he demands, slamming the door shut behind him.

You clench your jaw, shaking your head with disbelief

“why don’t you leave me alone, and talk to me when you’ve lost your obsessive and delusional nature.”

Hyunjin ignores your question and steps closer, invading your personal space. His eyes are dark with emotions—anger, jealousy, fear of losing you all mixed together. “I can’t leave you alone,” he says hoarsely. “Not when I know Theo wants something more.”

You lash out, utterly tired of his ridiculous and unnecessary accusations.

“would you shutup about theo! i don’t want him… i don’t want anyone other than you! what do i have to do to prove that im so head over heels for you!” You walk up to him and hold his face, pleading with your eyes.

Hyunjin freezes, his anger momentarily forgotten as your words sink in. His eyes search your face, looking for any hint of deception or lies. Before you can react, he grabs you roughly and slams you against the door, his lips crashing against yours in a desperate, possessive kiss.

Your anger’s doesn’t completely fade away, it melts into something else? Your hand reaches into his hair, tugging slightly as you push your lips against his.

Hyunjin's hands slide around your waist, pulling you even closer against him. His kisses become deeper, more intense - all that bottled-up anger and jealousy pouring out into every touch. Between breaths, he growls against your lips, "Stop giving me fucking mixed signals..."

You eye him with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“stop being so sensitive and jealous… even though i kinda like it” you bite on your lip, intensely staring at his dark eyes. His eyes are something else, it’s so easy to over analyse them…they’re so full of lust.

Hyunjin's eyes flash with possessiveness and desire as he watches you bite your lip. He captures your bottom lip between his teeth, pulling it gently before releasing it with a pop. "You like my jealousy?" he challenges, his voice low and rough. His hands slide down to grip your thighs.

“mmm..” you nod.

Hyunjin takes that as an invitation. He lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he presses you harder against the door. His hips grind against yours, making his growing arousal clear. "Say it" he demands between kisses along your jawline. "Say you like my jealousy."

You grow stubborn, wanting to see how much you can egg him on to his breaking point “say what baby?”You tilt your head.

Hyunjin's kisses become more aggressive, more demanding. His hands squeeze your legs as he presses himself harder against you. "Fucking stubborn," he mutters against your neck, sucking hard. "I'll show you what happens when you push my jealousy too far."

“yeah? you’ll show me?” you pant, breathlessly whispering in his ear as you tighten your legs round his waist.

Hyunjin's breath hitches as your legs tighten around him. He growls low in his throat, a sound that's half frustration, half desire. "You want me to show you?" he asks darkly, grinding against you more deliberately. "You want me to fucking lose control?"

You bite your lip to fight your smirk, tilting your head as you read his face

“is that supposed to be a threat?”

“Yes" Hyunjin answers sharply, his eyes dropping to watch those lips you keep biting. His voice drops lower, "It's supposed to scare you. Make you unwrap your damn legs." He grinds his hips again, unconsciously. "God, you're infuriating.

“Hm? cause it seems to tempt me more….” You smirk, you know you’ve got him all riled up.

Hyunjin's eyes flash dangerously at your words. He grabs your legs tighter, lifting you slightly before slamming you back against the door. His hips thrust forward once, simulating a brutal fuck against your core through clothing. "Last chance," he warns harshly,"Unwrap those legs before I break them."

You slowly start to lose control, your anger slowly melting away and being replaced with submission.

You let out a weak whimper, yet not feeling threatened.

Hyunjin sees that you're not scared. He sees you whimper, and his self-control snaps. He captures your lips in a bruising kiss, his hands moving to pin your arms above your head as he presses his entire body against yours. He starts dry humping you ruthlessly against the door.

“Please…” You whimper against his neck, you need him so bad* “I need you..”

At your words, Hyunjin's entire body tenses. He knows you're not just playing games anymore; you genuinely need him. His grinding becomes more urgent, his hips moving faster and harder against yours. "Fucking hell," he groans, his voice strained with desire and frustration.

“Don’t you want me baby?” You low whisper in his ear, your hands threading in his hair.

"Want you?" He snaps, his hand on your thigh squeezing hard enough to leave a print. "I'm so fucking hard it hurts, baby. I want to rip your clothes off and fuck you against this door. I want to fill you up so much you can't walk straight."

“Fucking hell…. talk to me like that again….”You bite down hard on your lip, the only thing that will help relieve your intense need for him inside you.

“You like that, don't you? Me talking dirty? My pretty baby likes getting fucked hard..." His breathing becomes heavier as he presses even harder against you, creating friction against your clothed core. One hand moves to cup your breast through your shirt. "You want this cock don't you?"

"You like that, don't you? Me talking dirty? My pretty baby likes getting fucked hard..." His breathing becomes heavier as he presses even harder against you, creating friction against your clothed core. One hand moves to cup your breast through your shirt. "You want this cock don't you?"

“Give it to me… please… i’ll be a good girl. please-“

You plead and beg, you don’t care if you look weak right now, you just know that you need him so bad.. it hurts.

“Shh, baby..." he cuts you off, his voice thick with emotion and lust. Without another word, he quickly unbuttons his pants and pushes them down along with his boxers. His hard cock springs free, pressing urgently against your core through your pants. "Lift up," he commands roughly.

You do as he says, you don’t want to do anything that will stall him. You’re aching too bad to wanna try and make him any more pissed than he is and tease him.

“Good girl," he breathes out, pleased with your obedience. One hand immediately goes to your waistband, pushing your pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock slips between your legs, pressing against your wet entrance. "Look at how fucking ready you are," he groans.

*******Without warning, Hyunjin thrusts his hips forward, his thick length sinking into you balls deep with a loud groan. "Fuck, you're so tight... and so wet," he pants, his forehead falling against yours as he stays still for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size. His hands grip your ass tightly, spreading your cheeks apart..

Your mouth falls open with a gasp, your hand immediately tightening in his hair as you feel him stretch you out. It starts off as a slight pain, but quickly fades as you adjust.

"Don't fucking move," he growls softly before capturing your lips in a deep kiss. His tongue explores your mouth hungrily as he slowly pulls out and pushes back in, setting a steady rhythm against the door. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through both of you.

“Shit….”Your hands grip on his back, immediately melting into the pleasure.

“Mmm, that's it, baby," he moans against your lips, his hips moving faster and harder. "Take my cock like a good girl." He pulls out almost completely before slamming back into you, making you gasp loudly.

“Baby…. feels- so fucking good” your head falls back, giving him wider access to your neck as you let out throaty cries. You’ve always been verbal in sex, you know what it does to him.

“God, I love hearing you like this," he murmurs, his lips finding your neck and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands move to your waist, holding you up as he fucks you harder against the door. The room fills with sounds of skin slapping together and muffled cries.

“Don’t stop baby!!” You cry out, beginning to tighten your legs around him as you feel them start to tremble

“Just like that…”

"Right... there..." He hits your spot dead on with each thrust, making your cries louder. His fingers rub your clit faster, pushing you closer to your peak. "You close, baby? Tell me you're close." His voice is tight and low, his body covered in sweat.

You sinfully moan out his name, becoming overwhelmed with pleasure all over your body. Your legs shake as you leak out, your hands death grip his back as your nails dig into him… surely leaving marks.

“Take it baby," Hyunjin hisses as your nails sink into his back. Your legs spasm around his waist, and your pussy tightens like a vise around his length. "Yeah?" He nods with a devilish smirk, looking down at you with a crippling expression*

Your body sits limp, not wanting to move due to tiredness and sensitivity. A smile slowly spreads on your face as you still catch your breath.

“Such a good girl," he coos, pressing soft kisses along your jawline and neck. His cock is still buried deep inside you, twitching slightly as he catches his own breath. One hand strokes through your hair tenderly while the other supports your weight against the door. "You okay, baby?"

You nod, appreciating his sudden soft demeanour and care after his precious roughness. “Yes ,baby”

He gently pulls out, making you both shiver, before carefully placing you down on your feet. His hands remain steady on your waist to keep you balanced. "You're shaking." he runs his fingers through your hair again, pulling you close to his chest.

“Can we… have a shower and watch a movie? i’m so tired-“ You softly speak out.

His expression softens even more at your tired request. He presses a gentle kiss on your forehead."Of course, baby. Let's get you cleaned up and comfortable." *He helps you walk to the bathroom, turning on the shower and testing the water temperature before assisting you inside. "Lean against me”

“Thank you, my love”. You melt into his body, immediately relaxing from his warmth and comfort.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, holding you close under the warm water. His chin rests on your shoulder as he presses soft kisses to your neck. "I've got you." His hands move gently over your body, cleaning you up tenderly. “We'll watch whatever movie you want."

[dangopango00]

Demonic Features HCS (2)

Om demons HCs + Om demons x gn reader

Pt. 1 (123) | Pt. 2 (Satan, Asmo, Beel, Belphie) | Pt. 3 (Royal trio) Coming soon (again)

CW: Teeny but suggestive I think. Mostly asmo’s part if anything

A/N: THIS IMAGE IS SO FUCKING KEWYWTTTTT 😭😭😭😭😭 i cant w them ue i am unhealthily attached to this family goodbye world also sryy these are so long, honestly after recharging for a couple days I js started going crazy on the hcs 😭😭

Hcs UTC

Satan: The Unicorn

- I think he should look more beastly overall like hes some wild creature that just emerged from the forest

- His pants should look like hooves like those bellbottom esque fuzzy ish pants like

Shout out to someone in 1545 ig. Unicornis

Also spots should look more like. Horselike like speckled or splotchy

- Has two black stars and one green in the middle on his forehead

1. As a reference to Lucifer who created him and

2. A reference to how biblically unicorns were out of control beasts that could only be tamed by a virgin maiden (honestly im a lil tempted to write a fic of satan x sweet innocent reader but gn. Goodbye even)

- HES A UNICORN HE SHOULD HAVE A UNI HORN PLEAADEEE 😭😭😭 they should be a similar shape to Lucifer’s but one short one and should be able to summon a longer one below where the star diamond is on his forehead is when he gets pissed enough and both should be black with green tips + it would actually make him look more vicious too

- I appreciate them making the little bow look like ribs but I think it would be much cooler if his ribs just were sticking out and wrapping around his body and they were black and green

- Ribs should also have patches of fur resembling flames where they start (near his back or at his sides)

- I also think his tail should have short rugged fur lining the outside and it should get longer at the tip; I’m going heavy on the beast agenda I fear. He may clean up pretty well in his human form but he can’t hide his sin in his demon form cmon now y’all

- Since we don’t see his markings I’m making shit up and I think his markings should be fur lining his back and arms

- Just wanna say I resemble the fur wrap thing because it kinda resembles a horse tail/mane and the gray shirt bc it resembles a rhino (What unicorns in the bible were based on I think)

- A bit insecure about you seeing his demon form tbh. Thinks he will scare you and a little afraid he might do sth he’ll regret if he loses himself; he sees himself as beastly in that form, anger is a hideous emotion and he doesn’t want to scare his loved ones away like he used to when he was first born and always lashed out with full force, scaring his brothers (Don’t get me wrong if he’s angry he’ll show it but he wont let all of his anger out at least not at once and if he has to do sth drastic he’ll first isolate himself)

- Very nearsighted but refuses to get glasses and only wears them when reading (glasses are weakness)

- Bulks up a bit and gains more strength in his demon form frs

- Snarls when hes angry and sometimes sneezes in the middle of his anger often (it would be funny)

- Pact mark is only visible on your temple but internally spans throughout your veins and is not very big but grows the angrier you get post activation; that shit is freaky it can even cover your whole face and put your body in autopilot (like how anger issues people black out) if you get angry enough

- It’s pretty wicked its first shaped like a small spade but bulges like flesh; is similar to tanjiro’s mark somewhat

- Pact mark allows him to enhance your rage by giving you some of his own (can be a pro or con depending on the situation but i mean u can just tell him to stop iykyk policy)

Asmodeus: The Scorpion

- I THINK HE SHOULD BE VAMPIRIC Feeds on sexual energy and life force yk incubus/succubus thingz but he should have the fangies too imo

- Tired of them having collars and looking prim and proper so I’ve arbitrarily decided that his shirt should conjoin with his skin and become kind of like calcharos ult for VERY loose reference; hes the avatar of lust he can be shirtless ish

- IK I SAID NTM ON THE CLOTHES BUT UGHHH Imagine if he was wearing like a robe similar to aphrodite bc its like a nod to his past as a high angel but also how he’s steeped in desire and lust. Like its being held up by the roses, sheer will and the fact that it is conjoined with his skin

- Hc that he is like cupid and can see connections between people SO I think his spine should be lined with like. Arrow-like spines

- Despite being like cupid, he finds it really hard to genuinely connect people and find someone who enjoys his presence beyond his looks and will typically avoid people on his recharge days (he likes partying and being around people but its also pretty draining keeping people entertained which is why he usually brings someone with him. I also imagine this is how he and Levi connect “I guess we aren’t so different after all” type shi)

- He should have a tail. I thought about it for a while and like. ???? Scorpions tails are like their whole thing I think he should either have a tail or towards the bottom of his spines one of them is long enough to resemble a tail (his wings are cool but like he should have a. Tail)

- Tail/spines should have venom

- I think his markings should be connected, like the hearts are good but they should be connected in like a segmented line and wrap around his arm; preferably 7 to represent the scorpions seven chamber heart

- He needs glasses too and he only wears them when they go with his outfit otherwise its contacts (which he also introduced satan to)

- He should have more eyes on his face smaller eyes below his main two that only appear when open (otherwise his face looks normal just with slight slits you’d only notice if u were REALLY staring)

- Very tolerant to weather changes. He still acts like he’s dying but he def doesn’t have it as bad as Levi who is literally dying over there

- Pact mark is a tramp stamp and he won’t stop asking to see it gn. Its shaped like a hollowed heart with a design inside and becomes a spade with a similar design when activated as well as spreads a bit (as all the others do) its very classy and pretty tbh

- Activation is almost like. Erotic? It feels good but its almost like it steals the air from your lungs and makes your chest tighten; its a mix of pleasure and panic (not quite pain because it gives you urgency but not so much that it makes you want to stop) Unfortunately this isn’t something that really wears off but rather wears down and just becomes leas intense as you get used to it/stronger

- Pact mark allows him to shapeshift into you and anyone who you have had a sexual or romantic encounter with

Beelzebub: The Fly

- MOUTHS ALL OVER: A mouth on his forhead where his horn comes out of and the markings spread across his body can open, revealing mouths (def gotta have some on his hands I fear. Can also change the locations of his markings and can consume things such as magical energy through his mouths

- Should be able to create a third horn in the middle of his forehead to make his horns appear like a crown (Lord of the flies had a teeny lil crown its a bit funny)

- Should have more fur aspects like his wings should have fur at the base and around the outline maybe

- His markings should be furry and the fur makes it look like they’re black flames 🔥

- Should have four wings that appear like two until he gets ready for takeoff, to which they spread out real wide

- Ik he’s a really simple guy so his design is simple too but I think he’s just missing some of that demonic flair. He should have insect arms that he can control (they might look like sticks but they’re actually very strong and useful)

- Always wants to be around you. Always. Even though he moves insanely fast he always loops back around to match your pace

- A bit colorblind and nearsighted but is fast enough to make up for it

- Almost never gets sick but he’s usually the one who brings sickness in the house so his brothers have to make sure he cleans off before coming in 😭 (I imagine demons don’t get sick in the traditional way but its typically some behavioral or magical illness like a common cold for suc/incubi causing like them to be less efficient in seducing humans; like how asmo has his power with his eyes maybe his vision gets blurry for a few months/years or it makes HIM fall for the person he was trying to seduce)

- Lucifer has had to ban him from the kitchen because he kept eating food that already went bad especially if he was sleepwalking

- Can make a protein shake/smoothie out of anything !!!! No matter how erm. Odd the combination

- Always rubs his hands together and licks his lips before eating a meal

- I would like to propose….. him being in charge of the Devildom air force like how Levi is in the navy…. Ik ik came outta nowhere but Flies having those big ass eyes gave me the idea to out goggles on him that look like Fly eyes and then I was like ok well what if that was for when he’s flying and here we are

- OK STAY WITH ME NOW. He used to do the equivalent of illegal drag racing but flying and Belphie would always bet on him and thats how they made food money for Beel sometimes until Lucifer shut the whole thing down after finding out bc its a bad look for Diavolo he also doesn’t want his baby brother getting hurt but he wont say that (Belphie thought he was a killjoy)

- To him. It feels like wherever he goes death and despair follow and has gotten stronger and stronger so that no one close to him will ever die again (“I should’ve been strong enough so that the safest place for her would be by my side” -Marius von Hagen [he makes me so emotional]) (If you’re wondering how this is related its because flies symbolize triumph over adversity as well as death and decay)

- Pact mark is right on top of your stomach (above the bellybutton) and it looks like two triskelions (three wheeled spiral) stacked over each other to create six wheels as a reference to his prior angelhood but as well as a nod to his transformation

- Activation costs you a lot of energy and it feels like you’re starving like you haven’t eaten all day even if you just ate a hearty meal (you go back to normal a bit after activation but its a little maddening while its taking place)

- He can possess your body for a limited amount of time (typically only accidentally triggers this power) during this time any damage that his body takes transfers to you and vice versa (tbh this is much more risky for him than you bc his body is extremely strong so he’ll only take minimal damage but it’s a gamble with you)

- He can also steal some of the nutrients from your body so um. I’d be careful of that (he won’t ever actually do it but now that your bodies are connected he can)

Belphegor: The Cattle

- STOP SHOWING HIS FUXKINH EYE BEHIND HIS EMO HAIR/ sorry had to get that off my chest. It coulddd be something that could make him more eerie and off putting like a demon but his whole thing is that he looks cute and sweet but is actually intelligent and dangerous so maybe just. It shows in his demon form only if anything

- He should have a bell on his tail. It would be kewt. Not something he inherently has but he wags his tail in his sleep often so the brothers put it on him so they don’t trip over him (he hates it but he’s too tired to gaf)

- He should be more fuzzy too like having his right arm have an arm warmer rather than that sleeve that doesn’t even look connected like. Also theres a mix of fuzz and thorns on his person. It’s a gamble. Proceed with caution.

- His boots should be more like hooves kinda like what I said for satan but boots and more comfy looking

- They were way too shy with his cow spots imo. I think it should almost look like he has vitiligo (but with more melanin rather than less yk)

- HE SHOULD HAVE A LITTLE EARRING THAT LOOKS LIKE THE CATTLE TAG

- Got a nose piercing (septum I think?) after learning about piercings in the human world but doesn’t use it much anymore

- Nitpicky but I think his horns should end while sticking forward rather than curling out all the way to resemble a bull thats ready to charge

- Appreciating the fact that he has four belts likely to represent the four chambers of cows’ stomachs

- Separation anxiety victim NUMBER ONE. Especially after Lilith died he’s gotten so anxious being without his loved ones and never really wants to leave their sides bc he never knows when they’ll be gone

- He is Beel’s eyes and probably has the best vision in the family tbh 25/20 vision fr

- A lil colorblind though; affects his drawings and when levi asks him to doodle with him he always uses a unique set of colors (hes grabbing at them randomly)

- Likes to just watch his brothers socialize and be with them. An observer in his own home. The only reason he gets out of bed everyday is to see the people he cares about most

- Likes silly little puzzles, games and toys like rubix cubes and bouncy balls n shi but gets annoyed if you just give it to him and expect him to play by himself like !!!!! Keep him company !!!!!!!!!

- When he was trapped in the attic Lucifer would sometimes bring him enrichment toys and fill him in on current news or just sit there in silence to keep him company while turned away from him (If he looks at him too long he might fold and let him out; he loves his brother but. He thinks this is what needs to be done)

- Pact mark is on your thigh probably snug on the inside and whenever he’s laying on your lap he looks at it and maybe traces it before drifting off

- It probably looks like a symbol of a moon or spiral inside of a sun representing the midnight sun and the neutrality of the sloth sin (a sun that never rises or sets)

- Can sap your energy and make you see hallucinations or make you want to sleep; can probably put you in hibernation as long as it doesn’t hurt you and can eat your nightmares # dreamcatcher

[idkkkkkkk123lgb]

Chris evans (Professor) x reader

A bit of the moment i knew too for the birthday

7 days till my birthday.

Day 1

Profesor Evans was one of the most attractive people you'd see he was so naturally attractive that students would end up daydreaming and fighting over the first desk so they could just see him upclose i was sitting on the front desk per his request we were both in a 3 months relationship after class was over i went up to him

"Chris... I think i left my scarf at your sister's house did you see it there?" i jumped on the desk infront of him

"Yeah it's with me don't worry but i don't think I'm giving it back" he said smirking that smirk that made me weak

"You owe me a new one" i was holding back a giggle

"How about a drive instead?" he asked

"Fine since you asked so nicely" i hop off as both of us alone make our way to his car to not be suspicious before i get in his car and he also does on the other we were driving around getting lost autumn air making our hairs fly and a few leafs going inside through the wide open window as we were singing loudly there was magic in the car i felt so inlove i got a text from my mom telling me she's not home "chris?" i looked at him "yeah darling?" he almost ran a red light when he looked at me awaiting my answer "careful... Mom said she's not home you know she's been staying with me.. Wanna go to my house?" he agreed and we went there.. It was the night i lost my virginity to him.. Me 20 him 43..i had no regrets not then atleast.

We fell asleep right after but woke up in the middle of the night as we go find something to eat i open the fridge and suddenly you grab me to dance as i giggle loudly in the refrigerator light then we sit on the stairs planning a future for after i finish college talking about our pasts

Day 2

we were meeting up with your friends as they showed me pictures of you when you were a teenager in a small bed as i laughed while you blushed when you were taking me home we got into a fight and you got out of the car throwing the car keys to me after a while he calmed down and went back inside i was going to tell him today that i loved him but bit my tongue he found me curled in the passenger seat so he held me close to him

Day 3

The next day i went into class smiling at him and as always first row i was dying to tell everyone you were mine and to stop daydreaming about you.. You would leave me cause you kept us a secret afraid of reactions

Day 5 (sorry for the skip)

He was meeting my father my dad was against it at first but they were both dying of laughter over coffee as i sat next to him smiling at how well the interaction is going

Day 6

The day before my birthday we were once again with your friends except i was sitting awkwardly not understanding much or to be more specific no one including me so i was zoning out holding Chris's hand what broke me out of it was him dropping it as i frowned a little and then kept silent the whole way home when he asked me what's wrong i lashed out

"You dropped my fucking hand chris" i exclaimed angrily

"I didn't even notice are you this immature that you have to make a big deal over something i didn't notice? Are you for real right now?" i stormed out of the car going to my house as i watched him drive off from my window

Birthday

I was standing head to toe in Chris's favorite color all of his and my friends were here i knew we were a secret but this was my birthday.. And for his birthday i had a big party with everyone he loved.. My short off shoulder red dress that puffed out in the end bringing my curves out my dad next to me thinking it must be him each time the doorbell rings but every single time it wasn't him i was waiting for him the way he always comes in when we're alone

Flashback

"baby im right heree" he said happily

"Chrissss" i jumped on him like a koala hugging him tightly "missed you"

Instead i had no one to impress or kiss everyone standing around me singing the seat that was supposed to be yours empty tears were streaming down my face as i ran off

Day 8

We're over. You couldn't care less you mailed me back everything except that one scarf.. A sign of my innocence you took and the smell of me you couldn't bring yourself to get rid of it

You remembered it all too well

[eldrith]

I have been waiting anxiously for the time to properly sit down and read this... and I'm so happy i finally did. my only regret is that it took me so long!! tori your mind is incredible and i cannot express how well written, thought out, and executed this is! i cant say how highly i recommend this... it's so so good im fucking stunned omg

Visenya had met with Daemon alone, in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths – she had counted thirty-five –

oh shes so me lmao

    Visenya had bitten into the hand of the man who had dragged her out of the water, then she had tossed him into the Rush.

like stop i love her & shess so sharp god i love to read fics that have genuinely good, accurate, thought-out action! this whole beginning section was fantastic i felt like i was rly seeing entrails spill out of a man's stomach <3

‘There’s a lack of dresses,’ informs Aemond, obdurately calm, retrieving a flagon of wine and two cups from the servant at the tent’s entrance, ‘And we had to find clothes that would suit you.’           ‘I gather that there’s some poor stable boy currently running around naked,’ quips Visenya, tugging the pelts around herself.

shes so funny tori you're killing me i literally love her - also this whole scene... ive never been an aemond girl... but you're writing him so so well and im just 👀 hes so crazyyyyy  

He’s the product of his conditions, his upbringing, and his parents’ influence… as am I. Both confined in a prison of our parents’ sins. Perhaps we inevitably inherit the burdens of our forebears.

YeEP. YEP. beautifully written!! speak on it girl 🗣 🗣 the POISON DRIPS THROUGH 

He may have died a dragonrider’s death, but he had died alone and afraid. Had his demise been slow and painful, or swift and painless?

what if i died? what if i died and then what??? #missinglukehours

Visenya traces his mouth with her fingertips, reverently, and strokes his face – recommitting it to memory. Aemond leans into her touch, reveling in the gesture, his respiration shallow. The tips of their noses graze against each other. He wipes her tears before his digits fall on the sides of her neck, feeling her quickening pulse under the pads of his fingers.

jesus the yearning is soooo well done. all of their physical interactions, so intentional and beautiful and like wow im just blown away once again. & the way they speak to each other is so incredible.

Her thumb catches his lower lip, pressing into it. Aemond holds her gaze, parting his lips enough to engulf her thumb. He swirls his tongue over it afore sucking on it gently. She watches him, captivated, her mouth slightly agape.

jesus christ do you want me to pass out ih my god

  ‘If I have sunk low, I do not wish to imagine what hell you wander in,’

yes bc what crazy ass blood supremacist kool-aid the valyrians are on.... visenya is so real for this. done with their hypocritical asses. 'throw the divine right of kings in the sewer' we all chant

Cloaked in furs, he had been an imperious presence – tall, brawny, handsome, graced with grey eyes, dark, wavy locks that cascaded to his shoulders, and a dense beard.

yuuuuuuuuuup!!! bearded cregan THANK GOD!!! im already blushing and he hasn't said anything to her yet

‘You have already spilled my blood. I will not present you with a chance to do it again. Aye, I once wanted to marry you. A summer dream of summer children. Winter is coming.’

THIS IS SO GOOD ARE YOU KIDDING. HOLY SHIT ALKJS

I kissed the snowflakes on his lashes, and they melted on my lips. Her heart flutters at the memory. My sullen wolf. She longs for him more than she can express.

I will not set my children against their brother, nor will I encourage them to steal his birthright. I am not your mother.’           And, oh, how you despise that…

CLOCKED HIM!!! CLOCKED HIM also jesus i hate him so much he immediately says she'll die in childbirth after this part.... ik we discussed this before but god he's a rat. you write him so incredibly well i have to love him

He is beneath these creatures. He has no conscience, and his cruelty is boundless.

^^ us earlier talking abt musk lmao

The habit had blossomed into clumsy intimacy. She had seldom stayed the night – a decision that hadn’t troubled Alyn. He never judged me. Visenya misses him; his jests, his smile, his company.

ALYN YOU WILL ALWAYS BE FAMOUS!!! LOVE

Cregan had even taken her in the godswood, under a starry sky, before the heart tree, following their sword sparring. Afterwards, he had suggested that they retire to his solar.

okay #needthat ... also everything with cregan... the dynamic is so genuine and i just love the way you cultivated their trust and devotion and strategic respect its... like its so refreshing and so lovely

‘Your hair is akin to the snow around us, your eyes the color of the sunset sky. Why would nature make you so lovely, if not to behold you and to reflect on you? The sun must see you to shine, the moon to glow.’

im sick this is such a good few lines. god i love this so much its so poetic hes a POET... YOURE a poet

‘Because King Torrhen Stark bent the knee after the Field of Fire, to avoid bloodshed,’ objects Visenya, scowling, ‘Do not attempt to revise history. Ours will not redeem you. The kinslayer is accursed in the eyes of gods and men.

once again she GETS it! she's the only one here (in the tent with two people) with a level head istg and shes so done with this mindset

^ had to add this bc it makes me think of you #tomandgreg #love #thedisgustingbrothers

anyways there was not a single part of this i did not absolutely adore. geopolitics. incredibly written, genuine dialogue. delicious smut. incredibly developed and designed OC as well as other characters - i love visenya <3 im in awe of your skill bb! like jaw dropped, i cant believe your brain. i patiently and excitedly await the next part & in the meantime can't wait to gush with u all about this! ur so incredible and this is ART! cannot express enough how great this is.

Flames of Deceit

Summary: Aemond and Visenya reunite amidst the Dance of the Dragons.

Words: 13,005

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x OC, Cregan Stark x OC

Warnings:canon-typical incest (Aemond and Visenya are cousins, as well as uncle and niece), book and show spoilers, Westerosi geopolitics, mentions of imperialism and slavery, canon-typical violence, war, blood and gore, fire and burning, mass death, mention of amputation, mentions of torture and captivity, mentions and threats of execution and physical harm, mentions of poverty and starvation, parental neglect, food and eating, alcohol and drinking, sexism, victim blaming, slut-shaming, ableist language, explicit language, nudity, smut (vaginal sex in flashbacks), unresolved sexual tension, grief/mourning, trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, survivor guilt, mutual pining, emotional/psychological abuse, verbal abuse, mentions of pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, and death in childbirth, mentions of child/infant death, mentions of infidelity. If I missed any warnings, please let me know!Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: This totally didn’t take me almost 7 months to write. Cregan Stark is the protagonist of Fire & Blood. Rise, Cregan nation. My OC Visenya is Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s daughter, and Jace’s older twin. Superfecundation, baby. Visenya and Jace are born in 111 AC, not 114 AC. The Battle in the Gullet still occurs in 130 AC, soon after the events of this one-shot. Reblogs and comments are encouraged and immensely appreciated. If this does well, I’ll post a reader version.

Credits: Huge thank you to my betas @maharani-radha-writes 💛 @aereth 💖 and @shewhomustbecalledking 🩶, and to @haystack-boy @lavendertales @buttercup–bee @agirllovespancakes and @oloreaa for their constant patience and support. It means a lot, and I’m immensely grateful. Apart from my OC Visenya, all characters belong to George R.R. Martin. Gif by @aemondtargaryensource (x)

Ao3 | Masterlist | Next

EARLY 130 AC

HARRENHAL, THE RIVERLANDS

          The sheer immensity of Harrenhal had provoked dizziness in Visenya. She had heard the story innumerable times. For four decades, King Harren Hoare had built greedily and obsessively, sacrificing thousands of slaves, and beggaring the riverlands and the Iron Islands. The indestructible construction had been no match for Balerion, whose fire had consumed the tyrant and his sons inside it, ending their line. Most Westerosi believed that the phantoms of the Hoares wandered the castle halls. The fortress is costly to maintain, and it devours its possessors. Qoherys, Harroway, Towers… All extinct. Whether cursed or not, Harrenhal remained a strategic location – the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms.

          The current castellan – Larys Clubfoot’s great-uncle – Ser Simon Strong had recently surrendered Harrenhal to Daemon Targaryen. The presence of Caraxes might have contributed to his hasty decision. Following the victory at the Burning Mill and the subsequent submission of Stone Hedge – terminating Green strength in the riverlands – Queen Rhaenyra’s allies had commenced their gathering at Harrenhal, in accordance with the Prince Consort’s stratagem.

          Visenya had departed Dragonstone on the same night that Daemon had summoned her, having been granted safe passage by the Velaryon ships patrolling the Gullet. At the outbreak of the war, the Sea Snake’s fleet had closed off Blackwater Bay, choking trade to and from the capital.

          As soon as she had dismounted her dragon in the castle yard, she had sensed the eerie ambience that had haunted Harrenhal’s colossal curtain walls and fissured, melted towers. Formidable and dreadful. Harren’s monument and tomb. Blackwing had responded to Caraxes’ fervent shriek with her own, flapping her wings at him. Happy to be reunited.

          Her father had offered her a warm welcome and a tight embrace, had even insisted that she sit on his war council, wherein she had befriended Alysanne Blackwood, whom she had grown quite fond of.

          At last, Visenya had thought, on the morning that Daemon had sent for her. Though she loved him dearly, her father hadn’t invited her there because he had missed his daughter. Visenya had met with Daemon alone, in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths – she had counted thirty-five – grander than the throne room in King’s Landing, the discolored ceiling looming loftily above them. Her father had donned his chain mail over his crimson tunic.

          Does he sleep in that? Or am I the threat?

          ‘Ser Crispin and the Kinslayer are marching on Harrenhal,’ Daemon had informed her, instead of “good morrow”, pressing a rolled parchment into her palm, ‘They mean to join forces with the Lannisters’, at Stoney Sept.’

          Her heart had jolted at the mere mention of his title. Aemond… At the Usurper’s farce of a coronation that the Hightowers had compelled her to attend – dressed in green – Visenya had kissed him farewell, forsaking any glimmer of hope for a future with him. I have demonstrated where my loyalties lie. I have chosen my family.

          Her lilac eyes had skimmed over the scrawled message on the sheepskin, the wax sigil foreign to her. The White Worm?

          ‘You are strangely poised,’ Visenya had observed, suspicious, studying her father’s amused expression.

          ‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ he had confirmed, smirking wickedly, curling his hand around the hilt of sheathed Dark Sister. Another one of his traps… and he’s pulling me into it. Daemon had gently cradled her cheek, purring, ‘I have a mission for you, sweetling.’

Afficher davantage

[esmarelda]

I’m literally shaking you guys

And I have been for almost idk like however long it takes to get from Yuba City back home to Roseville cuz not only did I break up with a man I don’t want to not be with, I refrained from acting like a crazy psycho bitch when he 100% deserved it for the first time in my life and this shit is so uncomfortable, scary and hard to digest altogether but I am so proud of myself right now that I’m crying happy tears even though my heart has never hurt more than it does right now in this moment. Recently I made the commitment to be more mature and peaceful and loving by any means necessary cuz I was tired of feeling so much regret about the way I handle emotionally overwhelming situations in my life especially when it comes to romantic relations. I literally have dv charges from like years and years ago for standing up for myself and getting buck with a man who hit me first and cheated and generally mistreated me first for months leading up to the point of law enforcement having to intervene and protect both of us from each other. I will beat the fuck out of a man that puts hands on me and I’ll humiliate a motherfucker who tries to do me like that and completely lose my shit regardless of the circumstances and at any cost when a man has wronged me in some way and I think that is really brave and beautiful and cool of me but I don’t want to hurt people I love anymore even when they’re wrong especially when they cannot grasp that they’re wrong like it’s unfair of me to put a loved one regardless of relation to me in a compromising or dangerous situation for any reason at all whatsoever. When I’ve lashed out in defense in the past it was because I thought I was defending and protecting myself but I wasn’t, I was protecting my ego and babying my fears and pain instead of being like no you know what you hurt me and you’re wrong but I love you and because of that I’d rather walk away so as to not cause harm to others or myself. I’ve known every time I deserved better but I love people so deeply and I am so lonely and afraid all of the time that I learned to fight and forgive to cope instead of facing heartbreak or separation by choice. I finally feel like a woman and not a child. Cuz even though I am never embarrassed or regretful for acting out when I’ve been hurt, it is very obvious to me that I am not who I am at my baseline when I experience intolerable or overwhelming emotions, I regress so bad and am so smart, communicative, strong and a fucking soldier at heart that I never let someone see that when I am fighting it’s cuz I am scared and I feel helpless and defeated not because I feel strong or brave or because I feel justice occurs when I fight back. Today I learned that justice is not as important to me as loving someone the way they deserve especially in the moments I determine that they’re deserving of hatred or apathy (I am always right about what others deserve but being right comes naturally to me so why press the issue when a motherfucker wants to make me think or feel wrong for my reactions to their behavior??? It just wastes time and energy) so yeah I’ll continue to choose maturity and love over being tough and purposefully causing harm when just cuz I’m hurt. It truly is punk bitch shit to punish others in an attempt to make them feel the way they made us feel like I am a loving, loyal, worthy asset to anyone’s life and I know that for a fact like why make someone feel small for fucking up and fumbling me. They are simply slow as fuck which as a retarded person I can understand how badly that can fuck shit up causing irreversible damage.

I hope some angry heart broken, violent gangster ass bitch reads this and finally understands the importance of walking away and seeing strength in being soft when all we know is how to be tough cuz life has forced us to be that way our whole lives. It’s ok to tap out and it’s ok to cry and have a broken heart gracefully. We deserve to grieve the lives we imagine with people who aren’t equipped to deliver that and we deserve to do that with dignity and grace but most importantly in peace with privacy so walk away babe, let them go even when it feels better to neglect and abuse our own selves by staying with them.

[lonelyalien369]

i feel like my mom is always mad at me (not always but anxiety is the exaggerator) and that's why i keep having dreams where we're fighting and i get very mad and im still mad at her when i wake up for some reason as if what she did in the dream was actually her fault. but idk. i never feel comfortable talking about my struggles with her and im not sure why. is it that im afraid of people in general thinking im begging for attention or something or am i afraid of her response specifically? my memory is so shit so i cant bring myself to a specific example but theres just this feeling in my head that if i get personal with her shes going to ridicule me for some reason. like maybe, i guess, i don't complain about work anymore because then she one ups me about how she works TWO jobs and i have sooo many days off and blah blah blah like okay man but youre physically abled and shit and im not. just because i dont have some horrible debilitating illness diagnosed doesn't mean im not fucking struggling through everyday. you dont know half the shit i go through every day because i stopped telling you a long ass time ago. i stopped when i was a teenager because no one ever believed me. why would i have reason to think anyone would now? i just get slapped with a "fibromyalgia" diagnosis and told to go home. hey, what about my balance problems? my lack off appetite and subsequent weight loss? my constant migraines? my daily pain? whatever man. she doesn't know any of it. i don't tell her. why would i ever think she would believe it? i dont know if im justified in thinking that, but im terrified of finding out, so i never do. i keep it all to myself like i always have. yep. it always works. im doing great. justt peachy. god, i feel like she barely knows me. does that make me terrible? i don't even want to talk to her anymore. i just want to silently slink off to my room for the night. i never know how to bring any of this shit up. my dad may have been explosive when it came to criticizing him, but my mom wasn't far fucking behind. and she likes to pretend they're so different. i guess i get it, i have rejection sensitive dysphoria, so even polite corrections feel like shots to the face, but i dont react by vehemently lashing out and stubbornly defending myself. i just shut up, shut down and leave to cry. but they get angry. and theyll insist they're right. and you can never ever change their mind about nearly anything. we don't talk about cops anymore. i try to stop my siblings from saying stuff like acab because i know shes going to get pissy and defensive about it. when they dont live with her they forget how sensitive she is. i used to be annoyed when theyd feel bad for me for still living with her. but fuck, i get it now. trying to build a long term relationship with her kind of just... hits this wall. you cant get vulnerable with her. it feels too uncomfortable. you feel like you're going to be judged, because you HAVE been. its not an unreasonable assumption. and its BROKEN us. where else am i going to go? i dont have a relationship, no friends to go to, and she's dependent on me too.

.... we're going to have to break the uncomfortable silence eventually. its only hard to talk if you don't try. if this keeps brewing, we're only going to drift apart. and then we'll just have a bunch of regrets...... i wonder if she thinks these things too. i wonder if she wants to be vulnerable, but doesn't want to put the burden on me. you cant exactly read other peoples minds. ..... i cant start tonight. but i.. i often find that i misread her emotional state. i tend to think shes upset with me when shes quiet . but most of the time shes just doing something and its fine. i always assume. fuck. i wish i just had a normal relationship with my parents. does anyone have that? that would be fucking nice.

[zeciex]

This comment has me so giddy and I've been reading it over and over all day! My comment might not be as long, but I'll still be putting it under the cut:

If you materialized in the scene, just appearing at Storm's End with a sign like that, I'm pretty sure Borros Baratheon would be the first one to stand up and point at you and bellow WITCHHHH!!! Aemond would be pretty shocked and jarred, but he would likely cut you down once you start yelling 'YoU DUMB BITCH! Dont you kill that boy! He is apologizing! And he means it! You need therapy' Luke would be gone by then and your death saved him! You go back to your own world and the war is postponed for a while.

This is you and floris:

The apology was genuine and if it wasn't for Aemond's resentment twisting his perception of what was being said, he might have realized how genuine it was. But it didn't really matter that he apologized because the wound has already festered, he as been rotted by it, and no amount of apology would purify that. But I wanted to make it clear just how affected he was by what happened that night at driftmark--how it became a thing that defines his existence. His trauma and that festering wound it has left on him has poisoned him though and he could not hear Luke in good faith. It really blinded him, and so, he chased after him with only one thought in his head; make him as afraid as he had been. It wasn't thought through and if he allows himself to, he does regret it--which we'll see slowly grow within him throughout the next many chapters; but he does as his mother does--he clings to his justification, he clings to the thought of him being a monster and lashing out because that is so much better and easier than admitting that it was a mistake, that he regrets killing him.... but it is there if you read between the lines. He just get stuck in this facade of his and accepting that he's a monster now.

PLEASE IM BEGGING YOU, TELL ME SHE WILL ONCE AGAIN LOOK AT HIM AND SEE THE BOY WITH THE STARS IN HIS EYES!! And see his as he truly is, not just a kinslayer. Yes, she will see the boy beneath the mask again. Yes she will see the boy with the stars in his eyes. She will take his bloody hand in her own.

There won't be so much a moment of forgiveness for what he did, but rather an acceptance, an understanding.

A Vow of Blood - 79

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 79: Vengeance Hungers

AO3 - Masterlist

The sky was a brooding tapestry of heavy clouds as Aemond descended upon Storm’s End on the massive back of Vhagar. The dragon landed precariously close to the cliff’s edge just as the storm above Shipbreaker Bay began its ominous approach, blotting out the setting sun as it should make its descended below the horizon. The vast courtyard within the walls was too constrained for the dragon, compelling them to choose this exposed perch. 

The evening air was brisk and unforgiving, slicing through Aemond as he dismounted from Vhagar. He peeled off his riding gloves–sturdy black leather that had offered some warmth during their flight from King’s Landing–and tucked them into his belt. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he moved through the rocky cliffs that loomed ominously beside Storm’s End, their jagged surfaces sharp against the backdrop of the turbulent sea. The incessant roar of waves crashing against the cliffs mingled with the howling wind, a prelude to the impending storm that carried the sharp, salty scent of rain on its breath. 

Aemond made his way towards the gate set within the massive curtain wall, guided by the glow of torches held by guards. Their flickering light served as a beacon for the men assembled to receive him. Together, they ushered him through the shadowed tunnel within the inner wall and into the base of the drum tower, his boots echoing on the ancient stone with each determined step. 

His presence was immediately imposing as he entered the drum tower, flanked by stern-faced guards. They paced through the shadowed corridors, their footsteps echoing until they reached the central chamber. This grand hall, round and stark, was lit by the flickering glow of braziers and torches that threw dancing shadows on the stone walls. 

There, Lord Borros Baratheon awaited, seated upon the austere stone char that served as the throne of House Baratheon. It was unadorned as Daenera had told him–hard, cold, with sharp edges and devoid of any attempt at comfort. Lord Borros himself seemed an extension of the chair, his demeanor as hard and unyielding as the seat he occupied. 

As Aemond approached, Lord Borros Baratheon adjusted his position on the stone chair, a deep scowl furrowing his brow. His greeting was terse, imbued with a subtle undercurrent of impatience. 

“Prince Aemond,” he began, his voice clipped. “I hear condolences are in order…”

Aemond met Lord Borros’s gaze squarely, his expression unmarred by sorrow. Instead, a sharp, unforgiving smirk played at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Lord Borros.”

Borros narrowed his eyes, which mirrored the stormy blue of the tumultuous sea churning outside the castle walls. He leaned forwards slightly, cutting into the conversation with a pointed tone. 

“But…” he interjected, his gaze piercing, “Such news is usually not delivered by a prince…” His words hung in the air. “What brings you here, Princeling?” 

“As you’ve been made aware,” Aemond began, clasping his hands behind his back to adopt a posture of formal authority. “My father, the King, has passed, and his firstborn son has ascended to the throne. My brother, Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, has been crowned in the sight of gods and men…”

At this revelation, a ripple of murmurs spread through the gathered nobility flanking Lord Borros, their expressions a blend of surprise and suspicion. His gaze intensified, a spark of keen interest igniting within–more intelligent than any spark with his brother’s eyes, Aemond thought. 

“A King,” Borros mused aloud, the word echoing slightly in the cavernous hall. “Yet there seems to be some confusion within the house of the dragon. I was under the impression our next sovereign would be a Queen.” He leaned forwards slightly, his tone both inquisitive and challenging. “Forgive my bluntness, young prince, but did not your father choose your elder half-sister as his heir? I recall that my father was compelled to swear fealty to Princess Rhaenyra…”

“Indeed, oaths were sworn during a time when the realm’s stability hung in the balance,” Aemond replied coolly, his smirk growing more pronounced, a thrill of challenge quickening his pulse. His fingers drummed restlessly behind his back, the only manifestation of turmoil breaking through his composure. “However, the King rectified his earlier decision prior to his demise, decreeing that his firstborn son should inherit the crown.”

Lord Borros made a thoughtful noise and leaned back, his large hand brushing through his thick, black beard contemplatively. “It appears to me that there’s a succession crisis within House Targaryen. On one hand, a King; on the other, a Queen.”

“There is no crisis,” Aemond countered firmly. “Aegon is the King–”

“If there truly were no crisis, you would not find yourself here, young prince,” Lord Borros interrupted sharply, his voice booming slightly in the cavernous hall as his hand trumped against the smooth stone of his chair’s arm. “You arrive as an envoy of your brother, and while I accept your presence here graciously, understand that I am reluctant to entangle myself in the internal strife of House Targaryen. House Baratheon does not break oaths once made.”

“It was your father’s oath, not yours,” Aemond answered. “It was an oath sworn out of necessity, for a King without a son… House Baratheon may understand this decision, and understand that once the King had his son, the succession changed.”

Lord Borros tilted his head slightly, his stormy blue eyes narrowing.

Aemond continued, his voice steady and persuasive. “It was your father’s oath, not yours. An oath made out of necessity, for a King who at the time had no son. Surely House Baratheon can appreciate that once the King sired a son, the line of succession naturally altered.”

Lord Borros furrowed his brow, his deep voice resolute as he countered, “My father swore an oath to the Princess, an oath that I cannot simply cast aside without appropriate compensation.”

Aemond listened, his expression controlled yet his eye betrayed the calculation behind it. Drawing in a measured breath, he felt a surge of satisfaction ripple through him as the Lord of Storm’s End revealed his ambition. “Of course, my lord. The King would not send me here with empty hands.”

Reaching into his coat, Aemond produced a small piece of parchment and handed it to a nearby guard for delivery. Lord Borros snatched the letter briskly, his eyes staring pointedly at the rolled document as though it would read itself aloud to him before shifting his gaze back to Aemond with renewed scrutiny. 

“Which of my daughters will you marry then?” Borros inquired as he waved the letter towards his daughters, who stood in a silent, expectant line to the left of his throne. 

Aemond’s gaze swept over the young women, each poised and dignified, yet he barely allowed his eye to linger, feeling a twist of discomfort at the suggestion. Returning his focus to Borros, he chose his words with care. “As honored as I would be, Lord Borros, I must decline. I am already betrothed.”

In Lord Borros’s stormy blue eyes, a tempest seemed to swirl, his dark eyebrows drawing together into a scowl of deep displeasure. Aemond carried the pointed look with a spine straight as the sword at his hip, refusing to cower beneath the lord's scornful glare. 

“Ah, yes, my brother’s widow…” He began, his voice dripping with a mix of resentment and suspicion. “Tell me, One-eye,”–Aemond’s expression tightened subtly at the nickname, his jaw clenching though he maintained his composure–“how long after my brother’s untimely demise did you decide to claim her for yourself? It has not been more than four months since his passing!” His voice boomed across the hall, each word sharp and heavy with accusation. “She could very well be carrying his child!”

The allegation hung in the air, echoing off the stone walls, challenging Aemond not just politically, but personally, testing his diplomatic acumen under the weight of moral scrutiny. 

Aemond felt a surge of agitation twist in his stomach at the thought of Daenera bearing Boris Baratheon’s child–and he had to anchor himself before responding to the Lord of Storm’s End, the very man he had been sent to broker an alliance with. His hands balled into fists behind his back, and he gritted his teeth, striving to maintain his composure even as anger flared within him. 

“Lord Borros,” Aemond began, his voice steady despite the tempest brewing within him, “I understand your concerns, truly. The decision to honor the betrothal was made with the deepest respect for your brother’s memory and for the delicate position of his widow–”

“Do not attempt to placate me with empty words,” Borros interrupted sharply, his cheeks flushing a vivid red with his rising temper. “I am well aware of the political machinations at play, but that does not mitigate the affront of how hastily this union was formed. My brother has scarcely been laid to rest, and yet you are poised to marry his widow! Would it not be more fitting to choose a bride who is yet untouched? One whose child you could be certain would be yours?”

As Borros Baratheon hurled his veiled insults and threw his daughters at him, Aemond’s thoughts darkened–his disdain for the man Daenera had been forced to marry simmering just beneath the surface. He imagined the man suffering the torments of the seven hells for the wounds he had inflicted on Daenera–scars she still carried. Aemond’s eye flared with suppressed fury, his fingers twitching with the urge to draw his sword and exact retribution upon the man before him–he envisioned himself presenting Borros’s severed head to Daenera as a grim trophy. She would love it, solely because it would cost them Storm’s End. 

Such thoughts were quickly stifled; the necessity of the alliance holding him back. 

And Borros, keenly aware of this leverage, pressed his advantage. 

“I haven’t come to discuss my betrothal to the princess,” Aemond stated firmly, a clear intention to redirect their discourse. “I am here to propose a different betrothal. Prince Daeron Targaryen, my younger brother, is prepared to offer his hand in marriage to one of your daughters.”

“Prince Daeron?” Borros raised an eyebrow, his skepticism thinly veiled. 

“Indeed,” Aemond replied smoothly, his tone infused with a hint of pride. “The Prince is not only a dragonrider but is also currently studying at the Citadel, while being squire for Lord Ormund Hightower. He is growing into a handsome and intelligent young man.”

“How old is he?” Borros inquired, his interest piqued. 

“Five and ten.” 

“And he’s a dragonrider?” The lord pressed, needed to confirm this fact once more.

“He is,” Aemond confirmed, observing with satisfaction as Borros’s interest transformed into a sharp gleam of intrigue and ambition. The prospect of aligning with a dragonrider–and the potential for future dragons being bound to House Baratheon through the union between Prince Daeron and one of his daughters–promised not just an infusion of royal blood but also a formidable increase in House Baratheon’s influence over the throne. Aemond knew these were advantages a prideful man like Borros Baratheon could hardly ignore. 

“Very well,” Lord Borros finally conceded, his gaze drifting towards his daughters. “Which of my daughters will it be?”

Aemond advanced, his hands clasped behind his back, his solitary eye moving methodically to the first daughter in line. Each step resonated in the hushed chamber, his gaze sharp and assessing as it lingered on each young woman. 

“My oldest, Cassandra,” Lord Borros introduced, his voice carrying a note of pride. “She was the first to flower, and is sure to be able to be with child soon after the marriage.”

Cassandra stepped forward gracefully, her curtsy slow and respectful. As she straightened, her eyes, deep and dark as a stormy sea, met Aemond’s. Her features were set in a stern expression, mirroring the unyielding stone of the castle itself. Her build was robust, with broad shoulders and hips, her presence as stern as her demeanor. To Aemond, she seemed too stern, too immovable, a reflection of her father. And she was much older than Daeron. 

His scrutiny shifted to the next daughter as Borros continued, “Maris. The cleverest of my four girls.”

Aemond’s interest was piqued slightly as he turned his attention to Maris, intrigued by the promise of intellect that her father’s words suggested, wondering if her demeanor might offer a more pliable counterpart to her sister’s stoic fortitude. 

Maris, the second daughter, offered Aemond a clever smile as she bowed, much like her sister had done. Her eyes, a deep, murky shade reminiscent of the sky just before a storm, contrasted sharply with her dark, ink-black hair, which was pulled tightly back, accentuating her angular features. Unlike her robust sister, Maris was slimmer, with narrow hips. Her small lips and absence of pronounced cheekbones lent her a somewhat gaunt, melancholic appearance. Yet, there was an unmistakable spark of intelligence as her gaze swept over Aemond, briefly pausing on his scar. A slight curl of her lip betrayed her disgust, and Aemond felt the sting of it. He gritted his teeth, and swallowed his spiteful words. 

Lord Borros then directed attention to another daughter, “My Floris. The most comely of them all.”

His words seemed to wash over his older daughters, who appeared unfazed by the repeated compliment, indicating it was a familiar refrain. 

Floris stepped forward, her bright smile lighting up her features, her eyes reflecting the same stormy hue as her father and eldest sister’s. She executed a flawless curtsy, her presence radiating grace. Her dark hair was styled into an intricate arrangement, and her figure was willowy, dressed in a fine gown adorned with gold threads and small stones that accentuated her chest. To Aemond, she appeared overly delicate, perhaps even frivolous–sweet and appealing, yet lacking the formidable qualities of her siblings. 

Finally, Borros introduced his youngest. “And Ellyn Baratheon, my youngest, quite adept with a bow, though she has yet to flower.”

Ellyn, the youngest of Lord Borros’s daughters, moved forward, mirroring her sisters with a respectful, though clumsy, curtsy. She was already tall, her frame stretched and lanky, hinting at further growth, her hips promising a difficulty in childbirth. Her hair was dark as coal, and her eyes, a deep blue so intense they nearly appeared black, were set a touch too wide on her face. 

As Aemond watched her, a poignant thought struck him: in another life, he might be choosing a bride for himself rather than acting on his brother’s behalf. This realization twisted something deep within him. Each girl, though of good stock, painfully reminded him that they lacked the specific qualities he had found so bewitching in another–the cornflower blue eyes tinged with violet, capable of reflection both the tempest of the seas and the serenity of a clear sky, the slight pout of her lips, both sweet and deceptively alluring. None possessed the gentle yet commanding curves that haunted his memories–the breasts that fit perfectly within the palm of his hand, soft and pliable, the hips that were made to be gripped, the soft curve of her stomach, or the supple flesh of her ass and thighs. They did not have the touch that could mend as much as it could ruin– and for that, he felt an unexpected relief.

 They were not her.

 And he did not want any of them.

Aemond’s fingers absentmindedly played with the golden ring that encircled his finger, the motion hidden behind his back. His thumb grazed the band, latching on the subtle lever hidden within its design. For a fleeting moment, he felt the needle mechanism flick up under his touch, a small but lethal secret embedded in the ornate jewelry. With a subtle movement, he pressed it back down, securing the mechanism closed once more, all the while maintaining an outward composure that belied the calculating thoughts whirling through his mind. 

“You have fine daughters,” he acknowledged respectfully, addressing Lord Borros with practiced diplomacy. “I believe your second youngest, Floris, would be particularly well-suited for my brother. They are of a similar age and her demeanor suggests a kindness that Prince Daeron would find most agreeable.”

“Well chosen,” Borros responded, his features softening as he smiled at Floris. The girl’s cheeks coloured with a deep blush, while a flicker of envy passed briefly over her sisters’ faces.

Lord Borros then leaned forward, eager to move on to the practicalities of the alliance. “Now, shall we discuss the dowry?”

“The hour grows late, my lord,” Lady Elenda interjected softly, her hand resting gently on her husband’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. “The prince has had a long day, and I am sure he’s in need of rest. Might we continue this in the morning?”

Aemond would have preferred to conclude the discussions and return to King’s Landing, but he couldn’t deny that the prospect of a meal, a hot bath, and a comfortable bed was appealing. His body ached from the long flight, and he realized he hadn’t eaten much since the morning. Weighing his fatigue against his desire to proceed, he reluctantly agreed–after all, he had to be sharp for the discussion of dowries. 

Clean and well-fed, Aemond found himself in bed, absentmindedly rubbing the persistent ache gnawing at the inside of his skull. As he settled into the unfamiliar yet plush surroundings, he couldn’t help but wonder if these were the same chambers Daenera had occupied during her visit to Storm’s End after her husband’s death. The thought prickled at his fingertips, stirring a familiar longing within him to wrap his arms around her and find solace in her presence–a need that had haunted him ever since that woeful night. He had confessed then, realizing it was neither mere attraction nor simple affection, nor was it lust, but something far more profound and devastating. His father had taken that confession to his grave.   

Despite the comfort of the bed and the quiet of the night, Aemond’s sleep was restless, his mind swirling with memories and unspoken words.

After breaking his fast, Aemond returned to the Round Hall with Floris at his side, who peppered him with questions about Daeron as her sisters looked on, their glares tinged with envy. They had just begun discussing dowries and arrangements when the sudden echo of a guard’s voice broke through the room, abruptly halting the negotiations. “A dragon has just landed in the courtyard…”

Aemond turned sharply towards the guard, his hands clasped behind his back as he moved to the edge of the room. His heart quickened with a blend of curiosity and annoyance at the interruption. It seemed his half-sister had decided to make her own move, dispatching one of her sons in an attempt to sway the Lord of Storm’s End. Aemond mused over the naivety of their belief that Lord Borros would maintain his allegiance to their faction, especially when the alliance that had bound them had been severed by death. He half-expected to see Jace stride through the door, but to his surprise, it was Lucerys who entered, flanked by guards. 

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” declared one of the guards, his voice booming through the grand hall, heralding the boy’s approach. “Son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.” 

Aemond turned towards Lucerys with a slow, deliberate motion that carried the weight and precision of drawing a sword from its sheath. As his gaze finally settled on the boy, a sharp, malicious smirk twisted Aemond’s lips. Lucerys, in response, seemed to momentarily falter under the intensity of Aemond’s stare. His eyes widened, his complexion paled, and a look of palpable fear etched itself across his boyish features. It was as if Aemond could visibly see the boy’s heart drop to the pit of his stomach–a sight that stirred a dark, twisted sort of satisfaction within him.

That cruel part of Aemond reveled in the dread that unfolded across Lucerys’s face–seemed to hunger for it. It was as though this beast that resided within him was bearing its teeth, craving more, thriving on the fear it elicited. It was something sinister and remorseless that stirred, enjoying the unease he instilled in his young rival. 

Good, Aemond thought, I want him afraid.

As lightning crackled outside, its sound snapped sharply against the walls of the drum tower, its energy seeming etching itself into the very stone. The storm that had been brewing finally unleashed its full fury upon Storm’s End, with the wind howling menacingly around the structure’s round walls.

Underneath Aemond’s relentless, steely gaze, the brown-haired boy shifted uneasily, his movements betraying a nervous attempt to muster his courage. His eyes darted from Aemond to Lord Borros Baratheon, flickering nervously before finally resting on the Lord of Storm’s End seated upon the stony throne. Gathering what composure he could, he managed to put on a brave face, though it appeared rather feeble against the crack of thunder. 

“Lord Borros…” he began, his voice barely rising above a murmur when a sudden clap of thunder interrupted him, thrashing through the room like a whip. Regaining his shaken resolve, he continued, “I have brought you a message from my mother… the Queen.”

The certainty with which he referred to his mother as ‘the Queen’ almost coaxed a chuckle from Aemond. He felt the rumble of amusement within his chest but managed to restrain it, opting instead to observe silently, intrigued. 

“Yet, earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King,” Lord Borros interjected dryly, his tone as unyielding as the stone he sat upon–and cut with a certain edge of mockery. “Which is it to be? King or Queen?”

If Lucerys had been the first to arrive, perhaps he might have stood a better chance. But he hadn’t, and Aemond couldn’t help but relish in this advantage, his smugness evident as he allowed his amusement to play across his features while he fixed his gaze on the boy. His stare was cold and unyielding, aking to the chilling touch of a blade poised menacingly at the throat, intended to unnerve and unsettle. 

“The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it,” Lord Borros jeered at the unfolding drama with a scoff, his laughter echoing through the chamber, devoid of any real humor, as it rolled over the tense atmosphere. “What is your mother’s message?”

Despite the intensity of Aemond’s glare, Lucerys held his ground, seeming to find some courage. With a defiant look still aimed at the Lord of Storm’s End, he extended a rolled piece of parchment towards one of the guards. The guard approached, the sound of his footsteps resonating through the sudden silence, only to be swallowed up by another menacing crack of thunder. He took the message and walked across the room, finally placing it into his lord’s expectant hands. 

Aemond’s focus was unrelenting, almost entirely fixed on Lucerys. Despite the ongoing interactions around them, his eye remained sharply trained on the boy. A newfound streak of resolve seemed to fortify Lucerys’ composure, embolden him to meet Aemond’s piercing stare. The boy’s eyes, defiant and steady, refused to cower under the intense scrutiny, and it only served to deepen Aemond’s desire to see him squirm. 

Lord Borros Baratheon’s patience had seemingly worn thin amidst the charged atmosphere. His voice broke through the tension, rough and tinged with irritation as he grumbled, “Where’s the bloody Maester?”

The silence in the Round Hall stretched taut, its intensity rivaling the sporadic thunderclaps from the storm outside and the wind’s relentless whirring around the sleek stones of the keep. The charged atmosphere inside mirrored the tumultuous weather, fostering a palpable unease that seemed to seep into every corner of the room–if there had been any corners. 

Aemond, ever observant, noted the subtle shift in Lucerys’ stance–a slight unease that betrayed him. This small gesture did not escape Aemond’s notice and only served to deepen his amusement. The thought flickered through his mind–did Lucerys actually believe he could best him?

The echoing footsteps of the approaching maester sliced through the heavy air, his chains jingling softly, announcing his arrival. Aemond kept his gaze fixed on Lucerys, choosing not to turn towards the maester or Lord Borros but remaining acutely aware of every movement. Even without seeing, he could feel the tension in the room rise as the master delivered the message to Borros. 

Finally breaking his steady gaze, Lucerys looked towards Lord Borros, just as the lord spoke out, his voice heavy with indignation, booming through the room. 

“‘Remind’ me of my father’s oath,” Lord Borros repeated the words from the letter, his tone darkening with fury. “King Aegon at least came with an offer: My swords and banners for a marriage pact!”

Aemond’s smirk sharpened, his amusement and confidence rising as the tension in the room did the same. 

Lucerys, maintaining his composure, held his head high, seemingly undeterred by the force of Lord Borros’s words. His eyes stayed locked on the lord, defiantly ignoring Aemond as he began to speak. “My mother, the Queen, hopes that our houses’ marriage alliance remains intact. My sister–”

“‘Hope’?! ‘Hope’?!” Lord Borros erupted, cutting the young prince off mid-sentence. His voice boomed through the hall, laden with frustration and disbelief. “The alliance between our houses died along with my brother, and unless your sister is with child, I see no reason that the alliance should continue. I cannot stake the future of my house on mere ‘hope.’”

As Borros’s fury washed over him, Lucerys visibly tensed, his discomfort apparent. Aemond, ever watchful, noted the slight tightening of Lucerys’s grip on his sword hilt, his eyes briefly widening in response. He imagined that this wasn’t the welcome the boy had thought he’d receive. 

“Your sister, commendable as she might have been, pledged to remain a widow to sustain this tedious alliance,” Borros continued, his voice tinged with scorn. “However, I’ve come to understand that she has reneged on her word by accepting a betrothal to Prince Aemond here.”

Aemond felt the piercing gaze of Lord Borros on him, implicating him directly in unraveling the prior commitments between House Baratheon and Rhaenyra. The irony wasn’t lost on Aemond; Lord Borros was closer to the truth than he realized–closer than he would ever know. 

As Lucerys’s gaze shifted to him, Aemond tilted his head slightly, a smug smirk playing at the corners of his mouth–a challenge, daring him to voice his thoughts. He reveled in the clear signs of worry, unease, and fury that danced in the bastard’s eyes–a tumult of emotions that Aemond found almost palpable. Lucerys gnawed slightly at his lip and swallowed thickly, seemingly struggling to maintain his composure before reluctantly pulling his eyes away from Aemond. 

“My sister is held as a hostage in King’s Landing. Any decision to marry would not be her own,” Lucerys countered, his voice carrying a steely determination tinged with an unmistakable quiver of worry. 

“I assure you, Lord Strong,” Aemond interjected smoothly, his voice sharp as a blade, his one eye gleaming with sardonic amusement. The thrill of the exchange quickened his pulse, a flutter of amusement paired with a twist of glee in his stomach. “The decision was entirely voluntary. Perhaps if your mother cedes her ambition for the throne, you’ll be able to attend the wedding and see for yourself how willing your sister truly is.”

Aemond’s words hung in the air, a challenge laden with irony and provocation, skillfully weaving a narrative of consent and volition that masked the complexities and pressure of royal alliances and captivities. 

He held the secret of his marriage to Daenera close to his chest–one that could unravel the tension in the room with a single revelation. He could have disclosed that he and Daenera were already married, could have shown the proof etched into the skin of his palm, and could have taunted Lucerys for his ignorance of his sister’s true feelings. Yet, he refrained. Part of his hesitation might have been pragmatic, aiming not to provoke Lord Borros Baratheon’s anger, especially since he was there to secure an alliance with House Baratheon. But another, more personal part of him wanted to keep this knowledge private, to preserve a last remnant of what they shared, to protect Daenera from the harsh scrutiny such revelation would invite. Why reveal their marriage now, when the realm would witness their union all the same?

Luke’s glare narrowed as he retorted, “Or perhaps, Prince Aemond, you confuse coercion for consent as easily as you confuse treachery for honor. It seems the only way you can secure a bride is by trapping her in circumstances she cannot escape from. My sister would never willingly marry you.”

Aemond gritted his teeth, his tongue pressing against them as venomous words threatened to spill forth. Insult after insult simmered within him, pushing him dangerously close to losing his composure. 

“Be that as it may,” Lord Borros interjected, his tone brimming with impatience, “House Baratheon had honored its commitments to your sister and your house. The alliance now lies buried with my brother. If you seek a new alliance, then tell me, which one of my daughters will you wed, boy?”

Lucerys gathered himself, his posture stiffening as he prepared to respond, his voice firm with a shaken resolve. “My lord, I am not free to marry. I am already betrothed.”

Lord Borros’s reaction was swift and biting, each word infused with a mix of mockery and disdain. He scoffed dismissively, “So you come here with empty hands.” His voice carried a derisive edge as he continued, “Go home, pup. And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

Despite the harsh dismissal, Lucerys maintained his dignity. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, meeting Lord Borros’s gaze with unyielding eyes. “I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord.”

Aemond, watching the exchange, felt a surge of exhilaration. His heart thrummed with the thrill of the apparent victory, and as Lucerys turned to leave, a part of him relished the upper hand they had gained. Yet, something within him stirred–a desire to further assert his dominance, to ensure Lucerys did not depart without fully understanding the depths of their enmity. He wanted him to run back home with the tail tucked between his legs. 

Floris gracefully moved from Aemond’s side to join her sisters. Maris welcomed her with a comforting touch, placing a hand on her younger sister’s arm. Her voice, just loud enough for Aemond to overhear, carried a thinly veiled jab. “You should feel fortunate, sweet sister, to wed a prince with all his appendages. Spare a thought for the princess…”

The remark struck Aemond like a barb, twisting in his stomach–an unpleasant reminder of the countless similar insults he had endured since losing his eye. He clenched his teeth, the words resonating in his ears, reverberating within his mind. What had felt like a victory moment’s earlier now soured into something bitter and resentful, coloring his triumph with the dark hues of indignation and anger. 

“Wait,” Aemond called out sharply, his voice cutting through the tension, commanding Lucerys to halt. “My Lord Strong.”

The boy halted, a moment of stillness enveloping him. Then, with measured steps he moved back to the spot he had previously occupied before being dismissed. As he faced Aemond again, the visible signs of his trepidation were unmistakable. His complexion had paled, draining of color, and his lips parted slightly, revealing a flicker of fear. Lucerys seemed to forcibly swallow his apprehension, his jaw clenching tightly. He subtly shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword, his body tensing as if bracing for the confrontation. 

“Did you really think you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” Aemond challenged, taking a measured step closer to the young prince. His hands remained clasped behind his back, maintaining a casual yet commanding presence. He was undeterred by the prospect of Lucerys drawing his sword, confident that he could take him easily. 

“I will not fight you,” Lucerys declared with resolve, his voice steady and clear–dismissive almost. “I came here as a messenger, not a warrior.”

Aemond’s voice was chillingly calm as he drawled, “A fight would be little challenge.”

He knew that should it come to blows, he would easily overpower the boy. But a fight was not what he sought; Aemond craved a different kind of retribution, something that would settle a deeper score. 

“No,” he continued, his tone darkening with a grim intent, “I want you to put out your eye…”

The demand hung in the air, heavy with the gravity of his desire for vengeance, seeking not just defeat but to debilitate and humiliate–as he had been debilitated and humiliated. It was only fair. 

Aemond felt it then–a sharp, familiar pain jabbing at the hollow where his eye once was. It started as a mere pinprick but soon swelled into a forceful throb that made his teeth feel loose, pulsating in tandem with his heartbeat. The scar burned intensely, the ache splitting his skull, a constant reminder of his loss. This pain was an old companion, lingering just beneath the surface, ever ready to surge forth and engulf him, forcing him to relive the moment of loss again and again and again.

He gritted his teeth against the pain, vividly recalling the initial sting when the injury occurred, a pain that quickly rose into a searing, white-hot agony as though he had been branded. He supposed in a way he had been. His blood had spilled thick and warm, clinging to his skin. He could still feel the horrifying sensation of his eye rupturing, the blade slicing through flesh, tissue, muscle, and bone, as his vision dissolved into a haze of black and red.

The memory of the aftermath was just as vivid–the tearing pain as the maester removed the remnants of his eye from its socket, the burning agony as the wound had been cleansed, the sharp bite of the needle as it stitched the inflamed skin closed. 

What had made the ordeal even more unbearable was the injustice of it all. He had been mained for claiming a dragon that was free to claim, yet he was the one who bore the blame of his injury. The perpetrators went unpunished, no retribution for the wrongs done to him. 

The injury had implanted a deep-seated resentment within Aemond, a smoldering rage that clung to him persistently. Upon his return to King’s landing, the wound had become inflamed, necessitating it to be reopened and cleansed thoroughly. During this procedure, he lost his eyelid, the tissue having turned black.  

After the wound had somewhat healed, Aemond made the decision to have it reopened to embed a sapphire in the socket–an attempt to reclaim some semblance of dignity and to avoid the pitying stares that had become all too common. He had read tales of warriors replacing lost eyes with precious stones, and he sought to emulate them. However, it had brought him little solace, and he had taken to wearing an eyepatch instead.

For years, Aemond had carried the weight of this injustice, living with both the physical pain and the humiliation it brought. Now, he felt the time had come to have the debt settled, to demand what was owed to him–a chance to balance the scales that had been so unfairly tipped against him. 

Aemond lifted his hand deliberately, his fingers grasping the edge of the leather patch that concealed his disfigurement. With a calculated movement, he pulled it away, exposing the harsh reality of his injury and the gleaming sapphire that sat within the hollow of his socket. “As a payment for mine…”

He stood defiantly before the boy who had caused him irreparable harm–the one responsible for his maiming and disfigurement, the one who had escaped punishment. This boy, who seemed to know nothing of fear, pain, or suffering, who displayed no remorse for his actions, who had never felt the biting sting of injustice–a poison that had seeped into his very core. 

Aemond took a dark pleasure in observing the change in Lucerys’s expression–the visible drop of his heart as he confronted the extent of the damage he had caused and the creeping fear that began to shadow his features. Witnessing the realization in Lucerys eyes was not sufficient, he sought more than just a momentary flicker of fear; he demanded a deeper acknowledgement of the pain and consequences his actions had wrought. 

“One will serve,” Aemond stated, his voice slicing through the tension, cold and unforgiving. With a deliberate motion, he flicked his coat aside, his lithe fingers finding the familiar hilt of his dagger. He drew the blade with a steely sing, its sound a clear, ominous echo in the chamber.

“I would not blind you.” His words were laden with a chilling mercy–an eye for an eye, indeed, but he offered leniency where none was owed. It was a debt of blood that had to be settled, a recompense for his own loss, dictated by ancient laws of justice. 

With a flick of his wrist, Aemond tossed the dagger. It spun through the air, landing with a clatter to skitter over the floor and stop at Lucerys’s feet, the sound of steel on cold stone resonating more profoundly than the thunder outside. This gesture, laying the instrument of retribution before Lucerys, was both a challenge and a test, a cruel kindness that spoke of the harsh balance Aemond sought to enforce. 

“Mm,” Aemond hummed, the sound almost a purr. “I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

The utter horror that briefly flickered across Lucerys’s face brought Aemond a grim kind of satisfaction. He felt it uncoil within his chest like a viper poised to strike, the beast within him baring its teeth. He believed it was only fair that the bastard should suffer as he had–Aemond wanted him afraid, wanted him humiliated. Yet instead of the outright fear he sought, a defiant spark–spiteful, even–flared in Lucerys’s eyes. His jaw set firmly, he held his head high, though in Aemond’s eye, he had no grounds for such pride. 

“No,” Lucerys answered firmly, and his response ignited an uncontrollable rage within Aemond. To be denied justice, to be refused retribution a second time–it was more than he could bear. 

 A cold, dreadful sensation crept over Aemond as he stared at Lucerys, feeling the pain in the hollow were his eye once was–a chilling, maddening discomfort that seemed to curl within his eye socket, spreading like ice through his skull and scratching at the edges of his consciousness. The words that escaped him were delivered in a cold, drawling tone, laden with accusation. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

Lucerys’s response was defiant; his jaw clenched tightly, his body tensing as he shifted on his feet. “I will not surrender my eye to you. I owe you noth–”

Aemond’s already frayed composure snapped completely at Lucerys’s budding refusal. Rage exploded within him, an inferno as vivid and all-consuming as dragonfire. It obliterated all rational thought, unleashing the beast that lurked within, its fangs bared, thirsting for retribution. 

“Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!” Aemond’s voice boomed as he advanced towards the visibly frightened boy. In a swift motion, he scooped up the discarded dagger, its metal scraping loudly against the stone floor, the sound magnified in the tense silence. The blade caught the light from the lightning flashing outside, making it seem as though the storm itself had invaded the Round Hall. Aemond could almost taste the bastard boy’s fear, and it only fueled his desire for retribution–he imagined carving out the boy’s eye, making him endure every excruciating moment just as he had, wanted him to feel the blood as it poured–

“Not in my hall!” Lord Borros Baratheon’s commanding voice cut through the tension as he rose from his throne.

Aemond’s fury was momentarily bridled by the authoritative intervention–remembering that he was here out of duty to his family and house, to secure an alliance. He halted his advance, though his gaze remained fiercely locked on Lucerys. The guards quickly stepped between them, forming a protective barrier. Behind them, the boy stood with his sword drawn, the tip of his blade quivering slightly, and Aemond couldn’t help but think him pathetic. 

“The boy came as an envoy,” Lord Borros continued, his tone firm and authoritative, “I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Take Prince Lucerys back to his dragon. Now.”

Aemond, momentarily stalled by the command, stood his ground but slowly rose to his full height. With practiced ease, he spun the dagger within his grip, letting it twirl elegantly before sheathing it at his hip–unbloodied. He thought Lucerys should be grateful for Lord Borros’s intervention; he should consider himself fortunate that Aemond had enough control to hold back. He envisioned Lucerys retreating to his mother, tail tucked between his legs, humiliated and defeated. This image, though not as satisfying as exacting his revenge, managed to soothe the aggressive itch at his fingertips.

As Lucerys sheathed his sword and took a few shaky steps towards the doors, he paused and turned back to face Aemond once more. His expression was unusual, marked by a mix of determination and sympathy–almost pitibal in its sincerity. “I am sorry that it has come to this…” 

The boy’s words carried an unexpected earnestness that only served to set his teeth on edge. The words slithered under Aemond’s skin, twisting into his bones, igniting something dangerous  within him. He fixed his gaze on the bastard, fighting to contain the surge of rage that flared anew in his chest. The pain that normally lurked at the edges of his mind, though palpable, had been somewhat bearable until now. But at Lucerys’s apology, it began to unravel, the icy grip of it clawing into his consciousness with talons that tore through his restraint.

“I am sorry,” Lucerys continued, his tone almost mocking in its sincerity. “I regret that my actions resulted in the loss of your eye but I will not apologize for protecting my brother…”

These words, meant to convey regret, instead felt like a provocation to Aemond, challenging the very control he struggled to maintain. His body tensed, frozen in place yet poised to strike. The words tore through Aemond with blinding ferocity. He was sorry? He was sorry?! The way Lucerys spoke, as if the incident had been a mere mishap, belittled the true extent of Aemond’s suffering. It wasn’t just the loss of an eye–it was the years of excruciating pain that left him writing in bed at times, the endless, agonizing months it took to heal fully. It was the grueling process of relearning basic tasks that once came effortlessly, the way the injury had mutilated and disfigured him, not just physically but in the eyes of those he met. 

Lucerys’s apology failed to capture the humiliation and torment Aemond had endured, how his father would never look at him without seeing the scar first and foremost, how his mother would look at him as though she had failed him, how that scar became the defining feature people noticed. It ignored how deep the scars ran, how the incident twisted him, hardened him into something brutal and cruel–a beast in the form of a  man. 

A fierce, almost primal urge surged through him–he imagined drawing his sword, effortlessly slipping past the guards, plunging the blade into that bastard’s eye, then severing his head to let the sword be anointed in the traitor’s blood. He imagined sending what was left of Lucerys back to his mother in grim retribution.

Yet, as much as he yearned to unleash his fury on Lucerys, a whisper of restraint echoed in the back of his mind, a tenuous thread of self-control keeping him from shattering entirely. The sliver of rationality held him back, a reminder of the consequences that would inevitably follow.

Lucerys continued, his voice steady yet each word, seemingly dismissive and mockingly sympathetic, shredded the last vestiges of restraint Aemond clung to. The small, rational voice in his head was drowned out by the throbbing rage that consumed him. “I hope for your understanding, and perhaps forgiveness one day, but until then, you have my apology for the suffering caused by my hand,”

Aemond’s glare intensified, his eyes burning into Lucerys with such fury that it visibly shook the young bastard. The intensity of Aemond’s rage was enough to send Lucerys quickly turning to exit the hall, eager to escape the palpable hostility. 

As Lucerys left, Aemond felt the rage continue to sear through him, gnawing at his fingertips insistently, engulfing his mind. He turned to Lord Borros, his voice icy, colder than the harshest winters of the North. “I thank you for your hospitality, my lord, and I will have the hand of the King finalize our arrangement, but if you excuse me, I must go.”

His words were formal, yet the undercurrent of his tone conveyed a chilling resolve, as if the coldness of his voice could mask the storm of fury within him. With that, Aemond prepared to leave, his every move reflecting the tumultuous emotions he struggled to contain. 

Aemond didn’t wait for an answer, or perhaps he simply didn’t hear it; he spun on his heel and swiftly exited the Round Hall. The moment he stepped into the corridor, his heart pounded in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. Driven by a storm of rage, he sprinted down the hallways and darted through the tunnel, navigating the winding paths of the curtain wall before bursting into the tempest outside. 

Rain lashed at his face as thunder roared overhead, the elements mirroring his inner turmoil. The rocky terrain threatened to trip him, but his fury propelled him forward unscathed. He reached Vhagar, his hands finding the wet, slick rope that wrapped around the dragon. 

“Hēnkirī kesi urnēptre bona Ilībōños bona ziry zūgagon īlva,” Aemond sneered, his voice cutting through the relentless downpour that threatened to drown out his words. Despite the roar of the rain, Vhagar responded to her rider’s command, a low rumbling emanating from deep within her chest, signaling her readiness. Aemond ascended the ladder with a fervor fueled by his smoldering rage, each step taken with urgent determination as he planned to chase the little bastard through the storm. 

Together we will show that bastard that he should fear us.

By the time he mounted the saddle, he was thoroughly drenched, his hair plastered to his skin, the chill of the rain seeping deep into his bones. Yet, he scarcely noticed the cold; his mind was singularly focused on the objective–to find the boy who had inflicted so much pain upon him and ensure he experienced just a fraction of the fear and helplessness Aemond had endured. 

He wanted Lucerys terrified, utterly humiliated–his rage demanded no less. As he prepared to take flight, every fiber of his being was set on this relentless pursuit, the fury within him as relentless as the storm that raged around him. 

“Ryptēs! Rȳbās!” Aemond commanded, his hands tightening on the leather reins. “Sōvegon!”

Listen. Obey. Fly!

As thunder roared above, Vhagar responded with a low rumble, shaking her massive head as a sign of readiness. She then unfurled her enormous wings, striding towards the cliff’s edge, and with a powerful leap, she allowed herself to drop slightly, the fierce wind quickly catching her wings and lifting them into flight.

Rain lashed at Aemond’s face like a barrage of tiny icicles, each droplet pricking against his skin with icy sharpness, though he barely registered the discomfort, or that the sapphire within his socket were steadily turning to ice as the wind whipped at it. His heart pounded in his ears, nearly drowning out the howling wind and the continuous thunder that cracked through the sky. Lightning streaked across the dense clouds, briefly illuminating the darkened heavens, as they soared into the storm, bound by a mission fueled by vengeance and fury. 

A crude smile stretched across Aemond’s lips, savoring the taste of rain mixed with the wild fury of the storm. They were in close pursuit of the small shadow darting ahead of them, the smaller dragon’s wings flapping frantically against the relentless wind. Aemond cleverly used the cloud cover to cloak their approach, weaving through the dense clouds, allowing them to stealthily stalk their prey from above. 

As they drew into the clouds in front of the smaller dragon, they executed a swift, tight turn before emerging from the thick cloud cover. Aemond and Vhagar burst forth, their sudden presence in front of the smaller dragon meant to be an imposing and terrifying spectacle, amplified by the thick cover of clouds that wrapped around them. Aemond caught a brief glimpse of Lucerys’s red-cheeked, fear-stricken face as they swooped over them, allowing Vhagar to menacingly snap her claws close to them, a clear threat. 

A menacing, maniacal laugh erupted from Aemond’s chest, a sound that bubbled up and spilled from his lips, fueled by the palpable terror emanating from the boy and his dragon. Vhagar joined in with a sound akin to a crackle, a low, reverberating growl that might have been a purr under less ominous circumstances. It was a foreboding sound, promising the unleashing of fiery breath and teeth sharp enough to rend flesh. 

Together, they were the embodiment of true power.

This was a dance of fury and fear, where his shadows cavorted with the gales, their whispers echoing in the thunder, rejoicing in the terror they instilled in the target of his ire. The storm, like a malevolent spectator, seemed to mimic the tempest within Aemond, its rage a mirror to his own, its chaos a reflection of his soul.

As Arrax darted ahead, Vhagar surged forward with a predatory swiftness, her massive maw snapping at the air, her gleaming teeth tearing menacingly close to the smaller dragon. Arrax fluttered about uneasily, trying to evade the larger dragon’s threatening advances. 

Aemond harbored a cold hope that when Lucerys looked back, the sapphire replacing his eye would catch the lightning’s flash, its cruel gleam filling the boy with utter dread. He wanted to haunt Lucerys, to be etched into his mind–it was only fair, as the cruel edge of the blade had been etched into his face. 

Aemond delighted in the chase–delighted in the terror he elicited as they toyed with the smaller dragon. He let Vhagar snap her jaws at the dragon, threatening to tear off its wings or bite into its body. Through the roaring storm, they pursued them relentlessly, refusing to let up. Aemond’s intent was clear: he wanted the boy to experience the same helplessness and humiliation he had endured years ago. 

“I see you! Ilībōños!” Aemond bellowed, his voice clawing its way through the tumult, ensuring it reached Lucerys amidst the chaos of the storm. His shout was a declaration of his presence, a warning that he was unavoidable and ever-present, like the storm itself. 

As Arrax seemed to sense the imminent danger, the small dragon instinctively pulled its wings closer to its body, executing a sharp drive in an attempt to escape. Aemond, relentless, spurred Vhagar to follow. The massive dragon pursued her formidable form cutting swiftly through the air towards the churning sea below. The wind lashed against Aemond’s face with such a ferocity that, had he been wearing his eyepatch, it surely would have been torn off. 

With his voice raw from shouting, Aemond bellowed again. He was uncertain if his words could pierce through the howling wind and the roaring sea as they rapidly descended, but he shouted regardless, his voice echoing with command and threat: “Ozdakōs, mittys!”

Run, fool!

His shout was taut, a challenge thrown into the face of the storm, as much a part of the tempest as the thunder and lightning themselves, all converging to overwhelm the fleeing dragon and its rider. 

Lucerys and his dragon quickly turned and leveled out above the narrow sea, maneuvering sharply to steer towards the cliffs. Aemond and Vhagar were in close pursuit, her immense wings masterfully catching the wind to prevent a perilous descent into the sea. 

Another cruel, discordant crackle escaped Aemond, a sound not entirely human, as if the beast within him had broken through. The rush of their rapid descent invigorated him, his blood singing through his veins with a hot, thrilling pulse. He felt the familiar swoop in his stomach, reminiscent of the exhilaration he felt during his first ascent on Vhagar, when he had claimed the dragon as his own.

As Arrax deftly turned towards the cliffs, Vhagar followed, intent on catching up–a shadow of death closely trailing the boy and his dragon. The smaller dragon managed to slip through the narrow crevice between the cliffs, disappearing like a bug through a crack in the wall. Aemond, reacting swiftly, yanked at the reins, steering Vhagar sharply upwards over the cliffs, temporarily losing sight of their quarry among the rocky outcrops and the relentless downpour. 

Vhagar expressed her frustration with an aggravated roar that mirrored Aemond’s own sneer of irritation. They continued to fly above the cliffs, scouring the landscape below. The sea thrashed violently against the cliffs, its hunger palpable in the storm’s fury. Aemond’s heart thundered in his chest, the pounding rhythm nearly drowning out the storm’s howl, fueling the thrill of the chase that tingled beneath his skin, itching at his fingertips and fluttering in his stomach. He laughed, cruelly so, reveling in the feeling of power. 

“Jemēla gēlȳni enkā!” Aemond called out, his voice a menacing drawl meant to instill fear and provoke a mistake. “Taobus!”

You owe a debt! Boy!

His words cut through the tumult, meant to echo ominously around Lucerys, a constant reminder of who it was that pursued him. Aemond’s command was not just a call–it was a dark promise, woven into the winds of the storm, haunting the fleeing boy with the weight of his impending reckoning. 

Aemond fervently hoped that Lucerys was consumed by fear, that he felt utterly powerless–just as powerless as Aemond had been when the dagger had sliced through flesh and muscle, as hopeless as when he had the remnants of his eye brutally torn from his socket, and as forsaken as he had felt when he had been denied justice, when he had been denied the retribution he deserved. He wished for Lucerys to feel the same crippling fear Aemond had endured when they had turned against him, when they had attacked him for claiming something which was free to claim. 

Most of all, he wanted Lucerys to feel the crippling shame and humiliation he had felt, bearing the scar of injustice. 

The clouds around them were oppressive, heavy and dense, closing in as they navigated the endless gray expanse. Aemond blinked rapidly against the onslaught of rain and wind, and suddenly, a torrent of fire burst from a gray cloud, followed swiftly by a sweeping shadow that darted past them–trailed by a voice whose words were drowned by the wind. The fire curled around Vhagar’s head, hot and searing. Aemond felt the intense heat graze his skin, wrapping them momentarily in a billow of smoke. The heat was fleeting, replaced almost instantly by an icy chill as the warmth dissipated into the stormy air, leaving a lingering cold in its absence. 

Vhagar reared her head in anger, a reaction that Aemond felt deeply within his own chest. The dragon’s fury mingled seamlessly with his own, fueling his emotions as his stomach churned with cold dread. Vhagar plunged through the clouds after Arrax with forceful determination, almost as if personally affronted by the young dragon’s slight. 

A thunderous roar shattered the sky, reverberating so powerfully that Aemond felt it within his chest, louder than the thunder itself as lightning streaked across the heavens. He felt control slipping from his grasp, like wisps of smoke escaping through his fingers. 

“No, no, no, no! No! Serve me, Vhagar!” Aemond commanded desperately, his voice rising over the storm as the dragon thrashed beneath him, snapping its teeth in wild fury. The low rumble of Vhagar’s rage seemed to vibrate through its massive body and into Aemond’s, amplifying his own distress. “Vagus, daor! Dohaerās!”

Vhagar, no! Obey me!

But like any creature pushed to its limits, Vhagar continued her relentless pursuit, utterly indifferent to her rider’s commands–but the will men wield over dragons was finite, and Aemond was rendered a mere spectator as they pierced through the clouds into the brightness of day, leaving behind the swirling tempest below. His heart sank as Vhagar opened her massive jaws, and with a force that seemed to resonate through the very air around them, she snapped them shut around the boy and his dragon. With a single devastating bite, she sheared off Arrax’s head, wing, and tail.  

Lucerys’s shrieks of pain and terror were abruptly silenced as he disappeared into Vhagar’s vast gullet, consumed–a grim meal as Lucerys vanished from the world, swallowed whole by Vhagar.

As Vhagar clamped her jaws around the dragon for a second time, Aemond felt the visceral echo of bones and flesh crunching–a sensation that resonated within his own body so vividly he could almost taste the blood that Vhagar had spilled in pursuit of retribution–vengeance. This second, ferocious bite, severed her prey completely, her head twisting with the violent finality of a hound shaking its catch. Droplets of blood splattered across Aemond’s face, a grim rain marking his countenance despite the clarity of the sky above them.

Vhagar’s victorious roar thundered through the sky, resonating not just externally but deep within the hollow of Aemond’s chest, its echoes reverberating in the chambers of his heart. 

His eye widened as he watched the descent of the mangled remains, following their plummet towards the insatiable sea below. He watched, almost in a trance, as the fragments of what once had been a boy and his dragon disappeared into the cloud-laden abyss, vanishing from sight forever.

In that moment, Aemond’s heart thundered in his chest–a relentless drumbeat that marked the end of the chase, the culmination of his vengeance, and the ominous onset of war. 

Aemond drew his hand down his face, staring at it as smears of blood marked his pale skin, intermingling with the droplets of rain that still clung to him. He released a breath, which morphed into a cold, humorless laugh as his thoughts remained muddled, as wild and tempestuous as the storm still raging below them. 

For years, he had harbored wishes–longings–for retribution, for vengeance. He had fantasized about carving out Lucerys eye as a replacement for his own, desperate to share his own pain and humiliation with the one who forced it upon him–seeking some semblance of the justice that had been denied him. An eye for an eye, blood for blood, a debt that had to be repaid.

It would have been a fair exchange, a way to set the world right–a means to possibly reclaim what he had lost, to somehow piece himself back together and feel whole once more. Aemond mulled over this thought, the notion of justice as an equalizer resonating deeply within him, as if such an act could balance the scales and mend what had been lost. 

Deep within him, there had been a childish flicker of hope that by killing Lucerys might somehow fill the void left by the blade, would somehow miraculously restore his eye–but as he sat upon Vhagar now, he could feel the coldness of the sapphire within his eye socket, and the bitter truth struck him–that the blood he had sought did not, and could not, restore his eye. It did nothing to heal the scar or mend the mangled skin, nor did it address the deeper, more enduring wounds within him.

Deep within him, there had been a childish flicker of hope that killing Lucerys might somehow fill the void left by the blade and would, somehow, miraculously restore his eye. But as he sat atop Vhagar now, soaring above the sea of a storm, feeling the cold touch of the sapphire within his eye socket, a bitter truth settled over him–the blood he had sought did not, and could not, restore his eye. It did nothing to heal the scar or mend the mangled skin, nor did it soothe the deeper, more enduring wounds within him left by the injustice–and far from making him feel whole, the act of vengeance only deepened his sense of incompleteness, leaving him feeling more hollow and wrong than ever before. 

Instead of filling the void within him, it seemed to have expanded, leaving Aemond grappling with the haunting emptiness of a victory that felt ominously akin to defeat. As he sat there, the consequences of his actions set in–this was not merely the ignition of war, but a sacrifice of what he held dear. His honor and reputation were now irreversibly stained–he had made himself a kinslayer, the worst thing a man could be–but what weighed more heavily on his heart was the realization that he had lost the very thing he loved the most; Daenera, the one who had brought warmth into his cold world, the sweet poison whose intoxication he had come to depend upon. 

As he settled back into the saddle, Aemond felt that cherished warmth slipping away, evaporating like mist through his desperate, futile grasp. The loss left a chill in its wake, a cold reminder of what his vengeance had truly cost him. 

And the thought that made his blood turn into ice, was the thought that Daenera would turn away from him–that she would no longer see him.

The beast that resided beside his heart, held at bay by chains of self-control, transformed into something far more vicious and cruel–a monster in its purest form, completely unrestrained. And what else could he become but a monster, if that was all anyone ever saw when looking upon him? 

His heart, if it could still be called that, had turned into something far darker and more malevolent. It became like Valyrian steel–cold, unyielding, and thirsting for blood. It embodied the destructive path of fire, monstrous in its desires, armed with teeth and claws, ready to consume anything in its path.

And this heart.

This twisted, blackened heart, it had become hers–surrendered to the one he feared losing the most. Would she recognize it? Would she recognize him?

Aemond refused to succumb to the pain that threatened to overtake him, the kind that could fill him with fear. Instead, he swallowed his feelings, feeling them fester and burn within the pit of his stomach. He let the monstrous darkness within him take a hold of him, finding it preferable to fear, to regret, to any other feeling. This darkness offered a twisted solace, a shield against vulnerability, ensuring that he felt nothing but a cold, numbing embrace. 

Aemond had always harbored a deep-seated desire for Lucerys’s death–he thirsted for vengeance against the boy who had stolen his eye and sown a seed of darkness in its place. And resonating with his dark wish, Vhagar had executed this desire–sought the revenge he had denied himself. Although Aemond hadn’t set out to kill, it seemed as though the very forces of nature, or perhaps even fate itself, had aligned to bring about this outcome. 

And what can a dragon do but obey its nature?

Vhagar, driven by instinct, acted as dragons wont to do. And Aemond came to understand that he, too, was bought by an inescapable nature, one that was deeply entwined with his desires, his pain, and the justice he had been denied. 

And he found that vengeance truly did hunger–that it was an insatiable force that once awakened, demanded to be satisfied.

[purple-babygirl]

hi im not sure if you’re taking requests so you can ignore this if you’d like, but i really liked your mafia bucky fic !! and i was wondering if you could do one where maybe someone breaks into the house and the reader has to force themselves to be big for a little bit just so they can fight them off and then she runs to the little safe room and goes little there and Bucky finds her there and comforts her and it’s just all fluffy? sorry if this is so specific i just loved the last fic sm 😅

Pairing: Mafia!Daddy!Bucky Barnes x f!little!reader

Word count: 1,958

Warnings: reader gets attacked (includes harassment and mentions of violence, cursing, guns), reader gets hurt, mentions of killing, Bucky's softness (yes it's a warning), ddlg dynamics.

A/N: I've been holding onto this one for forever now I'm really sorry for taking so long, dear nonnie🥺 it means the world to me that you liked mafia!daddy!bucky and i hope i delivered with this one and that you like it as much, love. Please enjoy ily xx💜

~

safe

You’re a big girl.

You’re a big girl.

You’re a big girl. You can do this.

It all happened too fast. She woke up to guns shooting, Bucky’s men yelling at each other before all the voices suddenly stopped and the door to their bedroom was violently kicked open.

She didn’t even have time to scream before she was dragged from under the large bed by her ankle.

You’re a big girl.

You’re a big girl.

You’re a big girl. Just like Daddy taught you.

“Let go! You don’t wanna do this!” she shrieked, warning the person trying to snatch her off the floor, her leg kicking as she struggled to flee his vice-like hold.

She’d suddenly forgotten every single self-defense move Bucky has ever taught her and was thrashing in panic.

“Oh, I don’t?” the man laughed, his grip painful on her limb as he tried to get on top of her.

She screamed when he dug his fingernails in the flesh of her shin, forcing her legs apart.

“Such a delicate little thing.” He licked his lips when he drew blood, running his gun up her bare leg, pressing down when it reached her inner thigh, “beg me to let you go.”

The words infuriated her big self. If Bucky had taught her one thing that she could never forget it was how dear and precious she was.

“Do you know who my man is?” Her free foot collided with the intruder’s chin, hitting him just right for his teeth to slam together, making him groan and loosen his grasp.

“I beg no one for nothing.” She spat, clumsily standing up, rushing inside Bucky’s large walk-in closet.

“You’re gonna regret that, you little bitch!” The masked man threatened, banging his fist on the door, “I’m gonna make that man of yours weep blood over your dead slut body!”

Her breath was coming out in puffs as tears blurred her vision. With trembling fingers, she moved Bucky’s hung-up suits to the side, revealing the metal door to the panic room.

You’re a big girl.

You’re a big girl.

You’re a big girl. Just a bit longer.

She could hear the man take a few steps back and she knew he was going to shoot the closet open. Her shaky fingers pushed the buttons and typed the number code, the date of the day Bucky had asked her to be his.

I feel safe knowing I have you, angel, so it’s only fit that we make it the safe room code, he'd told her with a playful shrug.

She slid inside as soon as the door moved, pushing her back against the concrete wall, trying to take her breath. The door clicked shut right before the wooden one to the closet was thrown open.

You’re a big girl.

You’re a big girl.

You’re a big girl. You got this.

She let out a relieved sigh that broke into a sob as she tiredly slid down the wall, still hearing the scary man curse, bang and shoot on the safe room door.

Where was Bucky? She couldn’t hold on any longer. This wasn’t a situation she wanted to be present in. Her body started folding up, taking fetal position as her mind led her to the safer side against her better will. Even her fists closed upon themselves, tears leaving her eyes and traveling down the bridge of her nose. She was losing consciousness of her present surroundings, pictures of Bucky’s eyes spreading in her vision instead of the dull, grey walls of the room.

She was crying too loudly to hear the firing of Bucky’s gun right outside the door or the peeping of the door as it slid open once again.

“Angel!” Bucky’s voice sounded so distant. She felt like she was drowning with how muffled his calls were to her ears.

Seeing her body shake with sobs on the floor like that made Bucky want to walk out and shoot the man’s dead body again and again until he couldn’t be identified.

How dare they send someone here? How dare they violate the sanctity of his home? They were certainly not going to live another day to repeat or repent from their sins.

“Angel, are you hurt?” He kneeled beside her, gently untangling her limbs to check if she was wounded anywhere.

Aside from a couple of nasty scratches by her ankle, she was physically okay and Bucky could breathe a little better as his body sagged on the floor.

He swallowed and lifted her on his lap, signaling his men to leave when they stepped in the room to check if they were needed after ‘cleaning up’.

“Get me water.” Was all he said and they were running to the nearest fridge.

“I’m sorry, my angel. I’m here now. You’re okay.” Bucky mumbled, lips hovering over her temple.

“Dada.” Her body leaned into his warmth but her cries didn’t stop and Bucky could only hold her closer as he tried not to let guilt rip him apart.

She was like that now because of him. Had he been a normal man with a normal life, she would’ve been safer. She didn’t deserve to be startled awake only to be chased by a criminal in the middle of the night. She didn’t deserve any of the bullshit that hit her because she was with Bucky.

He kept planting kiss after kiss to her head, wishing he could go back and be there to protect her.

“Shh, you’re okay, my angel. You’re safe,” he kept telling her as he supported himself up with her in his arms.

Her cries were dying down and she was getting comfier in Bucky’s protective hold, fingers digging in his shoulders afraid he would leave again.

“Please, calm down, baby. I’m here. No one can hurt you, angel.” Bucky took her out and to the bathroom so he could take a look at her leg.

“Baby, are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked after sitting her down on the cold counter.

Instead of answering, she pressed her forehead to his chest and kept sniveling, hands clutching Bucky’s jacket. She wasn’t ready for him to let her go yet. She may be too far gone but her body knew it needed to be close to Bucky’s.

“Baby, please come back to me,” Bucky begged, tears threatening to spill from his once hard, cold eyes.

“Angel,” his thumb brushed her cheek and she finally looked up to him.

“Dada, I was so scared.” She sobbed, shaking at the memory.

“I’m sorry, my angel.” Bucky pressed his lips to her forehead, “I’m here with you, baby. No need to be scared anymore.”

“That man- he-” she hiccupped.

“You’re okay, angel. Breathe.” Bucky stroked her back warmly as she buried her face in his chest again.

He took the bottle of water from one of his men, waving him out of the bathroom.

“Here, baby, drink some water.”

She wouldn’t move. She just wanted to be close to Daddy. She was scared and Bucky was safety. He was home.

“For me, baby. Just a tiny sip.” Bucky twisted the bottle cap open, gently cupping her cheek to coax her away from his body.

His heart swelled when she leaned her damp cheek on his palm, enjoying the warmth. Her smaller hand cupped his and her eyes closed, her face further pressed into Bucky’s hand as a soft sigh escaped her lips.

Bucky bit his lip, holding back the waterworks. He should’ve been here; should’ve prevented it all from happening. His thumb brushed her chin and she opened her eyes.

“Drink a little, angel.” Bucky offered a kind smile.

She nodded, sitting up straighter, her lashes wet with tears as she looked up to Bucky, her gaze holding no blame.

He brought the bottle to her lips and she gulped down, the chilled water soothing her sore throat.

“Better?” Bucky cocked his head to the side and she nodded, sniffing.

Bucky bowed, holding his forehead against hers. He just wanted to feel her breathe soundly; wanted to make his mind stop telling him he almost lost her forever.

“Dada.”

“Yes, my angel.” Bucky pecked her lips.

“My leg hurts.” Her voice was awfully small as she pointed to the burning scratches ruining her beautiful skin. Bucky wished he could hide her between his ribs in place of his heart.

“Daddy’s got you, angel.”

Bucky cleaned her wound, apologizing with a kiss to her cheek every time she hissed. He had her tell him what happened to distract her and it worked. She wanted him to be proud so much she eagerly told him all about kicking the bad man. Tears gathered in her eyes once again when he applied ointment but she continued with her story, Bucky’s smile keeping her calm.

“Angel, you were so brave! I’m so proud of you, baby.” Bucky kissed her bandaged leg, “how did you do that?!”

“Kept thinkin’ dada thoughts.” She hugged Bucky again.

Bucky was a puddle on the bathroom floor. She was telling him she was brave like that because she was thinking of him through it all. He adored her so much he didn’t know who he was if not her man.

“I promise this is the last time you would ever have to go through anything like that,” Bucky assured, chuckling lovingly when she squeezed him harder and nodded.

She believed Bucky. She knew he could keep her safe. This wasn’t a usual occurrence, Bucky’s always made sure she was protected. She had no doubt anything would change. She trusted her Daddy with all her heart.

Bucky knew that and it scared him to death. He was scared one day he might not be up to the trust she’d put in him. He feared disappointing her; not being there for her in time. He was terrified a day would come where he might let her down.

“Never again. You’re safe, my angel. You’re always safe with me.”

Bucky’s soft lips placed a languishing kiss to her forehead. Her eyes were next, Bucky kissed her eyelids and under her eyes. Then he left wet kisses on both cheeks before pecking her nose. She smiled shyly when he pressed his mouth to the corner of hers.

“I love you, angel,” Bucky whispered against her lips before kissing her.

~

Bucky carried her back to their bed. The room was organized again, nothing was out of place and she was in Daddy’s arms. She was safe once more.

Bucky held her to his chest all night, his mind too loud to let him fall asleep. She went back to bed almost immediately though. Bucky’s presence was all it really took for her to feel peaceful enough to close her eyes and dream again.

When she moved out of his embrace in her sleep, Bucky carefully left the room and went to his office to review the security cameras footage. He knew watching the attack would make his blood boil again but he had to see what happened and how the unlucky asshole got inside his mansion.

While she already told him she’d defended herself, Bucky was the proudest seeing it unfold on the screen.

“Do you know who my man is?... I beg no one.”

The words brought the largest smile to Bucky’s lips. He was so proud of his angel; so amazed by her courage. He thought he couldn’t love her any more than he already did and he was wrong. His heart has picked the right girl and for that he was grateful. Bucky took one last look at the shining ring in his top drawer before shutting it and walking back to continue cuddling his precious sweetheart.

~~

Tags: @harrysthiccthighss, @tinystudentfirepurse, @lavendercitizen

[with-love-from-hell]

Vermillion Skies

{part Fifteen}

Fandom: Obey me!

Genre: hurt, comfort, angst, some fluff

Pairing: Mc x Lucifer (pre-established relationship)

Written for F!MC

WC: ~4k

Music Accompaniment

TRIGGER WARNING FOR ALL PARTS: graphic depictions of sexual assault / rape, gore, and violence.

CW: catatonia, PTSD, dissociation, panic attacks, anxiety, swearing, blood/gore, fighting, spoilers for lessons 16+, negative self-talk, self-blame, intense flashbacks and graphic depictions of past sexual violence, violent outburst as a result of a flashback, paranoia, hallucinations / delusions

>> Though I have a Masters Degree in Psychology, I am not your therapist. If you have experienced any form of sexual abuse, assault, or harassment and are in need of help, please utilize the RAINN sexual assault hotline or online chat service, or find additional help using the NSVRC website. <<

You can find any future parts by searching the tag #vermillion skies on my blog!

Yes, I did bring the HC that demons purr into this fic, and I have no regrets. Also for those of you that have submitted requests- im going to try to get through one per week if possible! I'm closing requests for now until I get through the new 10 or so that I have.

Read part 14 here

Read the headcannon post for parts 1-9 here!

"Mammon...Let him go.”

Mammon stared at you, wide eyed and mouth agape. “Mc, are ya fucking insane?!” 

You dropped your gaze back down to Lucifer, who’s snarls continued to result in his fangs scraping against the wooden floor. Your voice was quiet, subdued only by the dull ache you felt in your heart while looking at him. “Restraining him isn’t helping.” 

“Did ya even see Levi?!” Mammon scoffed, digging his knee back into Lucifer’s wound to get him to still his movements. He couldn’t believe you were asking him to let him free after the danger he posed. “He could’ve killed him!”

You wince in response, but say nothing. 

“You don’t understand what he’s capable of like this.” Mammon twitched his nose in irritation at you. Could you not see how aggressively Lucifer was jerking and the state of your room? He was infuriated by the fact that you would be willing to put yourself in harms way just because seeing Lucifer restrained made you feel bad. “What makes ya think that you’re so special that he wouldn’t try to hurt ya?!” 

You snapped your eyes back up to lock onto Mammon’s. He noticed the deep hurt in your expression and felt a twinge of regret for his choice of words. He knew that you were special, but that’s all the more reason to keep you away from Lucifer. If Lucifer hurt you, he wouldn’t ever forgive himself when he became lucid again.

“Mammon, I am not asking.” Your tone was soft and calm, but the words just barely passed through your gritted teeth. "Let him go. That is an order.”

Mammon's eyes widened as his pact mark on both your chests began emitting a honey-colored light. His body felt numb, static running through his veins as he involuntarily dropped Lucifer's wrists and stood up from his position on his back. Mammon tried to fight back against the power of the pact- one you would so rarely use against him- but to no avail. 

“Mc- don’t!” Mammon pleaded with you with his eyes. His mind raced in panic as he backed away from Lucifer until he was pressed against the wall. If Lucifer lashed out at you, he was now rendered immobile until you withdrew your command. 

You sucked in a breath and straightened your posture. You couldn't ignore the fact that you were afraid. You had seen the blood trailing the hall as you approached your room where Lucifer’s screams in pain were heard. Levi was his brother after all- and despite your deep bond with the eldest brother, you felt a tiny part of the back of your head screaming at you to get away from him. The larger, more dominant part however, urged you to press onward, reassuring you that Lucifer will not hurt you. 

You were also quite a bit anxious that you were back in your old room. The memories of what happened here lurked like a misty shadow stalking the back of your mind, but you did your best to shove the feelings down and focus on Lucifer. He needed you, and you knew that after all he had done for you, it was time for you to return the nurturance. 

"Thank you, Mammon.” You nodded in his direction before taking a step forward. “Now stay there."

Terror filled his heart as Mammon watched you slowly move forward toward the eldest brother, who was trying desperately to get up off the floor. He didn’t want to watch Lucifer tear you to shreds. The way the fury was glowing behind his intense vermillion eyes told him that he was nowhere near lucid. 

Once only about a foot away from him did you halt your movements. You slowly lower yourself to the floor, kneeling before your lover. His fangs glistened in the low light of the room and raven feathers danced around you as he desperately moved his wings in tandem with his other limbs- trying to move his body closer to you. It was apparent that the injury to his abdomen and his arm prevented him from getting up.

"Luci..." You coo to him softly. 

At the sound of the sweet pet name rolling off your lips, Lucifer's eyes met yours. The intensity of the light behind his irises softened, dulling his eyes back to the greyish tint they normally had. His wings slowly stilled, the loose feathers finally ceasing their chaotic dance around you. Lucifer reached his uninjured arm forward in desperation; his claws digging into the floor as he realized he couldn't quite reach you.

You extend out your hand toward him, earing a small gasp from Mammon. You briefly snap your gaze up to him and let out a soft "shh" before returning your focus to Lucifer. Mammon’s interventions would surely provoke the now calmed first born, and you wanted to prevent another outburst. You intended on treating Lucifer like you would a frightened dog who was wary of touch. Your movements were slow, non-threatening, and discrete- allowing room to pull back if there was any sense he would lash out. 

Mammon's heart beat wildly as he watched the scene unfold in front of him. What if he hit you...or...worse? The urge to protect you grew stronger as you reached your hand out to touch Lucifer's head- and the intense fear spiked along with it. He tried to get out a warning, a request for you to get back, but even the simple hush was enough to glue his lips shut with the power of the pact you had evoked.

You slow movements finally halt when your fingers graze one of Lucifer's horns. You linger there for a moment, noticing how Lucifer had become frozen under your touch. You let out a sigh of relief, running your fingers down his horn to their base at his scalp. A deep hum reverberated from Lucifer’s throat at the gentle movement. You sift your fingers through his dark locks, giving an occasional, gentle scratch to his scalp. As you continue the gentle movements, you feel his body relax and he leans into your touch. 

"Luci, it’s okay." You coo again, a small smile decorating your face as you pluck a feather from his hair. "I'm here."

Before you could react, Lucifer's claws gripped the floor and he lurched himself forward. You gasped, anxiety spiking as he gripped your body. His injured arm wrapped tightly around your midsection, pulling you against him. Once he was in a stable upright position, his other arm wrapped you tighter as he pulled your lower body in between his knees, trying to press your body as close to him as he could.

You sat still for a moment; heart racing and breath rapid as the fear of him attacking you slowly fades away from the front of your mind. Lucifer’s sudden movement had caught you completely off guard. But as you felt the tingle of hot tears dripping onto your shoulder, your anxiety dissipated completely. 

You sigh, returning the embrace. One of your hands make their way up Lucifer’s back, drawing circles with your fingers around the base of Lucifer's wings, as the other caresses the back of his head. He shudders, small sobs escaping his throat as he squeezes you tightly against him. You felt his fingers grip into the soft flesh of your hips- his claws now retracted so as not to hurt you. The low light of the room was made even more dim as his onyx wings enveloped you in their warmth. You melted into his chest as you felt the low hum from his throat grow slightly louder- occasionally interrupted by a shuddered breath or a whimper. 

“Shh, It’s alright. We’re safe.” You murmur, rubbing slow circles around the middle of his back. He nuzzles into your collar, and you feel tears roll down your chest.  

Mammon stared at the sight in front of him. He almost lost it when Lucifer grabbed you, though he was relieved it was only for a hug. He swore internally that one of these days, your boldness would land you in a situation you surely would regret. But for now, he was put at ease to see Lucifer’s behavior returning to normal. 

Mammon felt the heat of his pact mark slowly fizzle out as you lock eyes with him. You signal with your eyes for him to make his exit, but Mammon hesitates. Though he can see Lucifer now is no threat to you, he does not yet feel comfortable leaving you alone. With a widened expression and the raise of your eyebrows, Mammon sighs, slowly exiting the room and closing the door on his way out. Just as he was shutting the door, he heard someone call out to him from further down the fall. 

“Mammon? What’s going on?!” Beelzebub ran toward him. His eyes were wide with panic, and his large hands that were stained with blood trembled slightly. 

Mammon sighed, meeting him a few feet from the door and holding up a hand to his chest to stop him. “’s alright now. Mc is handlin’ it.” 

“What?!” Beel’s eyes widened further as he attempted to push past the second oldest. 

“Beel,” Mammon snapped, gripping his arm and yanking him backward. “It’ll be fine. He’s calmed down now. She’s got it.” 

Beelzebub looked at Mammon with uncertainty before giving a resided sigh, following Mammon’s gesture to move a distance away from the door. Though Mammon ensured they were still in earshot in case something were to happen and you needed help. 

Mammon sighed, pressing his back against the wall and sliding down until he was seated. He combed his fingers through his snowy locks, hoping desperately that you would be okay alone with Lucifer. Mammon wouldn’t be able to bear it if you got hurt again- especially if it were at the hands of someone who promised to keep you safe.

Beel watched his behavior closely, trying to piece together what exactly had happened. When Levi had burst into the kitchen, he was a bloody, stuttering mess. It took so long for he and Belphie to even coax out the word “Lucifer,” though Beel figured that the eldest brother was the culprit from the raven feathers that were stuck in various spots of Levi’s hair and sweater hood. Belphie agreed to care for Levi and get Satan’s help when he returned from the store while Beel went to investigate, but even now Beel couldn’t comprehend what caused Lucifer to slash the 3rd oldest’s face.

With a sigh, Beel joined Mammon on the floor. “What’s going on?” 

Mammon turned his gaze toward the door to your room. “Lucifer...he...well- I don’t actually know.”

Beel narrowed his eyes in confusion.  “What?” 

Mammon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look- I don’t know what happened, Beel. All I know is I got there after hearin’ some yellin’, Levi was bein’ attacked by Lucifer, and I pulled ‘em off.” 

Beel was silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. “So...you don’t know why he attacked him?” 

Mammon shook his head, briefly locking eyes with his younger brother before turning his gaze to the floor. “I think...I think he was hallucinating.” 

Suddenly, a wail was heard from the direction of your room. In an instant, both Beelzebub and Mammon were on their feet ready to protect you. But the second wail to follow calmed their nerves after realizing the sound was from Lucifer...not you. They both shared a sigh of relief before locking eyes. 

“Mammon...should we call Diavolo?” Beel fidgeted with his fingers nervously. 

Mammon chewed the inside of his cheek, considering Beel’s question. Diavolo may not be the best person to call given what had just transpired. After all, Mammon wouldn’t want Lucifer to be locked in the castle dungeons again- alone this time. Barbatos maybe would be helpful, but that would also require Diavolo being informed. Simeon knew healing spells, so he might be helpful...but in the grand scheme of things, Mammon knew there was only one person who would have the knowledge necessary to remedy the situation. 

With a resided sigh, he finally spoke. “I...I think we need to call Solomon.” 

----------------------------

“Lucifer, Would ya just calm your ass down?!” 

Mammon’s voice just barely penetrated the sickening sounds of your screams mixing with the demon’s laughter that reverberated loudly through Lucifer’s skull. Mammon tried his best to keep him held down, but Lucifer couldn’t rest until he was sure that demon was dead once again. He needed to get to you- to stop the abuse he was certain was happening again. Lucifer growled intensely, resulting in his fangs dragging across the floor. A sharp pain shot up his jaw as his teeth scraped up the wood, but he tried to ignore it. He jerked his body as hard as he could, given the injuries he was now blatantly aware of. He beat his wings against Mammon as he thrashed, trying desperately to buck him off. 

“Lucifer! For fucks sake!” 

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot up his ribcage and spread all over his body. Lucifer screamed out in pain, his movements faltering as he tried to regain his focus on escaping Mammon’s hold. Tears pushed their way out his eyes, the searing agony of the wooden shards being pushed deeper into his abdomen nearly blinding him. More muffled words were said by Mammon, but Lucifer couldn’t quite make them out. 

As his vision refocused, a he glanced up and saw a familiar set of legs standing before him. He jerked his head up to confirm what he was seeing, and sure enough, there you stood before him. Lucifer’s heart nearly stopped- he couldn’t believe you were...you. Were you hurt? how did you escape the hands of the demon who he was so sure had hurt you? As his eyes moved in and out of focus, he saw your silhouette shift along with it. One moment, he saw you unscathed, dressed in the clean silken pajama set that you had been wearing earlier. But the next, your form changed to one that was littered in bites and bruises, blood seeping from between your legs, silk torn and hanging from various parts of your body.  Lucifer couldn’t trust either sight, and chose to assume the latter was the truth. 

He jerked his upper body back, nearly knocking Mammon off of him, but the 2nd oldest regained control rather quickly. Lucifer watched as you moved forward. He met your gaze, pleading with you to give him a sign you were okay- that you hadn’t just been brutally abused like he was surely convinced of. A look of sorrow passed by your eyes as the dim light of the room flickered. 

Your eyes left his for a brief moment to look up to the individual who had him subdued- the individual he now knew was Mammon. “Mammon, Let him go.” 

“Mc, are ya fucking insane?!” Lucifer snarled in response to Mammon’s words, his teeth once again digging into the floor. He continued wrestling with him, trying desperately to free himself so he can assess you for injuries and hold you in his arms. 

I need to make sure she’s okay.

“Restraining him isn’t helping.” Lucifer felt the hurt in your tone in his heart. You needed him, and Mammon was preventing that. He jerked again, feeling Mammon’s knee jam back into his abdomen, causing another pained wail to escape his throat. 

“Did ya even see Levi?! He could’ve killed him!”

...Levi? Did the demon go after his brother too??

“You don’t understand what he’s capable of like this. What makes ya think that you’re so special that he wouldn’t try to hurt ya?!”

Lucifer gritted his teeth as his head pounded, the confusion, the fear, and the anger he felt producing an awful migraine. What was he talking about? 

“Mammon, I am not asking. Let him go. That is an order.”

Lucifer felt Mammon’s legs tremble around his abdomen, and suddenly release their grip. He felt the 2nd oldest move off of him, and heard his sudden sporadic foot-falls as he backed against the wall behind him. He was shocked you had been so brazen in your use of the pact magic, but clearly you did it because you needed him.

Lucifer snapped himself out of his thoughts and returned his focus to you. As he tried to raise off of the floor, his arm gave out beneath him. He felt the muscle treads tear beneath his skin, and he gritted his teeth to subdue more wails at the agonizing pain he was feeling. He continued thrashing, trying to move himself in other ways. Words were exchanged between you and Mammon, but he couldn’t focus enough to hear them.

I need to keep her safe. I have to get to her. I have to focus.

"Luci..."

Lucifer's eyes widened at the saccharine sound of your voice. He snapped his eyes up to meet yours. Your irises shook slightly, indicating your fear. Surely this means she’s been through immense torture, his thoughts continued asserting the worst. His movements stilled, loose feathers from his wings raining down gently around your silhouette. Lucifer reached his hand forward, claws digging into in the floor desperation. 

I...I can’t reach her...

Lucifer felt tears sting his eyes at the realization that you were just barely out of reach. He dropped his head to the floor, a hiss escaping through his gritted teeth at how weak he was. His anger and fear festered, threatening to burst until...

Lucifer let out a barely audible gasp as he felt your fingers brush his horns. He froze, thinking he had imagined it for a moment. But then he felt your pads trace down the twists until reaching his scalp. Lucifer felt his heartbeat slow as your fingers sift through his hair. He felt his chest vibrate slightly, producing a pleased purr from deep inside his vocal cords. He nuzzles into your hand, desperate for more of the calming touch. 

"Luci, it’s okay....I'm here." your soft voice melted like butter in his ears. The sound was enough to motivate him to try to reach you one last time.

with a sharp inhale, he gripped the floor in his claws and pulled his body forward with all the strength he had left. Lucifer pulled you into his arms, holding you flush against his body. He felt the rapid beating of your heart from the pulse point in your neck that his lips were barely grazing. 

She’s alive...She’s safe...

Suddenly, tears dripped from Lucifer’s eyes. They rolled off his cheek and plopped on your shoulders. He squeezes you tighter as you return his embrace, shuddering sobs escaping his throat as you rub his back gently. He felt so much pain, so much fear, and so much relief all at once, that it was completely over whelming. He attempted to curtain you both with his wings, trying to make it feel as if you were the only two individuals in the universe in this moment. he pressed his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips, finding further relief in how real your body felt under his touch. 

“Shh, It’s alright. We’re safe.” 

Lucifer sighs, nuzzling further into your neck as more tears burst from his eyes. 

He couldn’t quite tell when Mammon had left the room. He was too captivated by your soothing voice and the gentle brush of your fingers against the base of his wings and the nape of his neck. Lucifer felt as if he had been locked in the embrace for hours... and yet he also felt as if it had only been mere seconds as you were trying to pull away.

Lucifer gripped you tighter as panic over took him once more. He couldn't let you go. What if you got hurt again? He would never be able to live calmly until he knew for sure the demon was nowhere to be found in the House. He would overturn every piece of furniture and search every crevasse if it meant keeping you safe.

"Lucifer..." your tranquil voice pulled him back from his thoughts. "Its okay. I'm not going anywhere. Let go."

Lucifer sucked in a breath, his grip unwavering from your hips. He couldn't do it.

You sigh, trailing a finger across his back. "Please, let go."

Lucifer felt his pact mark flicker slightly and his arms released their grip against his best efforts to try to resist. You pulled back from him slightly, though remained close enough to feel his hot, cinnamon-scented breath on against your face as his breaths became rapid and deep.

You cup his face in your hands, brushing away the tears still falling delicately with your thumbs. Lucifer stares deeply into your eyes, finding a sense of relief in the nurturing way you were looking at him.

"Lu...what happened?" You inquire gently, careful not to make any assumptions on his level of lucidity.

He sighs, dropping his eyes from yours for a moment. "The demon...he was here."

Your body tenses, and Lucifer takes immediate notice. He grips your waist with his uninjured arm in an attempt to pull you against him once more, but you stop him.

"H-he...he..." Lucifer stuttered, trying to find the words to explain what he had seen. He assumed that your inquiry into what had transpired meant that the demon hadn't actually hurt you, and his vision began to consistently show how you truly were dressed- mostly clean in your black silken pajamas, with the exception of the stains from the blood on Lucifer's hands and his tears.

You brush your thumb against his cheek bone, giving him a small nod. "Its okay...take your time."

Lucifer sighed, taking a few deep breaths before speaking. "He threatened to hurt you again. And I...I couldn't let him do that. I tried to kill him again- to make sure he was dead...but Mammon stopped me." He paused, swallowing hard before his intense orbs locked onto yours. "I thought he had hurt you again."

Your eyes soften and you hum in response to his statements. Lucifer's lip trembled slightly as he tried to maintain his composure.

"Lucifer..." you sigh, your grip on his face tightening as you brought his forehead down to meet yours. "That wasn't real."

Lucifer raised an eyebrow at you. "W-what?"

You pulled away slightly, firmly locking onto his gaze. "That wasn't real. Im not sure what happened to you, but that wasn't real. The demon that you thought you saw...that was Levi."

Lucifer's breathing rate increased as panic began to seep into his chest he heaved slightly as he shook his head, jerking away from your touch. A small whimper escaped his throat before he spoke. "No...No- that cant be...he was here. Mc, I saw him!"

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to think of a way to convince him. When you open your eyes, you see Lucifer staring at his hands, which were trembling violently. You gasp and place his hands in yours, gripping them tightly in an attempt to provide him some reassurance.

"I...I hurt him." Lucifer stared at you blankly.

"What?" You blinked, trying to understand what he was saying

Lucifer looked up at you, his eyes showing intense fear. The real images from his hallucinations fading into the forefront of his mind. He saw Levi, pinned below him with a deep, bloody gash on his face. His expression was terrified, and he babbled desperately for Lucifer to snap out of his delusional state.

"Levi...I..I could've killed him" at the acknowledgement at what he'd actually done, Lucifer completely broke down in tears, pained wails escaping his throat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 16

Tags for those who requested: @kairikazu05 @siniy606 @yukariutena @raeraekubs @hobin-gnoblin ​ @shawnmendeslmfao @hatsunemiku2025 @katesatterfield @sg-artem @theeonlyroman @luvlyash @wonder-alien @ryuksexlover @svnflowery @saharahsbliss

[tj-wrote-things]

𝐇𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝗼

Nikolai Lantsov x fem!Grisha!reader

Based off of this ask

A/N- Hey besties, this is kinda late,, and i hate it but only a little bit. Can you guys like -stop requesting arguments??? pls its breaking my heart.

Mega thanks to @itisroe e for being my editor and shoulder to whine on :)

*Id like to take a moment to say that Nikolai is a bit of a dick in this one, and id like to reiterate that its never okay to invalidate or insult a so. I dont condone that type of behavior, im just writing it

enjoy:)

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If there was one thing Nikolai Lantsov knew how to do, it was pout. You caught him— more than just a few times— slouched over on the blush red couch with his arms crossed, face smushed into a scowl as he studied you packing your bag.

You sighed, casting an increasingly irritated glance at him as you folded the coarse cloth of your winter coat and tucked it away with the rest of your belongings. The weight would be too much to bear, but you knew it would be cold up north where you were headed alongside Zoya and the Bataars. 

“I’m leaving at dawn, whether you like it or not, Sobachka.” 

The King looked away briefly at your words, hating understanding that you were right. He hauled himself out of his seat and redirected his sulking to the world outside the large window. It was beautifully blanketed in steadily falling snow. 

“Will you really make our last night together a bitter one?” you commented.

“It wouldn’t be our last night if you’d just let me come with you,” Nikolai huffed. 

You exhaled, dreading that this would be the third time you had this discussion, which, in his world, was more so a debate.

The reason was simple: Nikolai had no business accompanying them. The objective of the mission to Fjerda was a peace treaty between the Drüskelle and the Grisha populous. As Nikolai fit neither category, it had been decided that he would stay back and continue to hold the country together.

“We’ve been through this: to bring more people on the expedition would only irritate the Fjerdans. Especially, the king of a country with which they’ve been at war for a considerable amount of time,” you reiterated. 

Nikolai shook his head again, unwilling to accept it. He refused to welcome the fact that the love of his long life would be away and in perpetual danger for weeks. 

The wind whistled as it bounded against the window, filling the room with a violent creaking.

“It’s dangerous, Y/N, why can you not understand—” 

You cut him off swiftly as his voice began to rise, “You watch that tone, Lantsov, or I’ll—” 

Now, it was Nikolai’s turn to cut you off: “You’ll what? Leave early?” The young man turned to you from the window and met your incredulous gaze. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. We both know it's your only vice.”

“My only vice,” you mocked cynically. “In what regard?” 

Nikolai spread his arms patronizingly as if he were explaining the obvious to his childhood self.

“Your heart craves adulation,” he said, pointing a sharp, accusatory finger your way. “You’ll take any opportunity to leave Os Alta— leave me— and flaunt your gifts.” 

Your heart thudded heavily in your chest. In anger or despair, you could not tell.

You would not lie to yourself. You knew with all your heart that, all things considered, your mastery of the Small Science was a blessing, hidden behind the mask of a devil. In the days you served faithfully in the Second Army, your gifts were revered and you were respected in the highest regard amongst your Grisha peers. However, in the years following the war, you became like everybody else. 

It was at the behest of your husband that you progressively began to use your power as an Inferni less as the days passed. Ever the political mastermind, he had approached you one summer evening and begged you refrain from using your power in public, claiming that the presence of a Grisha Queen was too much for his fragile country to bear. In the beginning, you had agreed, for if there was one thing that surpassed your love for your husband, it was your shared love for Ravka.

You knew that relations between the Grisha and the others were strained, and so you agreed, taking your husband's hand and promising to limit the displays of glowing orange flames which had burned your enemies as well as warmed the hands of your allies. 

It was becoming increasingly difficult to train behind a closed gate, under a roof, beneath the watchful eye of First Army guards armed with fire extinguishers. In fact, it had grown so stifling you had begun to resemble Alina Starkov when first she came to the Little Palace, with her pallor skin and brittle locks.

You brushed the aforementioned hair, now soft and healthy from the effects of tailoring, behind your ear as you placed the brush down and sharpened your stare at Nikolai’s face, shrouded in silver shadows from the icy light of the moon.

“Craves adulation,” you grumbled, knowing that if your voice rose any higher, it would betray every emotion storming around your heart. “Have a look in the mirror, Nikolai, and tell me which of us truly fits your description.”

His description, in all its insulting glory, fit Nikolai Lantsov to the tee.

Nikolai Lantsov, who would smile and wave to a crowd with a Sun Summoner on his arm, allowing you to watch with disdain from your place on a horse beside Mal. Nikolai Lantsov, who would hide behind a pair of gloves to escape the truth of what he had become. Nikolai Lantsov, who had pushed his wife into a state of sickness, albeit unknowingly, sacrificing her life’s blood for the sake of his country.

Nikolai Lantsov, who resolutely shook his head, running a hand through the already dishevelled hair on his head, before waving it dismissively, as if swatting a fly. “Please. You’d flick your hands for anyone who’d ask— if they clapped hard enough.” Nikolai moved for the bookshelf, drawing out a novel as if his words were mere small talk with an old friend.

Your anger blurred to shock. “Flick my hands—”

“Honestly, you take every opportunity to flaunt it. I’m surprised the Little Palace is still standing after having you inside for twenty years!” 

There was no sense to his vile declarations now. Though, Nikolai could not see it. The anger, betrayal, and frustration at being left behind were all that clouded his boyish mind as he hurled one unkind word after the other.

“Nikolai,” You moved towards him, arm outstretched, eyes beginning to water. “Lapushka, please—” As your hand approached his, the storm heavier than ever. He wrenched his arm away from you, leering his head back to look you in the eyes.

“Truly, I can’t be sure why you haven’t left already.”

“For saints’ sake, Nikolai. Look at me!”

The dam broke as you flicked your hands, removing the tailoring to your appearance, unveiling the truth of your restrictions.

Nikolai stared with an open mouth and hard eyes as the warm winter flush of your cheeks was replaced with dulled skin, and the sleek shine of your hair was redefined with a brittle and unkempt bush.

“The only person from whom I crave adulation,” you whispered, “is the only man who’s too thick to look past a wavering mask.”

The Lantsov King swallowed, flipping the book restlessly in his hands. “Y/N—”

“Get out.” You left no room for him to argue, even when he opened his mouth once more. “I said leave!” You stalked to the door, pulling it open with a loud shriek of wood. “Now.”

Nikolai Lantsov, who spent the night in a guest room, in a state of perpetual regret.

No amount of tossing and turning brought any comfort to his aching heart, nor his pounding head. He flopped halfheartedly in the guest bed, stiff from lack of use, and from lack of you, revisiting the disgusting words he’d spat. The reason for them, however unjustified, sat heavily on his chest, suffocating him at an agonizing rate.

Nikolai Lantsov, who was afraid that— like his mother and father— you would grow to resent his blood, resent it for its stark difference to yours. The fear that you would  regret your marriage to what your people called an otkazat’sya: the abandoned.

The King figured it was only a matter of time before the title served him fully. 

It was reasonable, wasn’t it? To lash out at a time of vulnerability? Nikolai couldn’t be sure, having grown up in a family of despots who had never given him the time of day when it mattered most. 

Watching the tailored facade fall from his wife’s face, Nikolai was reminded solely of his mother, who, like you, was coerced into moulding her face into that of the perfect queen, at the behest of her husband. He knew then that all he had said and done was wrong. Wrong to her, and wrong to her people.

How could he bring himself to apologize? To walk into their bedroom and beg forgiveness? Would she forgive him? Even if he stooped— a king in tears and on his knees for the woman he loved perhaps more ardently than the country he vowed to govern— would she, in all her scorned glory, crouch beside him, take his face in her hands, and kiss away his regret?

Could he expect her to?

Dawn came around all too swiftly, rousing husband and wife from their fitful sleep in separate rooms, and with it came your departure to the northern lands.

You stood side-by-side with Nikolai as the carriages were loaded with provisions, luggage, and gifts for the Drüskelle, refusing to look at him. Instead, digging fruitlessly in your shoulder bag as an excuse to keep your head down.

The call came from the footman as the time arrived for you to leave. You didn’t make it more than one step forward with your hand gripping the leather strap of your bag before a firm grasp was on your waist.

“Wait,” whispered Nikolai, tugging you back. He cast a glance at the guard, letting him know that they would need a moment. “I can’t let you leave— not like this.” 

You held your gaze to the floor. Gently, he tilted your head back up with his thumb and forefinger. “Not now, not when you can barely look at me,” he continued. You held his stare as his hand shifted tentatively towards your jaw. “Not when I can’t be sure you won't come back to me, Milaya.”

You sniffled softly at the nickname, moving your own hand to his face and pausing to tuck away a loose golden curl.

“Please come back to me,” he said softly as if he were sharing a secret. There was an unspoken apology apparent in his reddening eyes while the seconds ticked by.

“Of course,” you murmured back, tipping his head down as you pecked his brow, then his cheek. “Nikolai, there’s not a thing in this world that could keep me away from you.”

You kissed him soundly, your hand running across the expanse of his jaw as he leaned into the tender forgiveness settled in your palm. When you broke apart, Nikolai took your hand from his face. He kissed your palm and walked you to your carriage. The King watched with concerned eyes as you took your seat.

Nikolai kissed your hand once more from his place on the ground and looked up at you. “Swear you’ll write,” he said. “Or I’ll crash the proceedings.”

You barked a hearty laugh, squeezing his hand as he tried to let you go. “I will,” you promised. “And I’ll see you when I come back.”

It was another moment before you let go of his hand. His palm hit the carriage door bearing the Lantsov crest. You watched as the carriage travelled further and further away, Nikolai’s frame disappearing into the horizon. 

“I promise,” you whispered.

•

•

•

[sukirichi]

earned it [06]

Gojo Satoru is a firm believer that if you work hard for it then you shall earn it. But on the other side, he’s not unfamiliar with his own sins. He also believes that there is punishment due for his sins as he’s earned it.

cw. attempted murder and suicide, angst ig i feel nothing at this point because NAOYA 😭

notes. i’m rolling with the earned it jokes that reader is shippable with everyone so HAH enjoy this chapter because I didn’t enjoy the last LMAO (IM SO EXCITED FOR TOJI TO APPEAR!)

series masterlist

Your muscles throbbed, the pounding of your heart felt even through your skin. You’ve spent hours in the training room, taking punch by punch, landing blow by blow – yet no matter how hard you tried, you kept falling on your ass. At this point, your backside was beyond sore, skin drenched with sweat and clothes sticking uncomfortably to the surface. Meanwhile, your ‘savior’ barely felt the need to catch his breath, instead gazing down at you with disappointment written all over his face.

“Why do you expect so much from me?” you panted, fists clenched on the mat. “Didn’t you tell me you just needed me to get your money back and that’s it? I didn’t ask for you to do anything so stop telling me I’m indebted to you all the time.”

Naoya clicked his tongue, clearly disappointed by your lack of resolve. Above you, he swept up his cane and finally balanced himself. You previously thought he didn’t struggle because he looked so calm and composed, easily overpowering you even with his injury, but his lips were strained, jaw clenched tight that perhaps he was just good at concealing his pain. It made you shut up and watch his every move; his back faced you – probably to hide whatever fleeting moment of vulnerability he had.

“I won’t always be there to save your sorry life,” he said calmly, “You need to learn how to be strong on your own no matter how tough it gets. Now if you’ll keep complaining instead of finishing your training, I could happily lock you up and force you to do my dirty work for me.”

“Then why don’t you go ahead?!”

“I don’t want to,” Naoya responded without missing a beat. He easily closed the distance with a few staggered steps, his head tilted to the side as he surveyed you.

You wondered what went through his mind. Did he see a weak woman? A woman who must be so helpless, so useless that you stayed there, legs too tired and muscles aching too much you couldn’t move? There was no telling with Naoya, and his guarded gaze didn’t help either. Satoru had always been difficult to read at most, but with Naoya – it was practically impossible.

Even as he cupped your chin and twisted it sideways, his eyes narrowed over all your features like he saw something you didn’t, he was too guarded.

“I need you in taking down Gojo Satoru. In order to accomplish that, I have to use his weakness against him. You showing up won’t be enough. No, I want to hurt him…and what better way than to take what was once his, right? Dangle right in front of his eyes what he let go of, make him regret his actions?” his smile turned dark, and for the first time since you’ve met him, you got a glance of what his heart really looked like.

It wasn’t true that Naoya was heartless – no, he just had a dark, sinister heart that didn’t beat the same tune as others. He played his own music with the bones of his enemies, drinking their lifeline from a gold cup and drowning in them, his ominous laughter the perfect antithetical melody of what could’ve been angelic hums.

“Don’t you want that?”

His question made your heart skipped a beat. This whole time, you’ve been so hell bent on achieving something, but what you wanted to reach had never been clear. You were too driven by emotions, by the pain Satoru’s absence had caused, and now that the opportunity was presented before you, you faltered.

“I don’t know what I want.”

“Well, if you ask me what I want…” he tilts your chin up with his finger “It would be to see you strong enough that even you would be capable of taking me down. So be strong, keep fighting – I’ll be there with you every step of the way. You only have one job, and that is to live. I am not allowing you to give up at the slightest of minor inconveniences.”

“And if I get weak?” you questioned with an oscillating tremor, the bite of his cold skin against your heated ones spiking. “If I want to give up? Would I fail you then?”

“I don’t think you’re someone who cares about failing others, so don’t fret whether you’d please me or not,” Just like that, Naoya’s scornful tone had risen again. He let go of you until you dropped down to your palms, blinking back at the sudden change of atmosphere. “Like I said, just do what you need to do, keep going. Don’t look back or be afraid to take the next big step because I’ll always be there right beside you.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“I’m not asking you to, princess,” he snickered, already half way to the door that only he was allowed to go in. Even though you’ve been staying in his manor for quite some time, there were still some things Naoya didn’t trust you with, leaving you only more curious to find out the secrets within.

“Only time will tell. But once you’ve made your decision, know that my ring is always waiting beside your table,” his voice echoed through the large room, stopping in his tracks to look at you once more. This time, he had no haunting features, only the cold emptiness likened to staring back to an infinite void of nothingness.

“I expect an answer when I get home.”

You still remembered the day you decided to wear his ring. Naoya had come then, tired and aggravated from matters he didn’t bother explaining. You stood on his doorway, lips shut tight as you nervously fiddled with your ring, unsure if whether you should tell him or allow him to piece the puzzle himself.

Thankfully, Naoya was a lot more observant than you gave him credit for.

His eyes slid over your face before he followed the motion of your fingers, smirking as the jewel glinted under the bright lights of his home. Wise choice, he’d once told you, and you believed it.

Your life hadn’t been the same ever since. Your spontaneous marriage equated to hellish training of perfecting your image as his trophy wife, spending hours in his secret laboratory and discussing business plans through a glass of wine. Naoya wasn’t around much to teach you everything and it pained him to be your own trainer too so you had to ask help from his guards, refusing to give up and fall down even as your muscles screamed at you to take a break. For Naoya, with Naoya, giving up and running away felt like a myth; a buried solution in the past that should never be brought up again. But now that he was gone, you did exactly that.

You’d given up. Satoru had made you run away.

“Miss,” a deep voice cut you from your thoughts. You tore your gaze away from the  glowing night city of Milan to turn to Satoru’s right hand man, the tall figure looming rather shyly instead of imposingly. “You haven’t eaten since we got here. Would you like anything? Mr. Gojo will cover your expenses.”

“I want to go home.”

He froze at your deadpan statement. Finally meeting your gaze under his lashes, Geto pursed his lips. “You know we can’t do that, Miss. It’s unsafe back in Japan.”

“And who’s to say Toji won’t follow us here?” you snapped, pushing your weight off the Cleopatra set and uncrossing your legs. “Why can’t your stupid boss just activate the account and give it back to us? I think we’ve made it clear we’re more than capable of handling our finances, and I’m pretty sure Satoru doesn’t need any more money when he can afford all this.”

“Mr. Gojo…has his reasons for everything he does.”

You laughed bitterly. Maybe it was the fact that Satoru had left this morning for whatever business he had that you didn’t have anyone else to let your anger out to that you’d swiped your gun under your thigh holster and dashed his way.

Geto’s back slammed against the wall, the cool barrel of your gun pressed to his jaw. He swallowed nervously, eyes darting to your weapon, and you laughed heartlessly. “Oh, please, do tell because nothing makes sense,” you crooned, flipping the safety off and letting your heated gaze meet his rather docile ones. You almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“I could easily put a bullet through your head and hijack his plane. I’ll be gone before you know it and who’s to stop me from doing that? Why should I stay here any longer with you?”

“Because your husband asked you to,” Geto responded softly. You stepped back with wide eyes, yesterday’s event crashing all over you once again. He must’ve sensed you no longer held any hostility because he used his pointer finger to move the barrel away from him, gently peeling your hands off his suit. “Because you know, if you go back to Japan, there will be nothing waiting for you there.”

You balled your fists. “I will kill Fushiguro Toji myself. Then I’ll kill Satoru.”

“Even if he used to be your lover?”

“Especially because he used to be my lover.”

Okay…maybe your plan of escaping and returning to Japan hadn’t worked out that well. Exhaustion finally crept up to your senses that you passed out not long after attacking Geto – who reassured you to no end he wasn’t mad you tried to kill him – and days have passed ever since. You hated to admit it, but being stuck in an overseas hotel wasn’t so bad. Geto’s presence was a lot more comforting than his master’s that you didn’t mind having him watch your every move. Plus, he was really nice to immediately follow your every whim. You wanted hot chocolate? Extra pillows? A really expensive wine that you refused to pay for because you were petty and dramatic? He provided it all without question.

Except he probably should have, because you’d stripped off to your underwear, head tipped back to take one final swig of the nearly empty bottle as you slid deeper into the tub.

Your fiery nature of rolling your eyes at Satoru every time he came around (which was rare, for some reason) couldn’t fool anyone – not even yourself. The moment Geto retired to the living room, you would bite the pillows to muffle your cries, thinking back to when Naoya was still alive. It was an endless torment of what if you had stayed, what if you had pushed the rubble off him, what if you just saved him?

Would he still be alive? Would he have survived? Would you be back with him in the Zen’in Estate instead of holding your breath under the tub in a desperate attempt to conceal your tears?

It hurt so bad. It hurt everywhere.

Your lungs begged you to rise up and breathe, but you stayed still under the water, eyes shut tight and hands clenched around the tub’s edges so hard your knuckles turned white. Soon, you grew dizzy and your grip slipped away. Finally, fucking finally, you were falling, falling way too deep that your legs bent inside the tub. Bubbles erupted from your lips in one last breath. At the back of your mind, you let out a sincere laugh for you’d meet your husband soon. He’d be disappointed, probably scold you all the way to the afterlife – until strong arms pulled you out of the tub and into someone’s chest instead.

“Shit, what are you doing?! You could’ve drowned!”

You coughed out water and fisted Satoru’s button-up shirt that had now clung to his skin from the water. Looking around you, you were still very much alive, the uncomfortable twisting of your heart a painful reminder of that. Above you, Satoru sat you in his lap while he remained cross-legged on the floor, muttering curses under his breath as he wrapped a towel around you.

Scoffing, you pushed his hands away, though you kept the towel anyway to lessen your shivering. Why the fuck was the AC so damn strong here?

“Dying seems like a better option, don’t you think?” you snarled at him, teeth chattering from the chill that had begin to seep in.

Momentarily, you worried on how much of a hot mess you probably looked like. Smudged eyeliner, wine-stained lips, unbrushed hair and remnants of the wine mixing with the once clear bath water – you shook your head at the thought and glared at Satoru.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“I was out contacting friends to ask for help. We’re going to need a hundred pairs of eyes watching anywhere that Toji could possibly come through.”

“Is this your pathetic idea of ‘keeping me safe’? Locking me up in this stupid hotel and having your man watch me all the time?” you pushed yourself off him, the sudden motion of standing up giving you wobbly legs. Satoru reached over to steady you but you slapped his hand away, your glare warning him to not take another step.

Seeing his face, seeing him worried as if he didn’t just cause your life to turn into absolute hell, you wanted to grab the wine bottle and smash it right at his pretty face. He had no right to look at you with pity.

You hated him, utterly and terribly despised this man with your entire being.

“What are you really planning, Satoru? Why can’t we just come back home and attack Toji with all we’ve got? Why don’t you just give back our fucking money so we can end all this for once and for all and I can leave?!”

“Because I don’t have the money!”

“What?”

“The money…” Satoru’s back slid off the wall, his palm coming up to thread through his hair. He sounded weak, defeated. “I don’t have it.”

“Gojo,” you snatched him by the collar, teeth bared as you demanded, “What do you mean you don’t have it?”

Satoru paled. “When I stole the money from the Zen’ins, the figures were all fake. They’re not real, there’s no actual money hidden behind their accounts and it was too late before I realized that,” his lips trembled as he continued, “Whatever Toji placed in there, it’s not his actual account where he hides everything and it would make sense too because I stole it too easily – almost as if they wanted me to take it. A few hacks here and there and it was immediately wired to me but after meeting you…” Satoru shook his head, chin dropped down low. “I checked again and the account never existed. It’s a fake one. The digits are just there for show.”

“So then why would Toji want it? Why did my husband have to die for nothing?!”

“I don’t know, okay, I don’t know anything!” he argued back until your faces grew closer, his nose brushing with yours.

Somehow, you couldn’t pull away. His knees had drawn up, forcing you to rest on his thighs as you both breathed heavily, your grip on his collar almost havered.

“Whatever the Zen’ins are hiding, that’s beyond me. I may be in the business for far longer than they have, but they have always been notorious with their possessions that I’m not surprised even I can’t find where it really leads back to. Whatever Toji is hiding there, your husband must’ve known something about it. Why else would they fight tooth and bone over it?”

“If there was, Naoya would’ve told me about it.”

“He would if he trusted you,” Satoru suddenly grabbed your wrist and shook it until you stared at your ring. “How are you even so sure he could trust you with that information? Have you forgotten you’re just a pawn to his game and you’re nothing but a bed warmer?”

“Don’t you ever speak about us that way. You don’t know how much he cared for me.”

“If he really did, then why didn’t he tell you why his cousin is after you? He’s using you as bait, Y/N. I’m not the bad guy here. That man you’re so deeply in love with? I can’t guarantee he’s better than me. We’re all men in the mafia, love is the last thing we would care about.”

You pushed yourself off him.

His words stung too much, not because it was a lie, but because you know there was some sort of truth ringing behind it. You trudged out of the bathroom and sat on the bed, unstirred by the fact you dripped all over the carpeted floor. From behind you, Satoru’s rushed footsteps echoed, but you didn’t care. You simply threw on a robe with your back turned to him.

“And you’d know that better than everyone right? Considering how easy it was for you to leave me?” When Satoru didn’t respond, you chuckled humorlessly and sat on the bed. “What Naoya and I had…it was a friendship that healed my soul. I don’t…I don’t know what to do without him.”

“Friendship?”

You smiled sadly. “I wasn’t actually in love with him, idiot. Men like Naoya don’t know what love is, but he sure does know how to protect family.”

The notion of talking about him, of accepting that maybe he really was gone…somewhat reliving.

Satoru was the last person you wanted to talk to your late husband about, but Geto – which is the much better company – wasn’t around, and you hugged your knees to yourself, refusing to let Satoru see through your vulnerability.

“You know, I trusted him more than I did myself. He was always there for me, no matter what. His soul was dark, angry, corrupted – he’s not the man I would fall for, but despite all that, he was the friend I needed,” you buried your face in your knees, voice muffled as you cried, your heart shattering again and again and again.

The ring on your finger had never felt so heavy ever since you wore it.

“I loved him as much as I hated you.”

Satoru was silent, so much so that you wondered if he was even in the same room at all. You sat there crying, too hopeless to even try to conceal it anymore. Shivering, you close your eyes and forced the image of Naoya’s last moments away from your memories, desperately praying to whoever had mercy that you could just forget all about it.

“Geto told me you tried to kill him,” Satoru murmured after a beat, “You could’ve easily escaped and went back to Japan if you wanted to, so why didn’t you? Was it because of me?”

You remembered what you tried to do today.

Just like that, Naoya was alive once more. You were brought back to the day of your wedding when he’d clasped your sweaty, clammy hands in his, rubbing some warmth in them before pressing a kiss at the top of your knuckles. He’d asked you to promise him something then – an entire contrast from his constants orders over your well-being – and it was a promise you’d momentarily forgotten; a promise you’d broken out of mourning.

“Naoya once told me,” you reminisced through dry, cracked lips and even more shattered heart, the picture of his disappointment as clear as day. “Death was the only place he can go where he would never allow me to follow.”

It took a lot, but it somehow got better. After allowing yourself a faint moment of weakness where Naoya resurfaced in your mind to remind you of our promise and your purpose, you felt stronger, somewhat steadier with each step you took. You were still wary around Satoru, although that was a given.

His friend, Geto, was really nice, on the other hand, and you couldn’t explain why you always lowered your guard around the formal dark-haired assistant.

You and Geto were playing chess when Satoru barged in out of nowhere, a plate and a syrup condenser on his hand. “So I got you breakfast,” was his greeting, nodding at Geto once as a silent order to give you two privacy. You pouted as the latter left, but soon your attention had been diverted to the heavenly aroma filling in your senses. Seeing your approval, Satoru hid a smile behind his dark sunglasses. “Still like pancakes?”

“Trying to get into my good graces now?”

“I’m just trying to cheer you up.”

You rolled your eyes but snatched the plate from him anyway. “So I talked to my lawyer,” you begun, pouring syrup all over the fluffy bread until it was almost spilling to the sides. Beside you, Satoru’s snickers were barely muffled, to which you ignored wholeheartedly. “They’ve already processed my inheritance over Naoya’s possessions and assets. Once we return to Japan, I’ll be the next leader of the Zen’in Clan, much to the disappointment of his elders, of course, but they can’t do anything about it,” you informed him with your fork hanging in mid-air, the words falling thickly. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

“That we’re back to being enemies?”

You offered him a sarcastic smile. “Naoya lied about strengthening his alliance with your family. He doesn’t actually give a fuck about you.”

“I figured that much,” he snickered to himself, shifting his weight until his elbows rested on his thighs. “Listen…a friend of mine is flying to Milan tonight to meet us. They have strong connections with banks all over the world and they brought in some information about that hidden Zen’in account. I think we’re finally getting off to somewhere and finding out what really is in there,” Satoru gauged for your reaction, but you kept eating – more like stuffing the pancakes inside your mouth for you were finally free of having to act perfect without your husband.

Satoru’s hand landed on top of yours. “I promise…I’ll give it back to right where it belongs. As soon as it’s wired back to you, I’m setting you free.”

You stared at the unwanted figure over you, and you snatched your hand back, waving a bread knife below his lashes. “You can’t set me free when I was never yours,” you sang breathily, the tip of the blade hovered right at his lips. Satoru raised a brow at you, but you quickly retrieved the knife back with widened eyes. “Now that you mention it…I think Naoya told me something about his family stashing secret weapons and even heirlooms through offshore accounts and buried under islands. He was a little sleepy during that time but I remember it,” pushing the plate away from you as you lost your appetite, you clutched your palms under your chin in thought. “He said he was looking for something he lost as a child, possibly an heirloom.”

“He’s doing all this for heirlooms?” Satoru immediately coughed his words back when you glared at him, raising his hands in surrender. “I mean, I was just saying. I didn’t think he was a sentimental type of guy.”

“The question here is what both Toji and Naoya could’ve both wanted from that account. It’s not just an heirloom, obviously there’s something there worth more than money,” You argued and slapped your knees, heading straight to your (unfortunately) shared room. “Whatever. I’ll get this over with as soon as I get the money back.”

Satoru, as always, was hot on your heels. It annoyed you how he trailed over you like some sort of puppy or shadow – Naoya had always been too classy to not give you space.

The difference between them just kept getting more and more uncannily obvious.

“Whoa there, stop. Did you really think I’d give back the money to you and that’s it? Are you forgetting the fact Toji is out there to kill you just so he can have his hands on it?”

“He can have the money for all I fucking care,” you shrugged and sat on your bed, scrolling through numerous piles of emails and records that Naoya entrusted you to keep. Surely you could find something. “I just need to find whatever Naoya’s spent his whole life killing for.”

“Why don’t you care about the money? Didn’t Naoya expect you to take over his business?”

Your thumb froze over a file. Suddenly, your throat grew dry, and you quickly flashed Satoru a stinky eye. “I-it’s not my main concern.”

“It’s not safe for you. If Toji finds out—”

Got it. You bookmarked an email Naoya had forwarded you around three years ago and resent it to an old friend, pocketing the phone back to your pyjamas before Satoru could see. “I’ll handle it. I’ve been doing well so far before you came into our lives again,” you finalized, stopping for a bit as you waited for that all-too familiar footfall matching with yours, only for the room to be coated in silence.

Satoru stood there on the other side of the room, eyes deep in thought before he sighed. “I’ll meet you at the hotel restaurant tonight. We have a lot to discuss on what our next move should be,” nodding once, Satoru left the room.

The hotel room was eerily silent.

Dinner came around faster than you expected. With Geto out to run some errands for Satoru, something about ‘establishing bases’ or whatever, you were locked in your room, using Naoya’s black card to get enough amount of clothing to last you for your stay here. Even though Satoru had promised he’d take care of everything, you didn’t want to be in his debt for any longer. You weren’t his, you were Naoya’s, and you shot down his curious looks when heaps of shopping bags had been delivered to your door.

An hour later, you left the room, struggling to zipper the back of your dress. Satoru was already in the living room buttoning up his suit jacket, just as handsome as ever (though you’d never tell him that.)

His hands froze in the last button once his eyes landed on you, and you huffed at him, too distressed to even act cute or bothered while pointing to your dress. Satoru strode to you in three long steps, his cold fingers brushing against the dip of your spine when he clutched on the zipper.

You had to bite your lip down to prevent the shivers from spilling through, his lips dangerously close to your ear as he whispered, “You look great.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

If Satoru was bothered by the lack of sincerity in your voice, he didn’t comment on it. He removed his hands from you and watched as you slipped black velvet gloves through your arms – just in case you had to end up killing someone; leaving fingerprints was a risk you couldn’t take.

“Did you really get dressed to kill?”

“I came here to negotiate,” you corrected, “I’ll do everything I can to find out whatever’s behind that offshore account. And you, sir,” Frowning at him, you pulled Satoru closer by the tie, perhaps a little too harshly since he nearly knocked his head with yours. He was quick to steady himself as you fixed his tie, flattening it down with your fingers. “You need to know where you should stick your nose in. This is more my business than yours so don’t get in my way acting all hero and shit. I assure you I can handle myself.”

“You’re really going to berate me for worrying about you?”

“You can no longer worry about me,” you disclosed, snatching your black purse from the counter before doing the come hither motion at his shock-still figure. “Now let’s go. We have a case to crack.”

“Case to crack? You sure sound like a detective.”

You snickered, but made no further comment. The elevators dinged and you arrived at the restaurant, which you really regretted not visiting soon enough because the place was grand. Red carpeted floors, golden chandeliers, soft jazz music playing in the background as the lights dimmed down low, the faint clinking of utensils against plates and light chatter of the guests so heartbreakingly nostalgic.

It seemed that even after his death, Naoya had every intention to never leave your side. The setting reminded you too much of your never-ending late night fancy dinners.

Naoya being Naoya, he didn’t blink twice in flaunting his money and renting out entire restaurants all for himself, claiming that he just ‘wanted to have an intimate moment with his wife.’ Sure, it mostly consisted of you discussing what move you should make next, but it was the most affectionate gesture you’ve received after spending years in the quiet and cold environment of the Zen’in Estate.

The outside world wasn’t any better when you and Naoya were marked as targets by the entire government, so it made sense, that only with him that you’d find comfort in.

You must be so out of it you never even noticed Satoru leading you to your seat, a warm meal that should’ve been comforting right under your nose. It was too much – too similar that you headed straight for the wine, ignoring Satoru’s questioning gaze. You noticed from the corner of his eye that he opened his mouth too many times in an attempt to make light conversation, but this dinner wasn’t for you to rekindle your old flame.

No, you were here to wait for his ‘friend’ and review important matters. You were determined to fulfill that purpose alone and only that alone that you never once made eye contact with him, even standing up to reach the salt shaker near him instead of asking him to pass it.

Just as you leaned back to your seat, the music grew louder. A foreign man walked to the stage where he was basked in the spotlight, all heads turning to him when he tapped the microphone, sending little echoes all over the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s loosen up tonight with a drink and bring our lovers out here on the dance floor,” he sang while swaying side to side, snapping his fingers to the beat that had turned into calming to sensual. “It is a fine evening, isn’t it? Come on, don’t be shy, the night is still so young!”

You dropped your fork beside the plate. “Did you know about this?”

“I swear, I had no idea.”

“Those two attractive lovers in table 42, the dance floor is still much too spacious!”

“Pretty vulgar for a five star hotel,” you commented under your breath and dabbed the pasta sauce off your lips with a napkin, slapping it down the table as you stood up – much to Satoru’s surprise who’d tried to make himself invisible from the host’s eyes. Stupid him; did he really think he could blend in with his sunglasses and snow white hair?

If you were to be honest, you’d rather choke on shrimp than dance with him, but you had an image to upkeep. If you couldn’t gather with the crowd and pretend to be one with others, both your true natures would be fished out even with innocent eyes. You were left with no choice but to be comfortable in the dance floor, sighing deeply as you placed your hands down on Satoru’s wide shoulders. He furrowed his brows at you but said nothing else; strong, cautious hands sliding down from your back before they settled at the curve of your hips.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Mister. I won’t hesitate to stab a fork through your jugular right here.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I know you’re not my little angel anymore.”

Angel. It was what he used to call you back then – when you were still but an innocent, naïve being who never believed in monsters until you fell for one.

He was right; you were no longer his angel. The woman he loved had been left abandoned in the street, the purity of her soul tainted with anger and heartbreak that soon bathed in blood and the need for revenge. His angel was no more – the woman he danced with was nothing but a replica of the face and body he adored the most. Now, you danced with him, not as his angel and neither as his rival’s wife, but simply as a woman whose kindness had long vanished into thin air.

Satoru danced with the devil.

And he should be disgusted just as you should be repulsed with how sickeningly smooth and graceful he was in everything he did, but the wine – yes, it was the fucking wine – messed with you that you actually enjoyed it. Your bodies moved in rhythm and syncopated with the beat, the romantic high notes of the violin and the tender embrace of deep trebles like a classical painting coming to life and you were its subjects to be expressed.

Perhaps…you were just sad. You grieved and mourned too much you’d momentarily forgot what love was, in turn making you forget what it felt like to be constantly unsafe and peeking over your shoulder in case someone tried to kill you.

Satoru just felt so warm, so safe and alive that you found your head dipping lower, your muscles relaxing around his soothing and undeniably tender touch, the space between your bodies diminishing until you surrendered to the power of your desire. You were so close, your ear about to press on his chest to listen to the blissful sound of someone’s reassuring heartbeat along with the music, and then you saw him.

A tuft of blonde hair, a chiseled face, a nude cream suit and a deep blue shirt beneath – what the fuck was he doing here?

The spell was broken in an instant.

Satoru must’ve been under the same trance for his hand trailed lower to pull you closer, your chests grazing with one another before you placed your palm flat on his body, lips thinned into a grim look that resonated with the sick, twisting feeling in your guts.

“I,” you croaked out, clearing your throat when it went dry. “I need to go to the ladies.”

You left Satoru without another word, bunching your dress up to run to where he had disappeared. He was still walking coolly and inspecting the paintings hung in the empty lobby with faux interest – although knowing him, the bastard probably did enjoy classical pieces and studied about them in his free time; which he didn’t have much to begin with.

As if sensing your presence, he stopped right in front of a replica of The Sleeping Venus, his hands dug deep in his pockets. “The shape of being is the visual demonstration of a state of being in which idealized existence is suspended in immutable slow-breathing harmony. All the sensuality has been distilled off from this sensuous presence, and all incitement; Venus denotes not the act of love but the recollection of it. The perfect embodiment of Giorgione’s dream, she dreams his dream herself,” he narrates in his baritone voice, “A little cordial, is it not?”

You took your gun out from your thigh holster and lowered it right at the back of his skull. “Don’t move another inch.”

“No need to be so hostile in a public setting, Y/N. I’m only here to look out for you and making sure you’re not forgetting who you are. Killing me isn’t part of the plan.”

“Neither was murdering my husband,” you growled, pushing the barrel harder against him, though the man didn’t budge before you. “I know that it wasn’t Toji who set off the bomb, Kento, you did.”

“We simply saw an opportunity that couldn’t be wasted. Two notorious mafia leaders in an unsuspecting supposed safe environment?” The fact he didn’t even deny it left you speechless. Kento spun around until your gun rested between his eyes, and he languidly pushed his glasses up his high nose as he looked down on you. “We could’ve killed two birds with one stone had you not been in the way.”

“You guys are out to kill me too now?”

“Don’t act too surprised. The Organization isn’t patient enough to wait for both leaders to die.”

“So you killed my husband?!” you argued, “He was my friend, I told you not to touch him!”

“Only in the exchange that you hand him to us,” Kento echoed, jogging your memory until you were kept up to date. “But it’s been five years and what has happened so far? You’re fraternizing with the enemy and even manufacturing drugs for your so-called husband. Now that he’s dead, you’re here in Italy, looking as stunning as ever as you wine and dine with a former lover,” Kento tilted his head to the side to study your appearance – smiling at how you seemed too bright and fashionable for a woman in supposed mourning.

“I hardly believe you’re actually affected by this at all.”

“How dare you! I’ve proven to no end my loyalty of the higher-ups!”

Kento didn’t bat an eye at your outburst. If anything, he stepped closer to your weapon. “Kill me if you wish, Y/N, but know the moment you put a bullet in my head, the Organization will place you on the same pedestal as Naoya’s and Gojo’s. I wouldn’t recommend such methods considering we’re already at unease on whose side you’re really on. If you do this, you will be our enemy.”

“I did everything for the Organization. What else would you want from me?”

“The contract was easy. We want both leaders – whether dead or alive – in our custody. If you don’t hold your side of the deal, it’s not only your life that we’ll take from you,” Kento pulled out a red coin that made your heart sink deep into your stomach for it served as a threat over the consequences of your actions.

He lowered your gun with the coin and smirked at you, his lips right beside the shell of your ear as he purred, “I suggest you be careful with what step of action you take next.”

“Oi, Nanami, you’re here!” Satoru’s voice suddenly boomed in the hallway. Nanami was as unbothered as ever from taking a step away from you, nodding to your gun which you quickly concealed right before Satoru arrived. You were frozen – rendered immobile with the flashing red metal from his palm – that you couldn’t even protest against Satoru wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “I see you’ve met Mrs. Zen’in already.”

“Hmm, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Madam,” taking your hand in his, Kento’s eyes were nothing but eerie as he kissed your knuckles. “Shall we start our discussion?”

SUKI RANTS! Nanami quoted Sydney Joseph Friedberg (an art critic) in one of his dialogues. A little backstory on the painting was that the portrait was originally made by Giorgone, who had a student and also his lover (if I’m not mistaken) called Titian. Giorgone never finished the portrait because he died from the plague but Titiane finished it for him, symbolizing that Y/N still has a mission that connected her from Naoya even after his death and she has to finish something he started. The portrait is of a nude woman that symbolized oneness of nature and that the woman isn’t posed for the gaze of men, but rather they are dreaming, hence the quote: “Venus denotes not the act of love but the recollection of it. The perfect embodiment of Giorgione’s dream, she dreams his dream herself.” Nanami said the painting’s meaning resonated with Y/N’s situation too much since she wasn’t in love with Naoya, but she had a recollection of their moments that still represented their relationship, and that Naoya’s dream (goals) are also shared by Reader. I was gonna ask you guys what your theories are on that scene but I think this makes me sound cooler if I explain it so *lip bite emoji because I’m still broken over Naoya’s death*

taglist open (lmk if you want to be added/removed):

@sixeyesgojo @shingekiyofeels @q-the-rockaholic @whatthefuckisthatthing @rogueofbullshit @kat-su-ki @kellyyween @sebootyforlife @asshxcm @charlie-xo @aoi-turtle @ladywaifuuwrites @savantsoulfinder @my-reality-is-in-my-head @hannya-quinn @90s-belladonna @tinyfrogsinmybrain @kinekyuroo @evesmores @ambiguous-something @lilith412426 @kakashiharusohma @aizawap @yumeneji @dora-the-grownup @jotazinha @themrsgojo @d34r-s4t4n @marai-t @toji-bee @hai-cool @badsadbby @stesphy @peach-buns-unicorns @misslezah @gracefullyfallinglikeanime @iwaplant​ @mikiminaccch​ @riri-marley​ | bolded users cannot be tagged

[hansolmates]

the proposal (m)

banner done by the ammmahhzzing @eerieedits​

summary; Jeon’s the editor-in-chief for Big Hit Publishings, a closet romantic with a penchant for antagonizing his assistant on the reg. When his work visa is in the process of being renewed and he takes a trip to Norway, his eligibility to stay in America is on the line. However Jeon Jungkook doesn’t go without a fight, and in order to save his job he offers you a proposal you can't refuse. pairing; editor!Jungkook x assistant!reader (f) genre/warnings; the proposal!au, fake marriage au, enemies to friends(!!!), friends to lovers, bouts of flangst, dry humping, slight blood but not too bad, lang, alcohol, poor jjk discovers he has the ability to feel emotion, poor y/n is in the middle as always w.c; 20.1k of endless banter and koo hiding his romantic side a/n; yeah, it’s almost summer. But i think we need a lil holiday magic in our lives! I rewatched the proposal this weekend and whipped this up. Why is koo so gosh darn easy to write? This is my longest fic since i wrote maze runner back in 2014!! i rec this extension to get fully immersed in 2pov! Enjoy and pls tell me if there’s any errors im too poopied to proofread it again drabbles; 01

“When I hired you, you basically signed a contract that said you’d do anything for me.” 

“Yeah, Jeon. I did. That meant like, getting you coffee or working late hours—normal work stipulations,” you can feel the hair on your scalp growing thinner, “not commit fucking fraud!” 

Your boss looks moreso frustrated than you are, but you cease to care. Jeon Jungkook has been nothing but a thorn in your side since your employment at Big Hit Publishing two years ago. Being a budding author who wanted to graduate from online sites and freelancing, you accepted the job as the editor-in-chief’s assistant in the hopes of getting your first book published. 

However, your dreams of being an editor are quickly dissipating, especially when Jungkook corners you this afternoon and announces that he may have left America during the time his work visa was still processing. He may have to give over his editor-in-chief position because there’s no way he can get a work visa processed in time. As a result of this information, he may have told his supervisors that you seduced him on a late night one year ago, and you two fell in love and have been secretly engaged ever since. 

Because y’know, your citizenship to this country is an asset to the company. 

“We didn’t have to go to Norway to PR Emma Watson’s autobio,” you huff, fingers going pale from how hard you were gripping your iPad. Jungkook is an esteemed workaholic, and you have no idea where it stems from. You remember that trip to Oslo, Jungkook insisting that you and him both go to make sure everything goes smoothly.

“You weren’t complaining when we went to that restaurant with the open bar.” he runs a hand through his coiffed hair, making the pomade untack from its style. “You got so drunk that Emma held you while you cried about global warming.” 

Wholly unamused, you frown. “Jungkook, can you please take this seriously?”

“I’m taking this seriously, you’re not the one who’s about to be deported in two weeks!” Jungkook hisses, face dangerously close to yours. Not that anyone would know what he’s saying, but you can tell from his defenses that he genuinely is nervous. 

“You wouldn’t be deported if you had just set an earlier appointment to renew your Visa!” 

“I wouldn’t be deported if you had just set an earlier appointment to renew my Visa!” 

At least twenty pairs of eyes are watching your confrontation, probably making their own conclusions as to what you two were fighting about again. Curse this office for having full-walled windows, you often feel like an ant in a plastic farm. Your work relationship is an anomaly to the rest of the staff. Before you started working at Big Hit, Jungkook’s assistants did not last long. Within the first week of working, you understood why. 

Jungkook whirls around his desk, glaring at the glass doors as he puts himself between the staff and you. “If you don’t marry me,” he says lowly, close enough for his hot breath to fan your face, coupled with his fresh-scented cologne. It annoys you how good he smells. “You’ll also be replaced because they want to give the my position to fuckin’ Karen of all people,” you fight the twitch of your lips. The only thing you two mutually agreed upon is the hatred of his co-editor, Karen. “All of the late nights we’ve worked together, the gallons of coffees you consumed, putting up with my shit, your dreams of becoming an author,” his eyes flicker to the way the grip in your iPad trembles, “will go down the drain and turn to shit. Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together.” 

Pretending to be unfazed, you bat your lashes, “So are you saying, you need me?” 

“For fuck’s sake—”

“Ah-ah, Jungkook. I’m not going to ask you to get on one knee, but you should at least tell me how much you need me.” 

You assume with great confidence that the only reason you’re kept on Jungkook’s payroll is because you’re not afraid to stand up to Jungkook’s bullshit. He looks positively disgusted at the mere thought of paying you an iota of a compliment. You’d say on average, you get half a compliment a month from Jungkook. You say half because he’ll compliment you, then downplay it with whatever flaw he can fabricate to get under your skin. 

He loosens his lavender paisley tie, annoyed. “Fine. I need you. I need you because you’re the only one who knows me well enough to be my wife. You’re the only woman I’ve had full conversations with in two years and knows all my dietary restrictions, favorite books, foods, and hobbies. By process of elimination, you are my best candidate.” 

“Romantic,” you roll your eyes, “I guess I do,” you push him away with a finger to his chest, “but I want a raise. And after we finish Sorn and Mark’s project, I want you to read my novel.” 

“Done and done.” 

“Well Jeon, I guess you’ve wifed me up with your ways of seduction.” you muse sardonically, feeling more upset for yourself than anything. 

“Fantastic,” he sighs, finally throwing his tie across the desk and plopping in his armchair. “Cancel the call with Janet, call PR about Irene Kim’s interview on Ellen, and order me a medium rare steak from J.J. Bittings with a side of brussels.” 

“Right,” you mutter under your breath as you pull up your checklist, as if you didn’t just give away your life to the Devil incarnate. 

Jungkook’s back is already facing you, focusing on his computer displaying two new manuscripts. “Oh, and on your way to J’s don’t forget to pick up your ring at Saks.”

“Bitch, you’re asking me to pick up my fake wedding ring?” 

Unbothered, he shrugs. You see the planes of his shoulders stretch beneath the blazer, because he’s deemed this conversation long over and he has work to do. “Yeah, but it’s real diamonds.” 

You’ve been seeing red for days. 

While the rock on your ring finger is indeed beautiful because Jungkook has impeccable taste, it drags you down and arouses the elephant in the room everytime you show up for work. 

You get enough stares on the daily, and you were just getting used to the looks of pity and sympathy for working under Jungkook, but now there are only snickers and playful winks as you trudge down the cubicles every morning. Everyday feels like the runway at a shitshow, and you are the headliner. 

Taehyung clapped you none-too-hard on the back when you showed up to work the next morning, congratulating you on the engagement. “Can’t believe you’re fuckin’ the big boss!” 

The rest of the staff poke their eyes out of their cubicles like Digletts, and you shush them, using your hand to make them sink down. 

Coffee is spilling down your shirt thanks to him, and you reach for tissues in his cubicle. “Can you not say it like that, please?” 

“Oh, come on. I heard from the supervisors Jungkook went on about how you seduced him late at night and took charge,” Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows approvingly, and you fight the urge to not throw up your coffee in his face. “How do you keep it so professional? Or do you save all that pent-up energy for after hours?” 

“You disgust me,” you grimace, stepping out of his cubicle and immediately regret wasting your five-minute break conversing with the typist.

Striding back into Jungkook’s office, he doesn’t hesitate to rattle off the next items on today’s agenda. He barely looks at you when you stride in, too focused on whatever corrections he’s slashing in red ink. 

“Did you get Taemin’s second draft?” 

“No, and I told him that if he can’t get me the draft by tonight he won’t get a publishing deadline and the number of copies published will be decreased by a third.” 

“And Taehyung’s author agreed to our stipulations?” 

“Of course, she’d be dead not to.”  you mutter, “she’s a nineteen year old Influencer, what would she know?” 

“Exactly, that’s why we milk it out as long as we can.” Jungkook throws the first draft in a large, intimidating pile, mixing in with all the others like a needle in a haystack. “Which is why it’s important we snag dinner with her this weekend, we can really—”

“What, this weekend?” your sense of equilibrium cracks, and you walk forward to put his hands on his desk. “I took this coming week off for Christmas. I’ve planned this for months.” 

“I know.”

“I can’t just cancel my flight! I saved up for that!”

“And?” Jungkook brushes off your fury like a piece of lint, “I’m Korean. Christmas is a fake holiday for me.” 

“You can’t just tell me I can’t go home to my family, it’s the fucking holidays!” 

“Why not, I’ve done it before. Remember on Valentine’s day when I told you the only date you have is a date with Kwon Boa’s publicist? Or on Secretaries Day when I argued that you don’t feel appreciated by society anyway and therefore why bother taking one extra day off? Or during Easter when your family screamed in my office on speakerphone that you should quit—”

“Okay,” no need to be reminded of how much you’ve wasted your life for this man, “but this is different. I’ve already bought plane tickets and this holiday is special. It’s a whole family reunion in the Poconos and we’ve reserved over five houses to fit all of us! I can’t just ditch!” 

“But I need you!” he replied just as hotly, in a tone that reminded you so many times of how tethered you are by this man. Two years have gone by, and the only thing that kept those strings together is the constant ache in getting your first novel published. “With all the marriage stuff and stupid extentions we had to make on these writers there’s no way we can get everything done before winter ends!” 

“You’ve done it before, why can’t you just ask Taehyung to assist—”

“Trouble in paradise?” 

A chill travels up your spine, and you and Jungkook exchange panicked eye contact. A tiny, pretty blonde lady struts in the room like it's hers, plopping a fruit basket atop Jungkook’s manuscripts. 

“If by paradise you mean our relationship, then no.” Jungkook’s the first to recover, meeting you at your side and stretching an arm around your waist. “I’d say work-wise things are getting a little rough, but nothing we can’t handle. We’re a team, after all.” 

“I just wanted to stop by as I was in the neighborhood,” the woman says, making herself comfortable in a leather seat reserved for guests. “Congratulations again on your engagement.” 

You tack on a smile, squeezing Jungkook’s arm a little too hard, but it’s enough to make the lady in front of you smile back. “What brings you here, Taeyeon?” 

Kim Taeyeon is Jungkook’s immigration liaison, AKA the person responsible for making sure you’re not breaking the law. She’s a pretty thing, with eyes sharp but a smile that’s soft and deceiving. 

“It’s just a shame you two have to rush a civil wedding,” Taeyeon sighs, looking at the window overlooking the city. 

“Ah, it takes some of the planning stress off my back, really.” you force a laugh, tugging Jungkook to sit on the couch opposite her. “At least one thing is done. The thought of planning a whole wedding with over two-hundred people is so stressful.” 

You weren’t really going to have a white wedding with Jungkook (however you may have entertained the thought, which is reflected in your Google search history) but you had to keep up the ruse that you were. A civil wedding in two weeks, then a quickie divorce a year later. 

“I know! My wedding was a real mess let me tell you, straight out of a movie!” Taeyeon is certainly the type of person to make you feel at ease, so at ease that it’s simple for you to melt your front. “But besides the point, are you two doing anything special for the holidays?” 

“Ah, well I bought a flight to meet my family in the Poconos,” you start, trying not to succumb to your nervous habit of wringing your fingers. You grab Jungkook’s hand as a reprieve. 

“And you’re not going?” Taeyeon’s gaze snaps, yes snaps, to Jungkook. 

You try to step in, realizing your flaw. “We’ve just been so swamped with work, all the immigration stuff and with these book delays Jungkook suggested he stay behind—” 

“But we’ve decided to prioritize our personal life and enjoy Christmas with our family,” Jungkook swoops in, threading his fingers between yours. He flashes Taeyeon a smile, and from the way his face lights up and his nose crinkles, you could’ve mistaken it to be genuine. “I’ve never experienced a big family Christmas, y’know. I’ve missed snowboarding too, I used to do it a lot in highschool.” 

“Oh, that’s just so sweet!” Taeyeon cooes, clasping her hands together. “Do send some pictures when you come back!” 

“Of course,” Jungkook stands up and attempts to leave Taeyeon out. You follow in tow, She obliges easily, mentioning something about just wanting to check in and she also has work to do. 

“Also,” Taeyeon’s head flickers to the people sitting outside Jungkook’s office. “You should manage those workers out there,” she looks at you, sympathetic. “Apparently, they didn’t peg you as the type of person to sleep their way to the top. And that’s just what I heard from walking down the hall once!” she laughs, tinkling brighter than a windchime, but you just tighten the grip on Jungkook’s palm. “Such a childish assumption. Things can be much more complicated.” 

She tips a “happy holidays” off her shoulder, and you both are smiling like the loving couple you are. As soon as the elevator doors close and Taeyeon is really gone, Jungkook moves to let go of your hand, but you hold him in your grasp. 

“She’s onto us,” you snap, tugging him closer to you so your co-workers wouldn’t read your lips. 

“Don’t you think I know that?” he bites back. He looks offendingly at the fruit basket adorning his desk. 

“What if we get caught, Jungkook?” you start to spiral, feeling your deepest fears crawl to the forefront of your brain. You’ve done extensive Google research on commiting fraud, and if you do get caught, Jungkook will never be able to come back to this country and you’ll have a fine of up to $250,000. Your boss doesn’t pay you nearly enough to get by with that kind of debt. “We’ll ruin this company, and our lives, and any hope of being published or credible.” 

“Hey, relax,” Jungkook whispers in your ear, the tone oddly comforting. He pulls you into his arms, and you barely have a chance to recover when he squeezes you extra tight around your waist. Jungkook only ever hugs you when doing PR, and even then it’s an awkward half-hug. Hell, he never hugged you on your birthday. “This is what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna book my flight to the Poconos, bring some manuscripts so we can work remotely, and no one will ever know.” 

You sigh into his arms, nodding tiredly. It feels nice to be hugged like this. His arms are strong and warm, and you feel small and protected. It’s been a while since you’ve felt like that. Maybe Jungkook did have a heart under all that muscle. 

“I’m putting up a good show, aren’t I?” he says, and you feel your heart drop just a little. Disappointed, but not surprised. 

From your view facing the cubicles, you see at least half the employees comically bugged with  heart eyes at you, enamored by your fake relationship. 

“Do not stretch your long-ass legs on this plane, Jeon,” you nudge your smaller leg away from your section of leg room, “Jesus, we’re flying economy!” 

It scares you how little you fought against Jungkook joining you for the winter holiday. It is the logical decision after all, Taeyeon is on your trail about your sudden engagement and you both needed to keep up the ruse. That includes going on family vacations. Also, the fact that Jungkook works through Christmas because he doesn’t celebrate it does make you feel a little bad. You can’t remember the last time the man took a vacation. 

The man in question barely moves at your weak attempt, and stretches his leg even further across your seat. “Sorry, babe,” he says, fishing around his seat for the included blanket. 

“It’s fine, Kookie.” You reply sweetly, and decide to kick off your shoes to drape a leg over Jungkook’s thighs, “you’re like a portable footrest!” 

He looks absolutely insulted at your objectification, but smartly decides to choose his battles and lets you keep your position. Tucking himself in with a scratchy blanket he waves you off, “Whatever, just wake me up when we arrive.” 

“What, no.” you pull up your iPad, shoving the note entry in his face. “I know everything about you, and yet you know nothing about me. I made this easy on you and just wrote everything down. You just have to read it.” 

“Seriously? I’ve known you for over two years, I’m sure I know enough about you.” 

“Really, then how do I like my coffee?” 

“Uh… hot?” 

You give him a look and he knows. With a sigh he grabs the iPad from your hands. Within seconds he’s giving you another dirty look, as if he’s skimming a conspiracy novel. 

“You know all this random shit about me?” Jungkook asks, scrolling down as to what feels like your life story. 

“Yes, because unlike you, I listen when you talk.” 

“Fine. What’s my favorite type of weather?” 

“A warm and sunny day, which correlates to your favorite kind of date which is walking along the beach at sunset. Cliché much?” 

“Okay, rude. Who’s my favorite artist?” 

“You like a little bit of everything, but since seventh grade you’ve been pining for IU. In the office, you like to sing along to Lauv and Hozier.” 

“Favorite movie?” 

“The Marvel Series. But you really like 5 Centimeters Per Second, you like the romance.” 

“And how do you know my favorite anime movie is 5 Centimeters Per Second? I’m pretty sure I’ve never told you that.” 

“Jeon, when we were promoting Momo Hirai’s self-help book at Anime Expo you were gone for two and a half hours at 1:50 sharp.” your boss’ Adam’s apple bobs and he swallows thickly at your admonition. “And low and behold, you gave yourself thirty minutes’ time to line up early because when I checked the schedule Makoto Shinkai had a panel on ‘The Otaku’s Perspective on Romantic—”

“Alright alright, I get it.” Jungkook slumps in his seat, as comfy as it can get with your legs draped around him and a seat at the far end of the plane. You know he’s trying to hide a blush, and you feel proud for making him a little flustered. “You’re lucky I’m a fast reader.” 

The plane ride goes relatively fast, with Jungkook asking quick questions about your family and other random things. It’s like playing a game of 20 Questions, instead it’s the final boss battle with 200 questions and if he doesn’t get them all right, the penalty is deportation. 

When you land, you’re both stiff and glazed over. Once you exit the terminal, Jungkook ditches you for the bathroom and says he’ll meet you at the luggage pickup. You give yourself a few moments, gearing yourself up for the long week ahead of you. At the luggage pickup, you see a tall man watch the revolving conveyor belt with interest. Either that, or he’s zoning out. 

“Joonie!” you cry, nearly dropping your phone upon seeing your big brother. He’s dressed comfortably in a grey sweat ensemble, as if he rolled out of bed and came straight to the airport. 

A bright grin takes over his face, and he doesn’t hesitate to smush your body against his. Under his tall frame you sway, your toes barely swiping the ground. “You’re alive!” he cheers, pulling back and holding your shoulders to get a real look at you. “I can see you’ve gained a little weight, eyes are a little dark, but I’m glad the Devil let you go. I still can’t forgive him for making you skip out on Jin’s wedding.” 

You don’t appreciate the way that Namjoon picks and prods at your exhaustion, but you know he means well. While he does not know your boss by face and name, he had enough artilerary from the billions of phone calls to learn about the Devil and the havoc he’s wreaked upon your life.

When you don’t respond he gets the cue that you do not want to talk about work this week, and he smacks his lips together. “But nothing a little R&R can’t fix! The ski resort nearby has a really nice outdoor jacuzzi and we could set an appointment for facials if you’d like. Or we could do absolutely nothing and turn into baked potatoes and watch movies until our eyes burn up.” 

“Both would be great,” you smile softly, catching two familiar suitcases make their rounds on your flight’s conveyor belt. You grab your pink luggage with one hand, and Jungkook’s black chrome one with your other. 

“So, where’s the new beau?” Namjoon rocks back and forth on his heels, hoping to get a glimpse of the mystery boy you mentioned you’d be bringing as of two days ago. 

“He really had to go to the bathroom,” you squint your eyes to make out the newcomers exiting the dropoff area. “Oh, there he is. Kook!” 

Like a goddamn model, he struts in your field of vision like nobody’s business. Unlike you who stayed in your apartment all day before leaving, Jungkook decided to spend a few hours at Big Hit in the morning to tie up most of the loose ends before your trip. He’s talking to what you assume to be is a client, noting the way his brow furrows as he clutches his phone with a tight hold. He’s changed out of his tie and leather oxfords, but he’s dressed crisply in a dark button up and blazer ensemble, still wholly overdressed for a family reunion. 

Namjoon starts behind you, “He looks...” 

“Handsome?” you goad, elbowing him, “Charismatic? Undeniable presence?” 

“Hard.” 

You don’t know what to make of that adjective, and you subtly shrink further in your jacket as you mull over the implications of his word choice. 

Jungkook steps up to the two of you, ending his call. His eyes float between you and your brother, and he manages to put two and two together. “Hey man,” Jungkook gives a practiced smile, extending a hand. “I’m Jungkook, I’ve heard lots of things about you.” 

“Good things, I hope.” Namjoon chuckles, returning the handshake. “I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you, though. Can’t wait to get to know you this week.” 

“Looking forward to it,” Jungkook takes his luggage and Namjoon grabs yours, leading you two out to his minivan. While Namjoon is preoccupied with getting the car started, Jungkook looks at you as if he’s already regretting making the trip down. “This girl has two braincells to her name. I just got off the phone with Sorn’s publicist.” 

“What trouble can an influencer do?” you reply in disbelief. 

“Exactly, influencing is the trouble,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “she did some mukbang and now she’s in the hospital for food poisoning.” 

“Ah, don’t get too worked up,” you help him lug your suitcases in the trunk. You spot Namjoon subtly eyeing you two from the rear mirror. Pressing a thumb between his brows, you make work to melt away the 11-shaped stress lines on his forehead. “Let’s just send her a Lush gift basket and she’ll be fine.” 

You ignore the way Jungkook’s gaze lingers on you longer than needed, running over to your seat at shotgun. 

The inside of his car smells like bergamot and lemon, and the sweet, vulnerable side of you wants to cry over how much you’ve missed your brother’s scent. It’s been way too long. 

Once you’re all safely in the car and driving Namjoon says, “So, are you going to hide the engagement ring or give the family a collective heart attack?” 

You tense, hands automatically floating to the teardrop diamond weighing heavily on your ring finger. The story that you two contrived about your relationship isn’t too complicated, but complex enough that it seems convincing. Instead of being your boss, Jungkook is your Literary Agent who gives you referrals to new and upcoming authors. You working closely together and bonding over the stresses of the publishing world, have kept a secret relationship under wraps for over a year to avoid any unprofessionalism or favoritism. 

“I was thinking about that the whole ride, actually,” you twirl the metal back and forth, watching it gleam in the light. “Mom and dad know, but I don’t wanna lie to the rest of my family. They’ll freak out because it’s the first time they’re meeting Kook and we’re already engaged. It’s just a location thing, y’know. You guys don’t live in the city so we’ve never had a chance to really talk it out.” 

Namjoon snorts, “Or, because your boss never gives you a break.” 

If Jungkook finds any offense, he doesn’t show it. Putting what should be a comforting hand on your shoulder, he says from the back seat, “I already told you babe, do what makes you comfortable. But I don’t want to lie to your parents early on, you don’t wanna make the situation any more complicated.” 

In other words, you better tell them about our engagement because Taeyeon could be hiding in the bushes waiting to catch us. 

“Smart man,” Namjoon says shortly, but you can’t tell whether it’s a compliment or not. 

“Yeah,” you exhale, turning to smile stiffly at Jungkook, “no use hiding the inevitable, right?” 

The next couple hours are overwhelming. There’s a party right when you walk in your winter villa, your parents throwing you a reunion party (not for your family, but for you specifically because you’ve been MIA since Big Hit) with the house filled to the brim with family members. Within seconds your favorite cousin checks out the rock on your finger and screams that you’re engaged. 

Everyone must be so high off the fact that you’ve made it to a family event that they’re elated you have a life outside of work. Jungkook is treated like a prince, charming the hell out of all your aunties and baby cousins. 

“Oh, pumpkin!” your auntie squeals, linking arms with you while you’re trying to eat your dinner, “I just hugged your fiancé, and he has abs! Lucky you!” 

“Auntie,” you hiss playfully, “you hugged him that tight?” 

“He’s part of the family, isn’t he?” 

“Right,” you force a smile, downing your glass of champagne. The bubbles burn your throat pleasantly. 

“Babe, can you come here for a second?” Jungkook manages to swim his way through the throng in the living room, holding out a hand for you, “your mom said that our room is ready, care to lead the way?” 

His smile, as pretty as you can care to admit, renders your aunt speechless, and she lets him whisk you away to a long hallway that leads to a set of bedrooms. Jungkook lets go of your hand as soon as you're alone, letting his palm run along the pictures that decorate your hallway. 

He stops at a picture of you and Namjoon as kids, faces tanned and lips cherry red from your twin popsicles melting on your hands. “Wow,” Jungkook pretends to be alarmed, “I didn’t know you used to be cute, what happened?” 

“Shut up,” you smack his hand away, walking ahead of him. 

“I thought you guys reserved a bunch of houses, why does the furniture look worn and there’s pictures of you everywhere?” 

“Our extended family has reserved houses, but this is actually my family’s vacation home. I used to go here every winter and summer break,” you reach a bedroom in the corner of the hall, smiling at your wooden name tag hanging on the front, “this is my old room.” 

It certainly doesn’t have that youthful charm it once had, but there are still bits of your childhood scattering the room. There’s ticket stubs and photobooth strips tacked to a corkboard near your desk. Books that you would reread cover to cover are organized proudly on your shelf, worn for wear. 

Jungkook groans in relief, plopping his body down on your freshly made bed. “Your family’s really clingy.” he sighs, throwing an arm over his eyes. 

You turn to give him a snappy answer, but it dies in your throat when you see what he’s laying on. The familiar family quilt sinks under Jungkook’s weight, mocking you. You shriek, throwing your arms over to lug his body to the other side of the bed. Bundling up the quilt in your arms, you glare at a very appalled Jungkook. 

“The hell is wrong with you, woman!” he cries, not loud enough to escape the room, but enough to have your body vibrate in annoyance. 

“Jeon, they put the fucking baby blanket in my room,” you mutter more to yourself than him, folding it under your arms. 

The blanket is comfy in your grasp and you’re sure it’s clean, but the fact that you weren’t actually married and in love made its appearance a whole lot worse. 

“So?” his eyes are wide in confusion, “my mom still has my baby blanket too, I’m not gonna shoot anyone because of it.” 

“It’s not my baby blanket,” you admonish, “it’s the baby maker blanket. A weird family tradition when someone gets engaged.”

“Which means?” 

“They’re expecting us to fuck and have children.” 

The thought of procreating and starting a family with you must’ve caused all the champagne to return to his throat, and he looks a little pale. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” he lies back down on your mattress, and you leave him be so you can chuck the blanket back in your parents’ room. 

You’re barely out the door when a young man is waiting out in the hallway for you, poised to knock. “Hey, baby girl.” they throw you an easy lopsided grin, opening their arms to you. 

In your haste, you slam your bedroom door a little too loudly. “Yoongi!” You let yourself sink into his waiting arms, reveling in the familiar embrace you missed so much. Yoongi is Namjoon’s best friend and work buddy, not to mention the man you’ve had a crush on since you were able to walk. While you can safely say at this moment there is nothing serious going on, a small part of you always wishes there could be. 

His voice husks in your ear, “Why are we hugging in between the baby blanket?” 

“Oh!” you brush past him, opening the door to your parents’ room and flinging the offending item as far into their room as possible. “Sorry, Jungkook and I were a little freaked out when we saw it. We’re definitely not thinking about children right now.” 

“Jungkook,” he hums, and your smile falters just a tad when you see the way Yoongi tips his head down in thought, “It was quite the news. Congrats though.” 

You want to say what you’re supposed to say, that yes, you should be happy. But the selfish part of you does not want this exchange between you and Yoongi to be happening. When you get your quickie divorce in a year, the small, hopeful part of you hopes you and Yoongi could be something. 

Before you have a chance to fabricate a response, strong hands encircle your waist, and you feel Jungkook’s chin digging into your shoulder. 

“Thanks, man,” Jungkook’s voice rumbles, “we really appreciate it.” 

Yoongi gives a nod, muttering something about catching up later before he walks back to the party. 

It’s then that Jungkook’s weight feels impossibly heavy on your shoulders. “You know, you’ve been doing a really shitty job of being my wife-to-be ever since we landed,” Jungkook whispers, feather soft lips dusting across the shell of your ear. It’s an act so intimate you can imagine your family passing down the hallway could be mistaking you two for speaking unthinkable acts. A toddler cousin spots you two and giggles, babbling something to your uncle about how you’re hugging. “You did so well when we were with Taeyeon and Big Hit.” 

“It’s not the same when I’m lying to my family,” you turn to face him, equally simmering. “These are people that actually love and care for me, unlike you.” 

“At least I care about what’s most important,” he grits back, “our jobs, our futures. Is that not enough for you to keep it in your pants?” 

“Excuse me? You don’t even know him!” 

“I don’t have to know him because I’m holding you right now and you’re practically sweating through your cardigan.” he grimaces, digging his chin further into your collarbone, literally trying to get under your skin. “Your face looks like a cherry tomato.” 

You turn your head to bite back, your noses touching. The staring contest seems to last for days. Unlike Jungkook who doesn't know how to register basic human emotion, you still have hopes for a life after this. Before you have a chance to answer, your favorite cousin enters the hallway, oblivious to your concerns. Jimin’s red all over, passing you two flutes of blush champagne. “Hurry up, we’re making speeches!” 

Champagne is overflowing like Niagara, and you and Jungkook are the reason for it as you’re thrusted into the living room. Your weird uncle is in the middle of a long-winded speech about his fishing business and how dreams are made from ‘bait and a dream’. You make eye contact with him, and he gestures wildly to you and Jungkook. 

The crowd proceeds to go wild, echoes of speech! Speech! Reverberating throughout your living room. You and Jungkook share uneasy smiles, unsure of where to go with this show. 

Deciding it’s your family by blood, you start first. “Honestly, when I moved to New York I wasn’t expecting to feel so lonely,” you clutch your flute with both hands, swirling your drink absentmindedly. You then turn to Jungkook, giving him a tender smile which he returns back just as fondly. “Until I met Jungkook. I’m really happy that I get to share this week with the people I love the most, so let's drink to family!” 

Jungkook lifts his glass, “Thank you for the warm welcome, I can’t wait to spend time with all of you. This is my first Christmas with a large, loving family. Cheers to that!” 

The room erupts in cheers, allowing themselves to clink glasses and chase down their respective drinks. Even the little ones crowding the kiddie table in the back are enjoying their apple juice while making silly faces at the new couple. 

Jungkook weaves his arm between yours, and you get the signal to do a couples’ drink. He eyes you with mischief, as if to say we did it. After you two take your drink, Jimin’s the first to drunkenly yell, “Ohmygod just kiss already!” 

“Kiss kiss kiss!” 

“This is going on my story so make it good!” 

“Kiss him before I do!” 

“Oh my god,” you groan, throwing your forehead on Jungkook’s chest. Your family really is something else. 

As if the chants can’t get any louder, it’s hard to focus on anything but Jungkook’s presence. Jungkook lifts your chin up, murmuring, “Let’s give the people what they want.” and he presses his lips to yours. 

It’s awkward at first. Why wouldn’t it be, you’re making out with your boss, in front of your family, pretending to be engaged. But Jungkook doesn’t let up, parting your lips slightly to deepen the kiss. As much as you want to make up how terrible and disgusting kissing Jungkook is, it really isn’t. His lips are soft and he tastes like the peach champagne, and his grip on your waist is strong and warm. 

He leaves you breathless when you pull away, a smirk on his lips for a brief moment before he turns shyly to your family who are probably foaming at the mouth now. 

Maybe it’s the champagne coursing through your veins, but why does it suddenly feel so hot in the middle of winter? 

The first day back starts off wholly uneventful, with Jungkook working on some manuscripts and you preparing dinner with Jimin. Most of your family is on the resort hitting the slopes, so you’re quite thankful for the reprieve since the party was so overwhelming. The blonde is all smiles as he bumps the oven closed with his leg, letting your lasagna bake to perfection. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” Jimin rests his head on your shoulder, “it’s definitely not the same when we’re adults. Frankly, it sucks balls.” 

“Big balls,” you agree, gnawing on a leftover baguette from last night. 

“Speaking of big balls,” Jimin wiggles his brows as you attempt to move farther from him.

“Please don’t say it.” 

“C’mon! Just tell me if the sex is good!” 

“No!” you cry, flicking your crumbs at him. 

“I will open this oven,” his hands are already on the handle, “and your dish will undercook.” 

“Don’t you dare!” he opens the oven a tad, and you slam your hand down. “Fine! The sex is fantastic, happy?” 

“Ewh, no!” The storm door swings open, revealing Namjoon, Yoongi, and Lisa, Namjoon’s lady friend. “I didn’t need to hear that, thanks.” 

Your face looks absolutely pained as you watch the two older men walk in. They were the last people you’d ever want to share about your sex life too, even if it is fake. You can only bear to look properly at Lisa as they kick off their boots and shake the snow off their heads. Lisa pokes her tongue in her cheek, looking at you with a wild look in her eyes. “I’ve heard so much about your current drama. Can’t wait to hear the 411 from you, though.” 

Yoongi looks unfazed, then again you never really know what’s going on in his head. “You guys wanna go to a movie tonight?” Yoongi asks, grabbing a slice of the baguette and dipping it in a dish of olive oil. “I think the one that’s showing is based on a book your company published.”

“Is it ‘Rotten Love’?” 

“That’s the one.” 

Pushing yourself off the counter, you nod eagerly. “I’ll go tell Jungkook to get ready. We can eat dinner real quick and then go right after,” you grab a bottle of water from the fridge, “Joonie, set up the table please.” 

Jungkook doesn’t notice you walk in, and you can hear the faint sound of Muse blasting from his Airpods. He’s on your floor, doing pushups while reading a transcript under him. This time he’s using your iPad, every few seconds taking a thumb to scroll down. Sweating through his shirt, you can see the beads running along his silver reading glasses. It’s completely contradictory, your muscle bunny of a boss getting in his reps while psychoanalyzing a potential novel, but somehow it works with him. 

“Maniac,” you mutter, bending down to place the cool water bottle on his cheek. He stops abruptly, like you’ve pressed the pause button on his seemingly robotic arms. Seriously, you can’t fathom how he manages to do both. You swipe the iPad under his body in place of a white towel, which he accepts gratefully. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to snap him out of it, sometimes you’d catch him at the company gym nearing 10PM, reading on the treadmill. 

“What time is it?” he asks, fluting the water bottle down his throat. 

Ignoring the way his neck glistens in sweat, you say, “It’s almost seven. C’mon, we’re gonna eat dinner and watch a movie. You’ve cooped yourself up in this room all day, time to interact with the world.” 

“What movie?” 

“The book we published in 2018, ‘Rotten Love’? They made it into a movie,” and you can’t help the wry grin that takes over your face when you say your next words, “guess who directed it.” 

He sighs, rubbing the towel over his damp hair. The normally styled strands fall limply at his forehead. “I don’t remember, I shifted over that project to PR. Any director’s fine, but please please please don’t let it be—”

“Jung Hoseok!”

“Son of a bitch, we gotta go.” And it’s the first time in a while you see a genuine smile graze his features, one not laced with you and your marriage. It’s an old pastime for you both to get picky over Jung’s work. “I swear, he better not put his scenes all over the place like last time, I got whiplash.” 

After a quick dinner you all pile into Namjoon’s minivan, making your way to the theatre. The drive is fast, and before you know it you’re waiting in line to get inside. It seems that the PR between the film studio and Big Hit did a good job assisting, because there’s a sizable line despite being half an hour early. 

“So honey,” Lisa leans into you, squishing you further into Jungkook’s shoulder. “Did you like, help out with the publishing of this novel? To be honest I don’t even know what your job is,” Lisa admits with a shrug, “you’re not a glorified coffee girl, are you?” 

“No,” her mixed enthusiasm never fails to stump you, “Ah, but I really didn’t do much in the production of ‘Rotten Love’,” you reply easily, relaxing into Jungkook as he moves to drape an arm around your shoulder. “I just told my boss to sign some documents n’stuff. It’s really nothing—”

“Babe, are you kidding? You ran the whole freakin’ project!” and you’re in shock, because for the first time in the history of ever, Jeon Jungkook is paying you a real compliment. “It was her first assignment when she got hired as the big boss’ assistant. A lot of people in the office doubted her,” he squeezes your shoulder, “but not for one second did I doubt her, you could see how hard she worked to make it perfect. I heard the boss was really impressed, too.” 

You remember that period of time. Jungkook made you dive headfirst into the publishing for ‘Rotten Love’, letting you sink or swim in his decision for keeping you employed. After a full month of meetings, negotiations, and debating whether you should have caffeine IV’ed in your body to save time on eating, you got Jungkook’s evaluation. You remember the stoicism in Jungkook’s frame as he surmised your work, throwing you a flippant “it’s decent” before sending you off to do more work. 

Relief flooded your system after those two simple words, because that meant you had a chance and you could keep your job. But this? If what he’s saying is true, you’re on Cloud 9. 

“Awh, thanks Kook.” you squeeze his arm, letting your fingers trail down to lace your fingers with his. 

Lisa’s face is all scrunched, and she doesn’t hesitate to stretch over you to smush Jungkook’s cheek between her two fingers. Her blue nails dig into his soft skin. “I like him, honey. Keep him, he’s so cute.” 

She leaves you alone after that, skipping over to bother Namjoon about buying an extra bucket of popcorn. 

“At first I was nervous having you near my family for a week,” you say brightly, rubbing a thumb over his hand, “but I kinda like seeing you try so hard to not rip other people’s heads off.” 

He puffs out his cheeks in an attempt to soothe the stinging. “Could be worse, I could be engaged to Karen.” 

With that you laugh, loud enough to turn heads and have Jimin and Lisa send you adoring looks. Jungkook sends you a nervous smile, the one that he’d always send you during team meetings when he was unsure of how to respond to something. Instead of giving him a smart answer, you get on your tiptoes to pat his reddened cheek. “But she’s right, you are kinda cute when you wanna be.” 

Instead of replying, he squeezes your hand tighter to lead you inside. 

Everything is smooth sailing after that. You, Jimin and Yoongi are saving the seats while Jungkook, Lisa and Namjoon are getting the refreshments. Jimin is prattling on about a new job interview and you’re listening attentively, while Yoongi shoots off advice every time Jimin says he’s nervous. 

Yoongi looks past Jimin to give you that gummy smile that always made your chest ache. “Chim, remember when she applied to work at Jamba Juice?” 

“Oh my god,” Jimin giggles, clutching your arm. “When you had to do a trial run in front of the manager? You forgot to put the lid on the blender and you sprayed the staff with green juice?” 

“The stains took forever to get out,” you pouted. “And I didn’t appreciate the snaps you saved of me. I got nervous because you were recording me!” 

“Am I hearing some juicy details about your childhood?” Jungkook appears, passing a huge tub of buttery popcorn to Yoongi. 

“Emphasis on juice,” Yoongi says tartly, popping a handful of kernels in his mouth. 

“Yes, do you wanna see a picture of your fiancé covered in green juice? She wore a low-cut shirt that day so it got deep, man.” Jimin says, using his hands to gesture obscenely to his own chest. 

You’re mortified, and you push down Jimin’s phone and cover whatever receipts he has on you. “Jimin, I’d like to stay engaged, if you don’t mind?” 

Your not-so-favorite cousin cackles in response, telling Jungkook that they’ll talk later. 

“Here,” Jungkook cooly hands you a King-Sized KitKat. 

“Awh,” you marvel, immediately opening the wrapper, “you actually read my notes and found out what my favorite candy was?” 

He scoffs, dark bangs blowing up. “Who doesn’t like KitKats?” but you’re giving him the look, and he sighs, “C’mon babe, just gimmie a break.” 

“Ha-ha,” but you break off a piece anyway, lifting it to Jungkook’s lips. It’s then that the theatre starts to dim, and the telltale signs of the movie begin. “Ready to rip Jung Hoseok to shreds?” 

“Always.” 

Barely fifteen minutes pass and Jungkook is spreading his legs. You’re about to kick him before he leans in to whisper, “They made Renee too dull,” he sighs in disappointment, as if he sincerely had high hopes they’d bring the novel to justice. “I mean, I get it, in the novel she’s supposed to be a plain Jane. But she isn’t grey.” 

“Right?” you lean into Jungkook, throwing your legs over his thighs like you’re back at the airport. This isn’t out of intimacy, you think to yourself, you just need to be close enough to Jungkook so you don’t disturb the other patrons with your talking. “She’s either a bad actress or they messed up her character. I really got upset when I read this part, but it’s kinda bland on the screen.” 

As much as you love Jimin, you know he’s not going to get your over-criticality over the media. Yoongi and Namjoon are on the other end of the row, but they wouldn’t be too pleased having you gab over the movie because you’re too much of an aficionado. Jungkook is the only one who can tête-à-tête, or in this case, Kit-a-Kat with you. 

You sigh into his shoulder, inhaling his clean scent. “Let’s pray Jung didn’t completely butcher the chapter where Kenzo reflects on his penniless journey.” 

“I’ll leave the theatre right then and there if that happens, care to join me?” 

“Already out the door, bossman.” 

Jungkook looks away from the screen briefly, reaching forward to take an obnoxiously big bite of the KitKat in your hand. You stifle a giggle, and before you can soak up his cheeky grin he’s already looking back at the movie. 

You wonder what Jungkook is like outside of work, if he has that side to him. A little part of you wishes that this playfulness he’s exuding is real. Not to your fake marriage, but a playfulness he can execute to a person that he really likes. Two days out of the office and you’re starting to see that Jungkook has the capabilities to enjoy life, however simple it may be. 

The movie is finished in a blur, and you and Jungkook are still bickering over the intricacies of the film compared to the novel. The night air is cold and burns your cheeks, reminding you exactly how late you’ve been out.

“Well, I thought the romance was so boring!” Lisa blurted, wanting an in. Her lime green ski jacket glares in your vision, and you move away from her immediately. “No one cheated on each other, there was no drama, or evil best friend!” 

“Whoa there,” and you see the little fire in Jungkook’s eyes, one you’ve learned early on to stay away from when you spent hours in his office debating over manuscripts and plotlines. He stares down at Lisa, really stares down. “You think every romance needs some sort of internalized conflict for it to be good? Why can’t they just grow and learn from the external conflict together? It’s literally useless for them to break up over and over just—”

And that’s your cue to walk ahead of them, because while you did agree with Jungkook, you’ve heard this debate one too many times. Ever the closet-romantic at heart. You hope Lisa doesn’t lose her patience and punch him out. 

“Hey,” you feel a hand pat your hair, and you look up at Yoongi. He looks absolutely fluffy in his long puffy jacket, and he matches your steps with his. “Do I look ugly tonight, or something? I feel like we barely exchanged two sentences with each other.” 

“What, never!” you chastise, “you always look good, Yoongi. And we have the whole week to catch up, remember?”

“Really, then why don’t we go out in two days to pick out a tree for your house? Joon and I are planning on going.” 

“I would love to go pick a tree!” you exclaim, “the last time we got a tree together was when your brother had to lift.” 

“Great,” and he pats your head again, but this time his hand lingers to finger the ringlets of your hair. “It’ll be just like old times, baby girl. I’ll pick you up at 9.” 

Unbeknownst to the both of you, Jungkook’s argument ended minutes ago and he’s mulling over a new type of internal conflict. 

“Owie, ow, ow—fuck you! Ow!” 

“Well if you just hold still,” Jungkook grimaces, taking his turns with both hands to simultaneously wipe the injury with a cloth and then pressing the affected area with an ice bag. 

“Buh ih hurths!” your voice is muffled by the cloth, stained red with freshly bloomed blood. 

The ski lodge started off great. You enjoyed a fabulous beligan waffle breakfast courtesy of Jimin’s parents, and then made the trek to the slopes. You’ve been here dozens of times, so you didn’t feel an inclination to gravitate to any of the fancy schmancy sports. You were fine playing shuffleboard inside, but your inner youth complained that it’s the holidays and you should be getting out more.

Jimin and Jungkook (who claimed he hasn't snowboarded since he was 16 yet he’s doing tricks like a goddamn Olympian) were shredding on the slopes while Namjoon and Lisa were skiing on a smaller hill. You and Yoongi watched safely from the lift, riding it like a kiddie attraction. You must’ve taken the lift at least ten times, complaining about how you’re both too lazy to function and you could really use a hot chocolate and a fireplace. 

After the fifteenth time on the lift, legs numb, you stumble over with heavy boots to where Lisa and Namjoon were waiting for Jimin and Jungkook. They wanted to walk around more and see if they could try a more difficult slope. 

While you were waiting, you had to admit that Jungkook did kind of cool all decked out in his gear. A competitive, playful smile was easily reflected in his gaze despite his helmet and goggles. 

That slight admiration is knocked right off your feet when Jungkook speeds by way too close for comfort and you’re in his path. Jimin had already slowed next to your friends and family, looking at you in anticipated horror.

It’s far too late, and despite the fact that Jungkook manages to pull your body to his while you wipe out, your face crashes into his helmet and you taste metal. 

Mildly disoriented from the impact, Jungkook’s muffled string of curses nurse you back to a decent consciousness as he tries to carry you to the lodge.

“Holy shit, I got that on camera!” Jimin cries, gesturing to the Go-Pro nestled in his helmet. 

So now you’re in pain and it’s all Jungkook’s fault. Your bottom lip is split, and the burn on your face won’t go away. 

You watch as Jungkook dotes on you, his bangs pushed up everywhere due to his grey goggles haphazardly being propped upon his forehead. His pink tongue sticks out as he concentrates on not getting blood on your sweater. It’s just you and him that are stuck around in the lodge after you got pummeled, standing by the fire while everyone else continues on with the fun. 

“Why were you over there anyway, in the middle of the slope?” he scolds. 

“It was the slow down zone, Jeon. You were the only one not slowing down, you speed demon.” 

“Sorry,” he says gruffly, pressing a little too hard with the ice and you wince. He lets up and presses the cloth to your lips to soak up the moisture.

“Did you say something?” 

“I said, I’m sorry.” 

You sigh dramatically, “I wish I had a camera to save that shitty excuse of an apology.” 

“Speaking of cameras,” he shucks his phone out of his pocket, handing it to you. “Jimin uploaded the video.” 

That man, you don’t know where he has the means to quickly upload and edit things, but if it’s for the ‘Gram, it’s worth it to Jimin. You open Instagram and immediately click on @chimmyboi’s story, immediately wincing as the first few seconds reveal the brunt of the impact. He should really put a disclaimer before uploading content. 

The tumble between you and Jungkook doesn’t look so bad, but it’s when you get up does it look gnarly. Your chin is dribbling in red liquid, and Jungkook’s throwing off his helmet and goggles in a panic. 

He makes a half-assed snowball where you’re lying on the ground, pressing it against your mouth. With his other hand he pulls you into a sitting position, not caring that you’re staining his clothes as he hauls you on his body. 

“Ohmygod,” you splutter, trying not to move your lips, “I look like I got decked with a hockey puck.” 

“It wasn’t that bad, don’t be a baby.” Jungkook sees the piecing glare you give him, and he sighs. “Okay, it looked pretty bad. I was a little worried back there, but now the bleeding pretty much stopped and holy shit—stop smiling! You’re making it open up further!” 

“You were worried?” 

“Shut up.” 

The ice bag is watery and not doing much anymore, but Jungkook still insists to cool your face down. You lift a hand to his cold ones, attempting to take the bag and cloth from his grasp. 

“You should go board with Jimin and the rest of them. I can take care of this.” 

“It’s fine,” he reasons, reaching for the ice bag but you hold on tighter. 

“C’mon, I know the only thing you were looking forward to this entire trip was going snowboarding. I’m a big girl, I can be alone for an hour or two.” 

Jungkook locks his jaw, gnawing at his cheek as he mulls on his decision. “Wouldn’t I look like a bad partner if I leave you?”

“Nah, this has happened before. Almost always someone gets injured on the trip. Last time something like this happened I was eight and I got five stitches on my leg. This is nothing. You’re fine.” 

“But still.” 

“Fine, you wanna make it up to me?” 

You scan the room for any ideas, and it settles on a trio of girls huddled by the register of the built-in café. They’re pretty snow bunnies, decked out in sweater dresses and fur lined boots. They remind you a little of The Powerpuff Girls, all in pastels and attached to the hip. Their gaze has taken hostage in Jungkook’s frame, blatantly ignoring the fact that majority of his attention is directed towards you. You wonder why you haven’t noticed them sooner, because now the staring is getting borderline discomforting. 

Slipping off his goggles with your free hand, you gesture subtly to the girls. “They think you’re hot. Go flirt with them a little and get me a free drink, I’m sure they’ll pay for you.” 

He doesn’t understand the correlation, “Why would I do that?” 

You shrug, separating the strands of hair that stick to his forehead. “Lisa and Namjoon do it all the time when they go clubbing. They compete and pretend they’re single for like two hours, and then they keep a tally of how many people offer to buy them a drink.” 

“That is completely different, but I’m open to trying it when we get back to the city.” he acknowledged briefly, getting up from his crouching position. “I got a better idea.” 

Puzzled, you watch him saunter over to the register. Like bees to the honey, the girls follow Jungkook with their eyes, watching him exaggeratedly mull over the menu. 

He spares the slightest of head inclinations to the drooling trio, “Hello ladies.” The smile is not flirtatious, but kind. 

You suppress a giggle, burying your chin in your scarf as you watch the whole interaction. You don’t even know why you asked Jungkook if he would flirt with those girls, as he kept most of his dates private over the years. You picture a college-aged Jungkook getting his daily breakfast on his way to class, ignoring the way his presence attracts heads. 

The barista hands Jungkook a tray filled with a plastic cup of ice, and a cup filled with something hot, and a chocolate croissant. He grabs a straw from a tray, stabbing it in the hot drink’s lid. 

“Excuse me,” one of the girls coquettishly puts her hands behind her back, puffing her chest out as she leans over Jungkook’s order. “The regular croissants actually taste better in my opinion.” 

“Well my wife’s had a hard day, so I think she deserves something sweet.” 

He doesn’t even turn around as he makes a beeline to where you’re seated on a loveseat, carefully placing the tray on the coffee table. 

“Your better idea was making them jealous?” you ask, unsure of his intentions. 

He shrugs, “College-Jungkook always wanted to show off his girlfriend like that, so indulge me for a second, alright?”

Rolling your eyes you reply, “My life is about indulging you. Don’t forget the trips I’ve made to the grocery store when your personal fridge was out of banana—”

“I thought I said we don’t speak of those hard times,” he cuts you off, “ever.”  

You stop him from filling up your ice bag with the ice he brought. “C’mon Jeon, you’re burning daylight out there. I got this. You’ve stalled enough, go have fun in the snow with Jimin, you adrenaline junkie.” 

He scrunches his nose, but relents when you throw him his jacket and goggles. Before he pulls on his gloves, he cups your face with both hands to pull you in a kiss. His hands are cold from the ice, gluing you in place in fear of him kissing you too hard. But it’s barely that, a brushing of lips so tender as he takes extra care with your open lip. 

“Is this also a self-indulgent request?” you pucker, “who knew there was a hormonal teenager under that editor-in-chief’s body.” 

His eyes flicker to the audience in the back, and you don’t need to look behind you to note that they’re glaring daggers in your head. It’s like you’re straight out of a rom-com. 

“You’re leaving me to the bunnies,” you say teasingly. 

“Then hurry up and get better so you can join us,” he taunts, “or else you can’t help me bury Jimin in the snow.” 

It’s a tempting offer that makes you down your drink so you can enjoy the rest of your day. 

Light seeps through your windows, rays kissing your eyelashes and willing them to open. You groan, hand splaying out to wake up Jungkook. When you find his space empty and cool, you sit up and search for your fake-fiancé. 

He’s on the floor, smack in the middle of his morning workout. Your iPad is under his body, and somehow he’s managed to find a setting where the document scrolls for him automatically. He’s not wearing his Airpods, so you rasp, “Jeon, you’re crazy. I get the morning workout, but you don’t have to look over any more transcripts. I think you’ve read enough for this week.” 

“It helps me ignore the burn,” he says shortly, and you see the ripples of his back flex with every push-up. “And I wouldn’t have to do so much reading if my assistant would just do her job.” 

“I already told you, I’m not working during my vacation.” you throw off the sheets, padding to your closet. “I’m going to pick the tree today. You should go to the mall with my mom and Jimin to pick out some new ornaments.” 

“What?” he gets up, and you ignore the perfect view of tight muscles decorating his abs. Exactly how long was he awake for to have sweat clinging to his shirt? You’re going to short-circuit and it’s barely 8:30. “But I wanna go help pick out the tree.” 

“You don’t have to do that, Joon and Yoongi got it.” 

“Yoongi, really? You think he can carry a tree?” 

“This isn’t a pissing contest, Jeon.” you settle on a burgundy Patagonia jacket and grey leggings. “Besides, Yoongi and I are just friends.”

“You sure about that, baby girl?” 

You whip around to poke at his chest, and you ignore how smug he looks. “Do not test me, Jeon. Like you said, I’m with you every step of the way in this marriage. I’m not going to jeopardize that over some childhood crush.” 

“Wow, your life is really turning into a Wattpad entry,” he admonishes, “fake-fiancé still pining over his older brother’s best friend, really high-qual stuff.” 

“I’m serious.” you grit, “I took a week off so I can get away from you and that was ruined, so I would like a little bit of space today.” 

And that gets Jungkook to back away. His face deflates a little, and you feel a little guilty for making him upset, but you stab that thought down and convince yourself that he deserves it. It’s not like he cares about you, he just wants to show off to the boys.

“Fine,” he turns around to put on a fresh shirt, and you almost notice the pout marrying his face. “You could’ve just told me you wanted space. I’m getting kind of tired of you too, you know.” 

He flops on the bed and you huff in reply, quickly throwing on your attire inside your closet while he watches a YouTube video. You check your phone, and at 8:59 a knock is at your door. Jungkook doesn’t bother to get up to answer, and you open the door to see a sleepy Yoongi with a paper cup in his hand. 

“An English breakfast with two sugars and a dash of milk, baby girl.” 

You mask your wince at the pet name. It hadn’t bothered you when you were young, but its starting to feel coddling now that Jungkook is making you hyper-aware of the attention. “Perfect,” you faux-beam, the hot beverage warm your fingers. 

“I’ll just warm up the car and—”

“Babeeeeee,”  the deepest, sexiest voice echoes from your bed and out in the hallway. He sounds absolutely tempting, and needy. You freeze at the way your boss can so easily pretend he’s exhausted and wanting you, “come back to bedddddd. I’m not done with you yet.” 

Yoongi’s ears are red, “Aaand, I’ll let you finish whatever business you have.” 

The older man bolts out of there, and you snap your head back to look at an innocent Jungkook. He tilts his head at your bout of anger. 

“You know, I have half a mind to fling this tea down your shirt.” 

“What?” he looks at you like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “He can’t be the only one who can call you baby.” 

Honestly, you didn’t mean to lash out on Jungkook like that. You did need to put up a face as you were each other's significant others, but it doesn’t mean you have to be together all the time. To top it all off you’ve been feeling weird as of late, and you can only attribute these terrible feelings to a certain brunet who’s been sleeping in your bed. 

But you pin these feelings for another time, because you need to enjoy what little quality time you have with your brother. 

“Hey, whaddya think of this one?” It's just you and Namjoon picking the tree, and Yoongi’s sitting in the cabin keeping warm. He said to call him once you’ve decided, since it is your house. 

“Hm, it’s fine.” you shrug, inhaling the pine. “Maybe a little too tall.” 

Namjoon nods, and you follow him to the next row of greenery. He’s been pensive this whole time, and you have a feeling he’s hiding something. Surrounded by pine and the fresh winter air he says, “Hey, I just wanna say sorry.” 

“Why, did you like that tree over there? I don’t mind it, we can go back!” 

“What, no? I’m sorry for being weird around Jungkook.” 

“Huh?” sure, you noticed the weird language and terseness he gave Jungkook initially, but you chalked it out as big brother issues. 

You two continue to walk around the forest aimlessly, not really tree hunting. 

“I was just upset that the engagement was so sudden,” Namjoon starts, and you feel the guilt start to set camp in your stomach. “And I don’t know, at first he just didn’t seem like your type? I always thought you wanted to date someone gentle, someone you could hold and depend on. He looked so serious, and maybe a little immature.”

“He is a little immature,” you agree softly, digging your boots in the snow, “but I don’t love him any less because of it. We’re growing together.” Shit, why was that so easy for you to say? 

“Figured,” and Namjoon stops to place a hand on your shoulder, “I see the way he looks at you, and you can’t fake love like that.” 

Namjoon’s admonition is so convincing that you almost convince yourself that it is something. 

Something is bothering Jungkook, and he doesn’t know why. 

It’s not the billions of charges he made on his credit card for new ornaments, because it simultaneously inflated his ego and impressed your mom. 

It’s not the way Jimin hangs onto his every word and doesn’t let up, because it is refreshing to have your cousin find a genuine interest in him. 

Jungkook, Jimin and your mom have been taking laps around the mall for the past hour. They’ve floated around here and there, picking out whatever catches their eye for the tree. 

Jimin’s in the middle of explaining the Jamba Juice story when a glimmering window display catches his eye. 

“Hun, have you not bought her a present yet?” your mom says over his shoulder. 

“No,” he exhales, embarrassed that he just admitted he didn’t think of getting you anything in front of your mom. “She doesn’t ask for anything, really.” Besides her book published, a raise, and a potential promotion as editor, but they didn’t need to know that much. 

“Good thing you’re with the right people!” Jimin cheers, ushering him into the jewelry store. 

Funny enough, he knows exactly what to get you. Once he points it out, Jimin and your mom “ooh” and “aah” respectively, agreeing that what he chose was perfect. If you had asked Jungkook a week ago what kind of jewlery you like, he’d give you a dumb look and say “something shiny.” But that’s what’s bothering him. He just walked right into the store, saw what was right, and everything just clicked. 

Jungkook pins that thought for later, because once their shopping is done they’re back at your villa, arranging the ornaments and detangling the lights that have been holed up in the closet for eleven months. 

Jimin and he are sitting on the living room floor, stabbing thread through popcorn. He really only saw this craft in the movies, and the small part of him is amazed that you and your family go through the hard work to make your holidays so warm. 

Your mom appears from her bedroom, clutching something in her hand. She sits in front of Jungkook, a huge smile on her face. 

“Before you say anything,” and it strikes him how similar you are to your mother. There’s that tone he always receives before he gets new news, or the way you’re eager to share something that will make him happy. “I don’t want you to think this is a luxurious gift or anything. But I realized that you don’t have a wedding band so I went through my old cases and found this.” 

She opens her palm slowly, revealing a simple black band. 

Jungkook’s lips part to form words, but his vocal cords betray him. At first glance, this ring could’ve been mistaken for one of Jimin’s plentiful rings adorning his fingers. Upon closer inspection however, Jungkook notes that this band is thinner and more worn. The metal looks strong and old, the slight scratches and faded color revealing that it was a well-loved piece of jewelry. 

Your mom is offering Jungkook a wedding band. 

“If you don’t like it, that’s okay!” your mom says quickly, nerves radiating because of Jungkook’s silence. “It was my grandfather’s. Don’t feel as if you have to accept it. It’s not a wedding band persay, but I think it matches and it looks about your size and we didn’t get you a Christmas gift so—”

“It’s perfect.” Jungkook tells her firmly, sending him a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you, I guess we kind of rushed the engagement so I didn’t think of getting a band of my own.” 

Your mother is grateful, dropping the ring in Jungkook’s awaiting palm. “I think my daughter should be the one who puts it on you, don’t you think?” 

“Right,” he echoes, and he just stares at the ring in his hand, feeling weird in his chest. He can’t remember the last time someone put this much thought in getting him something this significant. He can’t accept this ring, but he can’t refuse it either. “I could never find something with this much value from a little shop in New York, so thank you.” 

“Oh, and while we’re on the topic of New York,” Jimin puts down his completed popcorn wreath, “y/n said she already put in her off days for Easter, so you should too. It’ll be at my place this year, and I live by an indoor skydiving zone. She mentioned you’re an adrenaline junkie.” 

“She also mentioned that your birthday’s in September.” your mom pops in, “We were thinking we could take Friday off and stop by for the weekend. I’ve always wanted to see Hamilton!” 

Jungkook knows they’re trying to cheer him up. They’re trying to make him feel part of the family, feel wanted. But he can’t remember the last time he’s felt wanted unless it’s for a book deal or a business exchange. It’s been so long since he’s felt this warm, and he didn’t realize how much he yearned for it until he proposed to you.

“Hey man,” Jimin puts an arm around his trembling shoulders, “are you alright?” 

“Fine,” he’s crying, and doing a shit job at hiding the tears. “It’s alright, I just,” he can’t even find the strength to get up and walk away from this. Is it pathetic that he’s breaking down in the comfort of your cousin and mom, starved for affection? “I just, I miss my family. It’s just the four of us, but they’re all the way in Korea and it’s been awhile since I’ve really celebrated anything with them. They visit sometimes but it’s not the same, y’know? And work is so stressful but I’m not in a position to say that. And your family is just so, so nice and it makes me miss them even more. You’re all so lucky to support each other like this.” 

Jimin and your mom sandwich him like an Oreo. It’s almost funny, how two smaller humans are comforting this big human and not the other way around. “Poor baby, it’s your family too.” 

Pathetic. It’s pathetic how much he wishes to have a family like yours, but he can’t have that. 

“Can we please not tell y/n about this?” Jungkook wishes, leaning his head on your mom’s. “She’s going through a lot right now with work and stuff, I’d rather just talk to her about this after the holidays, if that’s okay.” 

“It’s quite alright, sweetheart,” your mom runs a hand through his hair, and his eyes automatically flutter closed, “just remember, your feelings matter too, okay?” 

You and Jungkook slip into bed at the same time, murmuring half-hearted “how was your days” and brief descriptions of your outings. It’s a little awkward considering the morning’s events, but not unbearable. 

“The tree smells really nice,” Jungkook tries, looking up from his phone. 

“Yeah, makes the whole room smell like Christmas.” 

“Yeah.”

“Did you have a good time shopping, find anything good?” 

“Yeah.”

“That’s nice.” 

[11:29] Jimin: hey, you know my room’s right next to yours right? 

[11:29] Jimin: we share a goddamn wall and im NOT hearing shit

[11:29] Jimin: are you putting that baby blanket to good use ;)

[11:30] You: YOU”REE DISGUSTING are we even family!!!!  Can i disown a first cousin?? 

[11:30] Jimin: i’m just sayin.. U said it was fantastic

You throw your phone away, letting it slide off to the mattress and onto the baby blanket. Yes, the baby blanket is unfortunately here to stay. Over the course of three days, the quilt is like a ball in a tennis match between you and your mother. You’ve given up and just kept it on the floor. 

“I have a question,” you say aloud, motioning to your bed partner. 

“Shoot.” 

“Was it true when you said I was the only girl you knew well enough to be your wife?”

“Of course, that’s why we’re here.” 

“I’m just wondering, because I really thought you could pick any girl in the office to be yours.” you stuff your hands under the covers, playing with your ring. “I mean, you’re kinda-sorta handsome. You could’ve picked someone just as pretty and they would have studied your whole life story for you.” 

Jungkook's phone falls in his lap, and he looks at you like you’ve lost a couple brain cells. “Normally, I would eat up the fact that you admitted I was attractive. But do you realize you’re just as beautiful, if not more?” 

What? 

“I know it’s unprofessional, but how professional can we get when we’re married, but you’re the whole package, y/n.” and he says it with such fervor, you can’t formulate a response. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. No one else can take my shit and throw it right back in my face, or debate with me for hours on end about a novel’s direction. Only you can do that.” 

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, “thanks, you’re right. I’m just clouded, and stressed. And Jimin’s being an ass and it’s really bothering me.” 

His chocolate eyes flicker in the darkness of your bedroom, making note of your phone on the floor. “What’d he say?” 

“It’s stupid, he said that he thinks it’s weird he hasn’t heard us bang all week,” you force a laugh, “it’s my fault though, he wouldn’t get off my back so I gave up and told him the sex was fantastic.” 

“Are you worried he’s unconvinced?” 

“A little, maybe? I don’t know.” you’re wrinkling your bedsheets now, turning the cotton into putty as your sweaty palms wring at the edge. 

“I don’t mind giving him a show.” Jungkook blurts, and you instinctively pull the covers closer to your chest, even though you’re fully clothed. 

“What, like fake moan into the wall?” 

“There are things you can do over the clothes,” he says matter-of-factly, pulling the sheet of his bedside down slightly. “And you just said you’re stressed. I’d be a bad fiancé to not let you relieve some of that tension.” 

Jungkook opens his arms and gestures for you to get on his lap. Your body is hot all over, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re horrified or aroused. Maybe a little of both. 

“Are you kidding—you’re my boss!” 

“And we’re consenting adults!” he narrows his eyes at you, “don’t say you’ve never thought about it before.”

And the sick, twisted part of you has, a lot. There’s something about a man in a tailored suit and owning up to its power that’s really attractive. Not to mention all those times they’d be traveling for work, stumbling for a quick McDonald's bite at 12AM and he’d be dressed casually in tight black jeans and combat boots. The energy really kept you on your toes. 

“Wow, I really hate late-night talks. All the secrets come out, don’t they?” 

“If it makes you feel better, your ass looks great in pencil skirts,” you turn to him with flared eyes, “what? I’m just trying to let you know I mayhaps find you attractive.” 

“Mayhaps you should stop talking before I regret this.” 

His eyebrows lift and disappear from his bangs, the hair freshly dried and fluffy from his late night shower. He then pats his lap with a little blasé as if to say “hop on”, and you ignore the way how good the seat looks, his boxer briefs doing nothing to hide his unmentionables. 

Trying to fight alongside your last drop of dignity, you take your time. 

“C’mon y/n, don’t make it weird.” 

“It’s been weird, Jeon! Jimin’s next door!” you hiss, backing away slightly, “Give me some time, I can’t just hump my boss!” 

“You’re not humping your boss.” Jungkook has the audacity to grin, the expression looking absolutely sinful in the moonlight. “Think of it as your lover wanting to make you feel good.” 

The bridge between love and hatred is a fine, fine line stemmed by passion. 

Careful, you lift your blankets up and slip out of them, moving to sit up. It’s ridiculous, tiptoeing around your bed to avoid any sudden creaks in the aged wood of your mahogany headboard. 

“We’re out to prove to your family we fuck on the reg,” Jungkook snips, “you can make noise.” 

Within seconds, he’s hauling you on his lap. You squeak in surprise, feeling the thin material of his boxers seep through your thin silk shorts. You wriggle around, monitoring Jungkook’s expression. He does not allude too much, but you take note of the way Jungkook secures you with his hands between the swells of your thighs. 

“I’m not a rollercoaster, stop adjusting like you’re gonna buckle up.” 

Jungkook’s dry humor lightens the mood considerably, and you can’t help but smile timidly at his attempt to make you feel at ease. He lets you take your time, and you never imagined someone so demanding in the office can be so… kind in bed. 

You dip forward to kiss his lips once, twice. He looks needy, but lets you set the pace. You appreciate that. You’re salivating at his willingness to make you feel good, and you whimper as he nibbles on a sensitive spot on your neck. 

You need more. Sensing your urgency when you jerk his chin up, he muffles your sounds with a harsh kiss, taking care to moan deeply into your mouth. The heat is luxurious on this winter night, burgundy kisses exchanged between the sheets like secrets. His tongue slips between your teeth, tasting every inch of you and exploring you like the deepest texts. 

He pulls away slightly, and you’re drowning in his gaze. “Am I still just kinda-sorta handsome now?” he nips at your neck, sucking on a spot between your jaw. 

“N-no,” and you pull him up by the chin, taking in his messy hair and glazed eyes, “you’re fucking sexy,” and you tug your mouth to his once more. 

You don’t even realize that you’re rolling your hips until Jungkook breaks the kiss in favor of grabbing your hips, making sure your core is nestled perfectly between his hardening length. It doesn’t take long for the both of you to get wet, and the silk glides easily between your thighs like butter.

“That’s it, baby girl,” he encourages, one hand reaching up to cup your breast, “use me, make  yourself feel good.” 

“Please, don’t call me that,” you whine against his mouth, trying to keep the mood in, “Babe is fine, but baby girl makes me feel like a little kid and I’m not a little kid.”

“You damn right,” and he lifts his hips to meet yours in a sharp thrust, and you gasp hotly into his mouth. It’s too late to muffle your moans, not when you’re drenched with two pathetic pieces of fabric stopping the both of you. “You’re a gorgeous, intelligent, strong, amazing woman.” 

With every compliment, he does all the work, thrusting with each adjective like he’s blessing poetry into your body. 

“J-Jungkook,” the name is muffled against his shoulder, too fuzzed in ecstasy to be embarrassed by the drool coating his tank top. His hair tickles your shoulder as he nips at your clothed breasts, swirling around your nipple. “I-I, m’gonna come,” 

“You’re almost there huh?” and he slips a hand between you two to find that sweet spot, swirling designs between your shorts. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

And you’re shaking, collapsing into his embrace as he rides out your high. He cradles one hand in your hair as you rub furiously against his other, chasing your pleasure like a starved animal. 

“K-Kook,” you murmur into his neck, finding the strength to roll your hips one more time to check. “You’re still hard, do you want me to help?”

“No.” he’s forthright, and as tired as you are, you force yourself to pick your head up. Sweat lines his brow and his face is flushed, but he’s already helping you off and handing you a tissue from the nightstand. 

“What?” you’re hurt, and don’t want to admit why. 

“Don’t feel like you need to,” he grunts into your forehead, dipping a chaste kiss right in the center. “Just let me do something nice to you for once.” 

As much as you want to, you don’t complain as he tucks you in. You don’t complain when you see a wet stain on his Kirby boxer briefs. You don’t answer back when he checks his phone one more time and pulls you in to press a kiss to your cheek. It’s 12:31. 

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs into your skin, and turns over so his back faces you. 

Christmas is a loud and eager affair. The entirety of your family piles into your house while still in pajamas, aunts and uncles from other villas running in with their children with their newly opened toys and gadgets. There’s a buffet style breakfast piled on the kitchen island, and you’re all eating in the living room while watching holiday movies. 

Jungkook melds right in, unsurprisingly. He has your baby cousin Dante in his lap, teaching him how to use the controls of his new Nintendo Switch. 

Despite only meeting Jungkook a few days ago, you notice that some of your family have taken the liberty of giving him small presents. You spot a simple silver chain around his wrist, courtesy of Jimin, and a fluffy grey scarf wrapped around his neck, courtesy of your aunt’s impeccable knitting club. 

“He fits right in, doesn’t he?” 

Yoongi hands you your usual cup of tea, and you accept it gratefully. You’re sitting right next to the tree, and you notice that some of the ornaments are miniature books. You absentmindedly run your fingers over the carved wood, especially on the ones that are your favorite titles. 

“Yeah,” you hate to admit, so you whisper it into your mug. But Yoongi can hear, he always does. “I didn’t think it would be this easy.” 

“Easy to love him, or easy to fit into this family?” 

You splutter into your mug, and Yoongi does the right thing by patting your back. It feels a little bit like he’s burping a baby, but otherwise, it soothes your lungs. 

“I am happy for you, you know.” he says, knocking knees with you. “It might not seem like it now, but I truly am.” 

Deciding not to dwell on his subversive confession, you thank him for the tea and excuse yourself. Dante seems like he’s got the hang of MarioKart, so you tug Jungkook by the hand and lead him back into your bedroom. 

“I got you a present, but I didn’t feel like making a scene about it,” you pull out a pink gift bag, tufts of white tissue paper sticking out. “Also, it’s kinda cheap and it was a last minute thing, so don’t have any high expectations.” 

“Gee, you’re really making me feel deserving of this gift,” but he takes his time in unraveling the bag anyway. 

He pulls out a shiny onyx black mug, rolling it between his hands. On one side it’s engraved in gold cursive “World’s Best Boss” but on the other side it’s engraved, “World’s Best Husband”. 

“Subtle,” he grins, pulling you into a hug. He gets that it’s a gag gift, but because it’s from you, it's a lot more meaningful. You could’ve easily delved into his bank accounts and see what he buys for himself, but you decided to take the more personal route. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs into your hair. And to really throw you off he says, “For my gift, I’ve decided to publish your novel.” 

You shove him away as if you’ve been stung, and you barely have the voice to ask, “Are you serious, you’ve read my novel? I didn’t even send you the first draft!” 

“We share the same Google Drive, it was easy to find. If you had noticed, it’s the only thing I’ve been reading this week,” he shrugs as if it’s nothing, but he’s in actuality giving you your lifelong dream. “You deserve it, really. I’m sorry if you felt like it wasn’t ready to be read. But it was wonderful, you’re a real wordsmith.” 

“I’m not upset,” you can’t be, not when he smells so good and he’s trying to hug you all over again. “How many copies?”

“10,000.”

“20,000.”

“15,000, and I’ll even give you permission to dedicate your novel to me.” he raises his brows irreverently. 

You scoff at his arrogance, but you don’t admit to confessing that along with professors and your family, you would be dedicating it to him. “Well my gift feels like absolute shit,” you deadpan, “can I have a do-over tomorrow? We can go to the mall or something.”

“You’ve done enough for me,” he disagrees, breaking away from you to place the mug on your desk. “Agreeing to my farfetched proposal, letting me into your home. I think that’s an amazing gift.” 

“You’ve been way too nice,” you look at him wearily, noting the rosiness in his cheeks. 

“You say that like it’s not possible!” 

“Who knows? Maybe the Christmas spirit has performed a miracle, who am I to judge?” and you can’t get enough of the man, running into his heart one more time. Pressing your ear to his chest you sing, “Well, in the Poconos they say, that Jeon Jungkook’s heart grew three sizes that day.” 

It may have not grown three sizes, but if the living room wasn’t so loud, maybe you could’ve heard his heart beating three times as fast. 

The calm after the storm is your favorite part of Christmas. Most of your extended family has left to mull in their own homes, leaving your family to laze around until it’s just you and Jungkook that are awake. 

Jim Carrey’s version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas is playing on Netflix, arguably the only superior rendition of the children's book. The tree is still glowing by the fireplace, soft white lights trickling in the darkened room. 

Earlier in the night, you and Jungkook had cuddled up in the middle of the couch under a blanket, and were too lazy to move even when the entirety of your family vacated. Either of you could’ve easily shoved each other off and went to bed, but here you are, making offhand comments over hot cocoa. Each second that passes by, you’re more aware of how well you two sink between the fabric like you’re meant to do this. The domesticity terrifies you, but you don’t dare to point it out. 

“How does his face do that?” Jungkook turns to you, contorting his face into funny expressions. It’s a poor attempt at the green creature on the screen, but it makes your mouth twitch and you fight the urge to giggle. “It’s like he’s made of rubber.” 

“He has a sense of humor, unlike some people.” 

“Very funny,” he says, turning away to take a sip of his cooca. 

Sinking further into the couch, you unconsciously latch onto him more, savoring his body heat. “Can I confess something?”  

“What’s up?” 

“A week ago, I loathed you. I used to have recurring dreams about you getting run over by a Wonderbread truck. And I was driving the truck.” 

“Wow, that makes me feel so much better.” 

“No really, if I had the opportunity to watch you get hit by a cab, I would’ve paid for it.” 

“If it were possible for me to file for divorce at this very second, now would be time. You are a walking red flag.” 

“Okay, but!” you shush him with a finger to your lips, and he goes cross-eyed at the touch. “After seeing your stellar performance this week and an impeccable display of human emotion. I think after all of this, we could be friends.” 

“Fwends?” he says through your finger, mouth smushed. “Why whuh we?” 

Instead of lifting your finger right away, you swipe at his cherry lips, getting rid of the marshmallow sticking to the corners. 

“Because we get along.” you say simply.

“Because we’re supposed to be getting married.” 

“No! We’ve always gotten along! We’ve just been too up our asses to notice!” you sit up, appalled. “Here’s my theory, a change of setting has suddenly spurred on your character development—”

“—y’know I really don’t appreciate your use of literary jargon, it’s really pretentious—”

“—because without your external conflict, you have a chance to let loose and enjoy your life for once!” 

Jungkook frowns, adjusting his frame so he slightly hovers you. He’s pretty like this, dressed in fluffy black pajamas and his face soft. His eyes absorb the Christmas fairy lights, and you notice for the first time in two years that there are no longer purple bags under his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, voice so small you wonder if he’s worried to crush the moment. “Friends are hard.” 

You shake your head vehemently, “Friends are easy, keeping them is the hard part.”

He doesn’t know why he’s being so weird about this. You’ve worked for him for over two years, you know him as well as you know your skincare routine, down to the last detail. 

“Jeon, don’t think too hard about this,” you try to get him to lighten up, the intense look in his eyes throwing you in for a loop. It makes the little hamster wheel in your head spin rapidly, and you wonder if you’re really crossing a line. “Jimin said you had a really good time yesterday, I was almost jealous I couldn’t come shopping with you.” 

He cracks a smile at that, “Yeah, Jimin and I shared a moment,” and he leans down to the shell of your ear, “and he said he really enjoyed our moment last night.” 

“Oh my god!” you grab a nearby throw pillow, chucking the rough fabric in his face. 

He breaks into a laugh, but not the wine and dine chuckles that he’d have between terse negotiations for work. It’s a full out giggle, like he’s proud to have riled you up enough to break your resolve. Who knew your angry face could be so cute? 

“I guess if we’ve crossed a line, might as well make it all the way to the end,” Jungkook says easily, running a hand through his chocolate tresses. 

You and Jungkook are leaving the day after tomorrow. Most of your stuff is packed and ready to go, and you’re currently spending the rest of your night at a sit-down dinner with your immediate family plus Jimin. 

It’s peaceful, you muse. Jungkook even offered to help cook. Back at Big Hit not once did he ever bring leftovers from home, always insisting you order something for him during work. Kimchi fried rice is a simple dish, but Jungkook had taken great care in making sure it was cooked properly and adjusted to your family’s tastes. 

Your parents are glowing and enjoying their time with the whole family, a rarity that grows more valuable with age. The meal soothes you like a balm, reminding you of old conversations that had you spew milk out of your nose or Namjoon accidentally spilling beans on your lap. 

“Oh, you should also clear your schedule for the first week of September,” Jimin says absentmindedly, shoving another mouthful of fried rice. “Besides Easter, Jungkook says we can celebrate his birthday and visit for the weekend.” 

“Seriously,” Namjoon balks, sitting up straight as he regards you in disbelief. “You’re sure your Devil of a boss will enjoy you out of his chains for two vacations, god forbid you take the holidays off again.” 

The grip on your fork tightens, but you steel yourself. Honestly, you were wondering why it took Namjoon this long to let it all out. He was always vehemently against your job, as he was the person who got the brunt of your vents when you were stressed. Probably for the sake of Christmas he let it go, but now that it’s over, the topic’s fair game. 

“Oh, c’mon Joonie,” your mother frowns, “not at the table.” 

“He isn’t that bad, Joon.” you reason, completely ignoring Jungkook as you stare straight at your brother. “He means well—”

“Means well?” Namjoon barks a laugh, as if it’s the most laudable thing. “Sis, you cried everyday for a straight month after you were hired.” he places his hands on the table, regarding you carefully, “I had to personally call your doctor in New York to get you sleeping pills, and not to mention that two weeks ago, you were crying again because you were worried he forgot your vacation and would make you work! Don’t tell me he ‘means well’ when I’ve been busy picking up the pieces!” 

At this point, you’re livid. Jungkook’s right here, and while you can’t go ahead and out the fact that he is your boss, you can still have his back. 

They don’t know that you’ve picked the pieces back up, reinforced yourself to create a better version of the person you once were. 

“He does mean well,” you cry, matching your brother’s red tone to a T. “He’s just stressed and genuinely cares about the company. I choose to work long hours because he takes his time in making sure the work we publish is worthwhile, and I support that. He’s hard on me because he knows I have potential. He’s going to make sure I succeed.” 

Namjoon looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. “You’re seriously defending your shitty boss?” 

Jimin puts a hand over Namjoon’s in an attempt to placate him, but he shoves it away.

“Honestly,” Namjoon spits venom, “how can you possibly stand to be around someone who makes your life so miserable?” 

Your meal has gone cold, and your fists clutch desperately at your jeans. The breath is robbed from your lungs, and you can’t look at anyone for fear of them regarding you with guilt. You know since the day you got hired that your family wasn’t exactly enthused at your boss’ level of expectation and work output. But they don’t know the industry, and they don’t even really know Jungkook past the surface level. . 

But you know in their eyes, they’re right. Their daughter left their comfy home to pursue her lifelong dream, only for it to be broken in a matter of weeks. It’s natural to feel protective, and while you’re resilient and were able to get it together as of late, it wasn’t enough for them to understand. As someone who loves you, it’s obvious they’d want to blame your boss, blame Jungkook for your suffering. 

You imagine your father would ask Namjoon to step outside, or your parents would make Jimin pull you and Jungkook out. Neither of those things happen.

A warm, large hand is placed on top of yours. You look towards Jungkook, face unreadable as he squeezes your thigh. 

“Namjoon’s right.” Jungkook utters, pressing his lips together. “You deserve to be treated with respect. The boss has never appreciated the hard work you do, at least not out loud. You’re too good for him.”

“Jungkook,” you gape, putting your other hand over his. 

He pulls away at your touch, glancing at the clock. “This dinner was wonderful,” he says gently, looking apologetic to your parents. “Excuse me, but I promised to call my parents at this time.” 

The excuse is completely half-assed, but no one says anything as he leaves, walking out the door without a coat. The table is terse, with your parents attempting to coax out dessert while Jimin clears the dinner table. You refuse to look at Namjoon, who has no idea why you’re so upset. You wait five minutes before you mumble about getting Jungkook a jacket. 

However, when you open the door he isn’t sitting on the porch. He’s all the way up the street, too far for you to be heard with a yell, and walking farther into town. The black hoodie falls to your side, disappointed. 

Jungkook does in fact, call his parents. Your mother suggested it when she gave him the ring, thinking it would ease his homesickness if he made a better effort to communicate his feelings. 

And so he spends over an hour huddled in a cafe, talking about nothing and everything with his mom and dad. He tells them about the little novelties he’s experienced this week, like making popcorn strings and picking out themed Christmas ornaments. He tells him how he promises to book a flight back to Korea as soon as his work visa goes through. While he doesn’t mention the proposal, he mentions you. He prattles on and on about how strong and beautiful you are, and how you’ve crept up on him and made him realize how awful of a person he was. 

His mom prattles excitedly through the line, saying that women make you realize how much better you can be for them, but she doesn’t know the half of it. 

Jungkook sat there in your dining room, Namjoon boldly telling you off about how miserable he’s made you. 

And yet still, you defended him in ways he never imagined. Your relationship has always been mutual, and prickly at best. You balanced each other out, but he knows he doesn’t deserve you. When he first hired you, he rendered you indispensable like all the other assistants that couldn’t handle it. You’d break eventually. 

And you did break. But you picked up the pieces and put yourself back together, and you didn’t resent him for it. He hated that. How can you trust someone who’s hurt you so much? 

He can’t let you go through with this marriage. You’re wrong. You don’t need him to be successful. 

[11:09] You: mom unlocked the door for you. Jimin and i went out for drinks so idk when ill be back

[11:09] You: please don’t be mad at me

Silly girl, why would he ever be mad at you? 

His plan is simple, Sneak into your villa, grab his luggage, and try to book the earliest flight back to New York. Then, he can come clean to Taeyeon and spend the year in Korea while they work out his visa issues. He’ll quietly pack his things and clear out the office before Monday.  Hopefully by the time he makes it to Busan, he can forgive himself. He’s going to regret missing your expression when you get to hold the first physical copy of your novel. 

This plan proves difficult when he sees Namjoon waiting outside for him, sitting on his luggage and reading a book. His long legs are splayed across the porch, and he doesn’t spare Jungkook a glance.

“Knew something was off,” the older man doesn’t look up from his novel, “found the mug on her desk, bossman.” 

Muttering a curse under his breath Jungkook opens his arms, “Are you gonna beat me up now?” 

“What? No, I’m a lover, not a fighter.” Jungkook scoffs, and watches Namjoon roll his luggage to the back of the van. “And out of the kindness of my heart, I’ll save you the Lyft fare and drive you to the airport.” 

Is he that predictable? He flinches at the sudden jet of the ignition, and he takes heavy, snow-laden steps to the passenger seat. Once buckled in, Namjoon tosses the book in his lap. “Some light reading for the drive.” 

If Namjoon wasn’t the driver, he wouldn’t hesitate to chuck the book at his big, intelligent head. Instead, he glowers, clutching the book tightly. It’s only when they round the corner to a house brightly decorated with lights, does he see what novel Namjoon’s plucked. 

A Mutually-Assured Attachment. Jungkook tosses the book back and forth between his palms, noting the soft cover is so worn it could melt apart in his lap. It feels tended and loved from years of use. 

It’s Jungkook’s first novel, and you had a copy. One of the first editions, if he remembers the cover art correctly. Granted, he thought you had some of his books purely because of your job, but not one from your childhood. Frankly he thought this should have never been published, but he was nineteen and that in itself was a large feat. 

He carefully peels the pages, and takes out his phone to shine the flashlight mode. At the very front, blood red ink is scratched next to the title: “this is THE most pretentious title i’ve read in my life! Don’t disappoint me jeon!!” 

Your handwriting’s all over the place. He sees graphite, gel, and glitter pens mark the margins, as if you’ve come back each time to write something new. The annotations vary, from “this part sucks” to “shit, that’s good i should do that”. You draw little pictures of the objects he’s contrived, from the little brass locket one character cherishes to the facial expressions you imagine they hold. 

And at the very end, your handwriting sits neat and bold on the inside cover: I can do better than him. 

Jungkook chuckles to himself, turning off the light. You’re always right. 

Namjoon senses the younger one is done, and he clears his throat. “I really really don’t understand what she sees in you.” 

“I don’t understand either,” Jungkook agrees easily, his finger tracing your handwriting. He muses that you were always out to get him, even if you didn’t know it. 

Namjoon masks his surprise by clearing his throat. “But I’d rather seek to understand than live the rest of my life having my sister resent me. I don’t really know what you two are going through, but if she trusts you with her life, I’ll try. Emphasis on try.” 

“I don’t deserve your trust.” 

“You damn right you don’t,” succumbing to his impulses Namjoon makes a sharp turn, and Jungkook holds his stomach together before it flies out the window.  

You come home to find your room cold and barren. All of Jungkook’s things are gone, except your Christmas mug. 

You at least thought Jungkook would spare you a goodbye before he ditched you. You hoped you’d at least consider each other friends who provide explanations after all of this. 

Lifting the mug off the desk, you hear a little clink in the glass, the chime unfamiliar. Hurriedly, you pour out its contents. A heavy, tungsten black ring lands in your palm. You clench the metal between your fingers, hugging it to your chest. 

Mind made up, you dash out to the hallway, nearly bumping into your cousin. At the same time you and Jimin blurt, “We need to go to the airport.” 

Apparently Namjoon warned Jimin that something fishy’s going on. Namjoon didn’t know what, but he had the inkling that Jungkook was hiding something. Once Jimin received the text to meet them at the airport, he flung you in his sedan and floored it. Flushed with adrenaline, Jimin is speeding with a fervor you’ve never experienced. 

“Can you please, take the edge off and tell me what the hell is going on?” 

Just like how Jungkook didn’t want Big Hit to go down the drain, you didn’t want this week to be in vain. You can’t wait a year for Jungkook to come back, and you didn’t want to publish your first novel without him by your side. 

“Long version or short version?” 

“The in-the-middle version. I don’t think I have the brain capacity to absorb all your drama right now but I really need some answers.” 

“O-kay. Basically, Jungkook isn’t a Literary Agent. He’s my god-awful boss. Or was awful, I don’t know. Jungkook left the country before his work visa was fully processed. That’s a breach, so he needs to live in Korea for a year to come back. But he can’t run Big Hit remotely, so he proposed to marry me to attain citizenship.”

Your head whips to the dashboard and you cry out, barely stopping the impact with your hands.  

“Sorry, sorry!” Jimin’s eyes are focused on the red light, absolutely terrified. “Bitch, you’re committing fraud with your boss! You could go to jail, that’s like, the hottest love story ever!” 

“But he’s going back to Korea because now he suddenly realized he can forge basic human connection.” you mutter, “so no, we’re not going to jail because he’s decided to do the right thing.” 

“So what you’re saying is, Jungkook has achieved self-actualization and decided to peacefully move to Korea and sacrifice the company for you.” Jimin is carving his free hand in the air, gesturing wildly. “Don’t you see! He really likes you.”

“Yeah, so now we need to go to the airport and tell his dumbass this isn’t the time to be selfless.” 

Once you find a spot you’re rushing out of the car, weaving between carts and people to find the correct terminal. This airport is much smaller than JFK, so it’s easy for you to navigate and get past the TSA. It also helps that Jin’s wife is an attendant. 

“He chose the 1:45 flight in Terminal 31A,” Mijoo chirps from her tablet, leading you in the right direction. She’s dressed impeccably, the odds and ends of this airport glued together by her impeccable organization. She points to the clock, which glares a digital 1:18AM. “You have time.” 

“Thank you Mijoo,” you exhale gratefully, “and I’m so so sorry I skipped your wedding!” 

“This is the 300th time you’ve said it,” Mijoo rolls her eyes, pushing you and Jimin forward, “But I’ll make sure not to miss your wedding.” 

You’re sweating from your down jacket, and you can’t believe it’s really all come down to this. The one person you’ve spent the last two years of your life doting on, and you didn’t want to stop. You wanted him not just for the publication of your novel, but because you needed him. 

Jungkook’s sitting in the waiting area of Terminal 31A, looking wholly inconspicuous as he reads a book and has his hood propped up. 

Fists balled, you stride forward only to have Jimin tug you back. “What?” 

Jimin pulls off your thick coat, making haste to wipe the sweat off your brow with his sleeves and flatten your messy hair. “What?” he tilts his head to the side, “you need to look good before the big confrontation. I’m recording this for archival purposes. Do you have any lip balm by any chance? You look chapped.” 

You slap his hands away, but those grubby fingers just come back with a vengeance. “My life is just a big show to you, isn’t it?”

“Living vicariously all day, every day.” 

While Jimin parts your bangs, the intercom cuts through the air. 

“The 1:45 flight to John F. Kennedy International airport will now commence boarding. Please line up according to the ticket class.” 

Jimin smiles at you, squeezing your shoulders and gestures for you to go. To your horror, Jungkook is first in line. Panic bubbles to your throat.

“Jeon Jungkook!” you cry, voice echoing throughout the terminal. “If you so much breathe in the direction of that plane I will call Mark Lee right this second and tell him the book series is off!” 

Like a deer in the headlights, Jungkook heeds to your voice immediately. In his stupor you jog forward to snatch his wrist and pull him out of line. You don’t let go until you’re away from the long line, and Jungkook tugs his wrist away. 

“Don’t you dare call him,” Jungkook looks serious, as if you didn’t drive all the way to stop him from making the biggest mistake of his life. “I will never forgive you if you terminate Mark Lee’s contract.” 

“And I won’t forgive you if you get on that plane.” 

Pain flashes in his eyes, and he shakes his head. “I need to. I can’t let us—let you go through with this. You and your family deserve better.” 

“What? Jungkook, I agreed to this just as much as you did.” 

“No, you didn’t.” he’s adamant, and steps back with every step you take forward. “As your boss I threatened you, held it over your head like an ultimatum. I’ve hurt you,” his voice cracks, looking at you desperately, “why would you want to be stuck with me when I’ve made your life miserable?” 

“If I really wanted to leave, I would’ve done it a long time ago.” You reason, “Do you really want to leave the company behind? To fucking Karen?” 

“Of course I don’t!” Jungkook exclaims, “but it isn’t worth hurting you, hurting your family and everyone that loves you.” 

“And what about you? You’ll be hurt when you leave,” and you step forward, so close that your chests are touching. You take hold of his hands, clutching them between your small ones. “Don’t go, stay with me in New York. We’ll both work hard and try to not run each other to the ground. Let’s be better together.” 

You’re practically begging, biting your lip raw and hoping Jungkook understands how good this change is for the both of you. 

Jungkook is conflicted, looking back and forth between the airline boarding for JFK and your watery eyes. He hates seeing you like this. He can’t imagine you, the strongest woman he’s ever met, crying because of him. Namjoon’s voice echoes in his mind and he tries to smash it to the edge of his memory. But as always, you’re right. 

He replaces your grip with his own, and gets down on one knee. 

Jungkook says your name like it's the sweetest of songs. You’ve never seen him so terrified. “y/n, I didn’t do it right the first time, so let me try again. Please, marry me. Marry me because I want to date you. I want to take you out and give you what you deserve, what we deserve. I want to do better for myself, do better for you. I’ve realized you’re the only person that makes me feel like I’m simultaneously on fire and on thin ice,” he pulls out a velvet box from his pocket, revealing a thin band with interlocking black and clear diamond studs. It’s a pretty little thing, with a groove in the center so it stacks perfectly with your engagement ring. “This was supposed to be your Christmas present, but I chickened out at the last second,” he says sheepishly, tucking his head in. “But if you let me put this ring on your finger, I promise to be your home away from home.”  

With a sob you fall to your knees, throwing yourself onto Jungkook. A small “oof” escapes his lips, and he struggles to hold your waist so you both don’t topple over. “Yes, yes, yes!” you cry, pulling away to cup his face with both hands, pulling him into a sweet kiss. 

Jungkook’s smile takes up his entire face, and he eagerly pecks your lips one more time before ripping the ring from its holder and stacking it on top of your engagement ring. The teardrop diamond is nestled perfectly between the thinner band’s V. “Pretty,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours. 

“Wait,” you pull out the black ring that you found in your room, holding it to his face. “I’m assuming this is yours?” 

“Yeah,” he replies, “your mother said it was your great grandfather’s. It’s not an engagement ring, but it’s the thought that counts.” 

“It matches,” you hum, placing his simpler band in his ring finger. Once it’s on, you take a deep breath. “Shit, we’re really doing this?” 

Jungkook pulls you to stand, wiping the happy tears from your cheek. “We are, we’re a team, remember? We’ve crossed the line and we gotta finish it.” 

And he picks you up, the workouts definitely paying off as he spins you around like you’re the leads in La-La Land, drunk off the happy chemicals firing in your brain. Jimin whoops and hollers, along with all the other patrons in the vicinity of the airport terminal. 

Your real-fiancé puts you down, the both of you now hyperconscious of the stares people give you. Other people have filmed the proposal as well, completely smitten by your confessions. 

“Jungkook,” you giggle into his shoulder, “you were right. Our story is straight out of a Wattpad entry.” 

“Down to the super cheesy in-public airport proposal?” he chimes, pressing his forehead to yours. “Couldn’t have asked for a better love story.” 

“I can’t wait to fall in love with you,” you whisper, quiet enough for his ears only, “for real, this time.” 

“Not that it’s a challenge,” he teases softly, “but I’m already halfway there.” 

some months later.

“Like the new office, boss lady?” your new assistant (yes, you have an assistant!) asks kindly, his bubbly presence uplifting you immediately. He leads you to the window box, filled with tiny plants. “I figured you like succulents, because you have no time to water them and they’re prickly like you.” 

“Very funny, Seungkwan.” you chide good-naturedly, picking up a succulent with a yellow flower in the middle. “But thank you, your interior design skills are outmatched. I can’t wait to work with you.” 

“Me too, your social commentary you published on the literary industry? And you managed to lace it all up in an inconspicuous fantasy novel?” Seungkwan boasts, “I applied for this position right then and there.” 

“Thanks Seungkwan, why don’t you take your lunch and we’ll meet back at one to discuss our plans for next week.” 

“Sounds good, do you want me to pick you up something?” 

“I’m good, I’m meeting with the bossman.” 

Seungkwan gives you that look, his lips jutting out in a suggestive manner that almost makes you burst into giggles. Your assistant decides not to bother you until after you’ve eaten, and bids you goodbye. 

Just when you get a moment of peace, a handsome face pokes his way inside. “Hello editor,” Jungkook knocks on your door for the sake of attention, but you’re already dragging him into the office and shutting the door tight. “Like your new office?” 

“Love it,” you moan, gesturing to Seungkwan’s light filtering curtains. They’re not dark, rather a tasteful sea green, but they’re opaque enough to stop wandering eyes from peeking into your space. Your personal space was a qualm that immediately needed to be mended after your experience in Jungkook’s office. “A lot more private than your office.” 

“A little part of me hates how much you deserve this promotion,” he sits on your desk, and doesn’t hesitate to pull you between his legs, letting you lean into his chest, “but I do love the added privacy.” 

You fiddle with the buttons of his navy collar, his strong thighs trap you between him, “Why, miss me already?” 

He shrugs, “Taehyung doesn’t look as good as you do in a pencil skirt.” 

You laugh, brushing the strands of hair that fall from his coiff. “No one looks as good as I do in a pencil skirt.” A firm grip confirms that, two strong hands cupping your backside. “Mr. Jeon!” you gasp playfully, pushing him away slightly to pinch his cheeky grin. “Can we save this for later? I’m hungry, but we can always continue this for dessert.” 

He groans in your neck, “Love the sound of that, Mrs. Jeon.” 

bonus.

“FUUUCCCKKKKKK YEEAAHHHHH!” Park Jimin’s voice bounces off the walls of Taeyeon’s office, his face taking up the entire screen of his desktop as the camera shifts harshly between him and you and Jungkook at the airport. “My cousin’s not going to jail! WOO!” 

Taeyeon pauses the YouTube video at a particularly unflattering screencap: Jimin’s nostrils are flaring wildly and he looks fairly high mid-scream. 

A low whistle escapes Jungkook’s lips, “Wow. That video’s viral,” he looks to you appreciatively, “if Jimin kicks off his YouTube career, you think we can milk a memoir outta him?” 

“Potentially,” you reply nonchalantly, playing with your rings. 

“So,” Taeyeon’s voice is icy, slashing between your casual conversation, “you’re getting married, for real this time?” 

“Yep,” Jungkook pops. 

“Alright,” and from her desk she pulls out an ungodly stack of documents, one that mirrors your own back at the office. “Jungkook, you’ll stay with me. y/n, you’ll go to Vernon’s office and he’ll give you the same spiel. We’ll interview you privately with the same questions. A hair out of place and you’re in trouble. You sure you want to go through with this?” 

You and Jungkook exchange looks, betting your own company that you got this in the bag. 

“Hit us with your best shot.” 

[idkkkkkkk123lgb]

Chris evans (Professor) x reader

A bit of the moment i knew too for the birthday

7 days till my birthday.

Day 1

Profesor Evans was one of the most attractive people you'd see he was so naturally attractive that students would end up daydreaming and fighting over the first desk so they could just see him upclose i was sitting on the front desk per his request we were both in a 3 months relationship after class was over i went up to him

"Chris... I think i left my scarf at your sister's house did you see it there?" i jumped on the desk infront of him

"Yeah it's with me don't worry but i don't think I'm giving it back" he said smirking that smirk that made me weak

"You owe me a new one" i was holding back a giggle

"How about a drive instead?" he asked

"Fine since you asked so nicely" i hop off as both of us alone make our way to his car to not be suspicious before i get in his car and he also does on the other we were driving around getting lost autumn air making our hairs fly and a few leafs going inside through the wide open window as we were singing loudly there was magic in the car i felt so inlove i got a text from my mom telling me she's not home "chris?" i looked at him "yeah darling?" he almost ran a red light when he looked at me awaiting my answer "careful... Mom said she's not home you know she's been staying with me.. Wanna go to my house?" he agreed and we went there.. It was the night i lost my virginity to him.. Me 20 him 43..i had no regrets not then atleast.

We fell asleep right after but woke up in the middle of the night as we go find something to eat i open the fridge and suddenly you grab me to dance as i giggle loudly in the refrigerator light then we sit on the stairs planning a future for after i finish college talking about our pasts

Day 2

we were meeting up with your friends as they showed me pictures of you when you were a teenager in a small bed as i laughed while you blushed when you were taking me home we got into a fight and you got out of the car throwing the car keys to me after a while he calmed down and went back inside i was going to tell him today that i loved him but bit my tongue he found me curled in the passenger seat so he held me close to him

Day 3

The next day i went into class smiling at him and as always first row i was dying to tell everyone you were mine and to stop daydreaming about you.. You would leave me cause you kept us a secret afraid of reactions

Day 5 (sorry for the skip)

He was meeting my father my dad was against it at first but they were both dying of laughter over coffee as i sat next to him smiling at how well the interaction is going

Day 6

The day before my birthday we were once again with your friends except i was sitting awkwardly not understanding much or to be more specific no one including me so i was zoning out holding Chris's hand what broke me out of it was him dropping it as i frowned a little and then kept silent the whole way home when he asked me what's wrong i lashed out

"You dropped my fucking hand chris" i exclaimed angrily

"I didn't even notice are you this immature that you have to make a big deal over something i didn't notice? Are you for real right now?" i stormed out of the car going to my house as i watched him drive off from my window

Birthday

I was standing head to toe in Chris's favorite color all of his and my friends were here i knew we were a secret but this was my birthday.. And for his birthday i had a big party with everyone he loved.. My short off shoulder red dress that puffed out in the end bringing my curves out my dad next to me thinking it must be him each time the doorbell rings but every single time it wasn't him i was waiting for him the way he always comes in when we're alone

Flashback

"baby im right heree" he said happily

"Chrissss" i jumped on him like a koala hugging him tightly "missed you"

Instead i had no one to impress or kiss everyone standing around me singing the seat that was supposed to be yours empty tears were streaming down my face as i ran off

Day 8

We're over. You couldn't care less you mailed me back everything except that one scarf.. A sign of my innocence you took and the smell of me you couldn't bring yourself to get rid of it

You remembered it all too well

[hargrove-mayfields]

Billy has to stick up for max a lot because of her autism, at school he walks to her class and their afraid of him because just,,, look at him

warnings for mentions of bullying and ableism.

It isn’t easy to make Maxine Mayfield cry.

At least, Billy had almost never seen her shed a tear in the six years he’d known her but maybe two times: once when she was still little, and just learned her step-family was going to move into her house and replace her real dad forever, and once when she was told they would be leaving California. Both times she’d run off to her room and slammed the door before anyone could see, but Billy had noticed. He always did when it came to Max. Had to when he knew damn well how much trouble he’d be in if things went wrong while he was watching her.

Beyond that there were a few teary eyed looks that got wiped away, maybe a sniffle she’d try to cover up by complaining about her allergies, but it was very rare, even during meltdowns, that she’d be full on crying, tears streaming down her face so quickly she couldn’t wipe them away while sobs wrack through her and make her shake.

So Billy knows first thing that something is very, very wrong when she’s already at his car after school, her face buried in her balled up jacket and doing exactly that. He can hear her from outside the car, so he sighs and knocks on the window before he yanks the door open, but Max doesn’t even flinch, just curls up tighter in the passenger seat and ignores him.

That’s a bad sign too, the fact she isn’t even trying to hide it from him, “What’s a’matter Maxi?”

“None of your business.” She snaps at him, voice thick and wet with tears. It’s unfamiliar seeing her like that and it makes Billy feel tense ang guilt even though he didn’t do it this time, so he tries, “Come on. It totally is my business. You get tears on my leather seats n’the salt’ll stain ‘em up, and you’ll be the one to clean it up.”

All it gets from Max is another heavy sob, instantly hitting him with a pang of regret for trying to be light about this, “Shit. M’sorry, Maxi. Didn’t mean it like that. Just tryin’ ta make you smile.”

“Well it didn’t work!” Max sniffles, throwing her jacket on the dash and finally turning to look at Billy, face flushed red and tracked with tears, her bottom lip still wobbling, “I’ll never ever smile again..”

“Why not? I know it’s not just because of your dumbass brother.” Billy sees a twitch at the corner of her lip, the slightest hint of a smile at him insulting himself, and he counts that as a small win, a sign he’s getting at least a little bit through to Max, so he prompts her again, “What happened at school today, Max?”

Her gaze drops to her lap, and she shrugs her shoulders slightly, stiffly, as she mumbles an explanation, “Remember how I told you about that boy, who's mean to me and my friends?”

“‘Course I do. I never forget anythin’ you tell me.”

Max wipes her nose on her sleeve, and corrects him, “Except for when you forgot I told you I had AV club and you came in the school looking for me and then you got stuck talking to a teacher for like, three hours after I was done.”

“Yeah, well that was one time. N’I was already havin’ a bad day when you told me, thank you very much.” He encourages her, his face serious though their tone is light-hearted, “Keep goin’, what’d this kid do now?”

Again Max’s features close off, and she tries to lie, “He was just.. Well it was my fault.. I-I don’t know.”

“Max. I need the truth.”

Talking fast, like she’s fighting against her thoughts, she makes him promise, “Promise me you won’t do anything dumb, first.”

Billy lifts a hand from the steering wheel, “I won’t. Cross my heart, Maxi.”

At this point, in the silence that builds while Max wills herself to speak, Billy starts to drive, since it’s clear he won’t be going back into that school. It isn’t lost on him the way Max takes a deep breath, out of relief that he meant it when he said he wasn’t going to be dumb and march back in there.

Quickly, once she’s ready, she explains, “Okay. Well he kinda sort of told me that I was annoying ‘cause I laugh too much, and I told him it was just a stim n’that I couldn’t help it but he said that made me a baby and I told him I wasn’t and he called me a retard instead and I was already stressed so I started crying like a dumb baby and he laughed at me and none of my friends said anything or helped me and I just.. yeah.”

All Billy can do is raise his eyebrows, has about a hundred and one pissy and angry things he could say, but he doesn’t utter a word, because he doesn’t want to make Max more upset than she already is.

Clearly just the change in his expression spooks her though, because she insists, sounding like she could cry again at any second, “You promised me!”

He puts his hands up sort of defensively, though he has to grab the wheel again when the car veers, swallowing his anger to tell her calmly, “I didn’t even say anything. I promised I’d be nice and I’m gonna keep that promise.”

She nods hesitantly, more to show trust than agreement, so Billy continues, “But Maxi that’s.. bad. Why don’t you tell a teacher or some shit?”

“Yeah, like they would even do anything. They already hate me for being in their coed classes.” Max mumbles the last part, looking away, “They’d probably rather Troy beat me up so I wouldn’t be bothering them anymore.”

“Tell me you’re being dramatic.”

But Max just shrugs again.

“Fuck, I hate this fucking place.” Billy tears his eyes from the road to look Max in the eyes as she says it, even knowing she can’t return the gesture, “You know you don’t deserve to go through this shit, Maxi?”

“It.. is kinda my fault though.”

He lashes out, just a little, hearing her talk like that about herself. Because it’s not fair that a thirteen year old girl looks at herself that way, yeah, but also because he knows it’s in some ways his fault too, and their parents for the way she’d been brought up, and the shit she'd been around that she even thinks to say shit like that.

He hits the palm of his hand against the rim of his steering wheel, rather he goes to before he catches himself, slowing it before it really hits, tapping it more than anything, “No the fuck it isn’t. It’s nobody’s fault but the assholes that make it into a problem. And fucking Neil’s for dragging us to this close-minded little spot on the map. I hate this fucking town”

“Oh.” Is all Max says.

Billy waits, but he can see she doesn’t know what else to say, so he sighs, “Look, I made my promise to you. Can you make one for me now?”

Max looks confused, “Okay?”

“Promise me that the next time somebody says some shit to you, you stand up for yourself.” Max scrunches up her face, like she immediately disagrees with that, but Billy insists, “Look, I don’t care if you’re crying like a damn baby or you can’t even talk while you do it, just don’t let ‘em walk all over you like that again.”

“I’m not fighting anyone, Billy. I’m not.. like you.”

“That’s not what I said. I said to stand up for yourself. It’s different.”

“Yeah right. How am I supposed to do that?” Billy knows that some asshole had to have said that to Max, that for whatever bullshit reason she couldn’t stick up for herself. Damn kid can’t catch a break in life, so he tells her, at this point not sure if this is even advice or just him ranting at Max, “This kid calls you a slur again, tell ‘im at least you got the diagnosis. Make him feel like he’s the stupid one. And if a teacher ever pulls some shit about the way you learn, tell ‘em you’ll go to the board of education and personally get their asses fired. Your mom would fight for you.”

“No she wouldn’t.”

“Then dammit I would. Your friends would if they understood. I know Sinclair would kick ass for you.”

Max’s toughness finally cracks- she learned that from him, to put on that hard exterior and fake it- Billy's determination stronger than her stubbornness. She looks up at him with a look in her eye that says he’s said all the right things, “You really think so?”

“No shit. Big brothers know all about this kind of bull.”

“I guess.” Max smiles just a little, and tells him matter-of-factly, “But you’re not that kind of big brother. You’re too cool.”

“Hell yeah I am.” Billy hums proudly, adding with humor in his tone, “But it’s even more cool to be nice to your little sister than it is to be an asshole. Remember that one.”

Max nods, listing it off on her fingers, “Stand up for myself, but don’t be an asshole, and Billy's secretly a big softie. I think I got it.”

“Good. Now out of my car, shitbird.”

Giggling in that way that says she knows she got him, Max swings open her door and runs into the house, leaving Billy to watch after her. He turns off the car but doesn’t get out, trying to bury his worry for her under his expression, not because he didn’t care, or even because he didn’t want her to know, he was long past that, but because he was worried what would happen if Susan saw his concern.

She’d weasel the truth out of Max if she knew something was up, and somehow, despite her promises, Neil would find out once he dragged his ass back home from the bar later tonight, and then it would somehow be Billy’s fault. He just hopes, if Max lets slip about the bullying, she at least doesn’t get too mouthy and mention the part where she was crying.

That was a Friday when that all went down, so Billy has the weekend, which thankfully does not include any snitching, to decide what he’s going to do about it. It’s not like he was ever going to go beat up on any tweens anyways, but he promised Max he wouldn’t be dumb, and he knew that meant no passive aggressive bullshit either. At least not while she could see him.

Because that ruled out like, half of his options, he’s still kind of clueless on what he’s going to do that next Monday morning when schools back in. He’s sitting in the middle school parking lot, fingers twitching against the steering wheel without a cigarette to busy them with, waiting for 7:30 on the dot when Max always goes in.

At this point, he’s considering just ditching with her to go get ice cream or something so she doesn’t have to face any bullies today, but his epiphany comes in the form of watching Jonathan Byers walk the littler one all the way to the front doors, his hand protectively hooked through the handle on the kid’s backpack. When the clock ticks the right time and Max opens her door, he knows what he’s going to do, and he turns the car off.

She freezes, can tell he’s up to something. “What are you doing?”

“Nothin’. M’just walking you in.” She glares at him in response to the smug smile he wears, so he swears, “Honest. I got basketball today. No way I’m missing that shit ‘cause I fought some little kid.”

“You’re lying.”

“Can’t I just be nice to my little sister?”

From the look on her face, she’s still skeptical, but it's enough to get Max to agree to it, grabbing her bag from the backseat and mumbling, “Whatever. Just don’t embarrass me.”

Billy chuckles, giving Max a head start towards the building before he follows, “Hey now, I thought just yesterday I was your cool older brother.”

“Cool older brothers don’t walk their sisters to the door.” She calls it over her shoulder, and Billy can’t help but tease her more, correcting her in a sing-songy voice, “Who said I was stoppin’ at the door? I’m walking you all the way to your class.”

“Oh god.” Max stops walking, but Billy keeps up, this time pulling ahead enough to call back to her, “Come on shitbird. Don’t wanna be late.”

“I hate you so much.”

“Yeah, right. You love that I would take the time outta my morning to do this for you.” He props open the door for Max with his boot, pretending not to notice the way all the little middle school kids at their lockers turn to gawk at them, letting her shove past him with her face flushed deeper than the color of her hair in embarrassment.

Pulling on her backpack straps, like she’s trying to physically make herself smaller, she mumbles, “No, I actually hate you.”

He almost feels bad for embarrassing her, but that’s the other part of his job, and he reminds her of that, “Good. There’s some more advice for ya, little sisters should always hate their big brothers, or he’s doing something wrong.”

They get a little ways down the hall, Max’s confidence going up just some as the shock wears off and people start to turn away, but Billy hardly notices. He doesn’t even come close to being bothered by eighth grade politics anymore, and if he’s intimidating the poor kids, well that’s exactly what he’s there for.

When he’s met with a particularly harsh glare from some snob nosed brat, who happens to remind him a lot of one Tommy Hagan, he bumps into Max on purpose, and announces louder than he needs to in hopes the kid’ll know he was looking for him, “That the little asshole s’been givin’ you trouble?”

Glancing nervously between him and Billy, she nods, “Yeah..”

Billy just nods, a cross between acknowledgment and judgement, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You said-“ Again Max panics, but Billy cuts her off this time with a simple assurance of, “And I didn’t do anything.”

Her eyebrows knit together, realizing that that wasn’t a lie, “I.. guess you didn’t.”

“What’s your first class anyways?”

“We report to the cafeteria before first period.” She informs him, leading him that way, but he hooks two fingers through the strap on her bag to stop her, “Not gonna happen, Maxi. Being shoved in a tiny room with three hundred other kids makes you feel all ‘meltdowny’ I think was your exact word. So you’re not doin’ that anymore. I just decided.”

“But that’s against the rules.”

“Yeah, so’s me bein’ in this building during school hours, but nobody’s saying shit to me, are they?”

Max narrows her eyes at him then, and he knows he said too much, that he’s been found out, “That’s your plan isn’t it.”

There’s a crooked smile on his face he can’t hide as he plays innocent-like, “What is?”

Max pushes him a little and he pretends to misstep while she accuses him, “Coming into school and being all intimidating so nobody will bug me anymore.”

“Pfft, yeah right.” Billy denies again, getting nothing but an eye roll in response at first, but when it’s clear it’s he’s not going to give up and admit it, Max does, glancing shortly over at him, “Well thanks anyways, Billy.”

She adds, realizing he’s wandering with no idea where they’re going, having never been in the middle school himself, “My first class is in B-18.”

“Which one is’at?” He asks, just curious, but Max deflects the question, giving a short, “It’s taught by Mr. Clarke.”

Just from how quiet she is, Billy can tell that she's hiding something, “Max. You seriously don’t even know what class you’re in?”

“No I don’t, okay?” Max stops in the middle of the hallway, ranting at her brother, “It’s already not the same as my old school, and then they moved my schedule all around again after they decided I didn’t qualify for special ed, so now I just go where I’m s’posed to, and I know my teachers better than my classes.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

“No. There’s nothing anyone can do so it doesn’t matter.” Her tone implies she thought a lot about it, maybe even wanted to, but decided not to.

Billy insists right back, these past two days feeling like he’s constantly petitioning for Max to trust and rely on him, “Oh I could do somethin’. You know I could.”

“I do. But I don’t want you to. Sticking up for me is enough.”

That’s what makes Billy understand. The firmness in her voice says everything she needs him to hear: Max doesn’t want Billy to do for her what she can handle. This is bigger than just being the older brother. This is her setting boundaries, asking for help without wanting to be controlled. That’s something he never really got how to do, being raised by a dictator and all, but it’s something she needs. Sometimes he forgets that.

He doesn’t say anything else, just lets it sit while Max takes him down some stairs to the right room. She stops outside, scuffing up the dusty marble floors with the toe of her Chuck Taylor’s, “Could you.. stick around for a little bit in case he says something?”

Billy clicks his tongue, remarking, “I dunno. I got a class in a few..”

But his sarcasm falls short with Max, which, that’s his bad for not realizing that it would, and her face falls, “Oh, well I guess I can just-”

“Was just funnin’ you shitbird. I don’t give a fuck about my classes.” Max grimaces in that all too familiar way of uncertainty, so he promises, “I’ll be right out here. Go talk to your teacher, ‘n if he says some shit to you, remember I only promised not be stupid about the bully.”

He at least gets a smile for that one, before Max rolls her eyes, “You’re not fighting my science teacher, dummy.”

“Whatever. Just get in there, brat.”

He can see Max holding back a smile as she listens, bounding into her classroom with another quick glance back at Billy to check that he wasn’t lying and going to walk away.

Billy waits until the door fall closed to lean against the row of lockers opposite it, watching her through the little meshed over windows. By now, he’s pretty well versed on what arguments with angry authority figures look like, and the conversation between Max and her teacher is not one. He still stays though, just because Max asked him to, but maybe, just maybe a little for himself, a reassurance that the second he leaves shit isn’t going to get worse, and Max’ll have at least someone other than her equally as nerdy little friends behind her.

Then they both turn and give him a little wave, Max and her teacher, an acknowledgment to Billy that this new routine was indeed going to work out. The way the school district had handled everything else, he wonders if the guy even knew Max wasn’t like his other students until now.

Still, seeing that, Billy gives a half nod in response, and decides his job is done here, at least until tomorrow when he does the same. Max’ll get used to it, and his hope is that the little bully brats won’t. He’ll just have to keep them on their toes.

Which is exactly why, while on his way out, Billy has to break his promise to Max, just slightly, and do something dumb. He finds the Troy kid again, and waits until the little punk is at his peak to knock him down a few pegs.

He’s complaining about some teacher, which is pretty typical for a thirteen-fourteen year old kid, but the other things he’s said to Max make it not as relatable, not as innocent. So he does what any logical, mature adult would do, and scares the piss out of him.

Billy waits until the kid gets a laugh from his troop of assholes, and slams the locker door beside him shut, uncaring of who’s it was. All eyes are quickly on him, all too wide against too pale faces. It’s too easy.

“What are you little shits whining about over here?”

The one in charge steps forward, trying to be tough despite the way he has to practically bend backwards to look up at Billy’s face, “None of your business. Did the freak send you after us to scare us? It ain’t gonna work.”

“Oh I’m not here to scare you. I’m just here to give you your final warning. We’re past the point of intimidation. Matter of fact, next time I have to come here.. it won’t be looking so good for you.”

“You’re lying.” The kid accuses, despite the obvious doubt written behind his features.

Billy can work with that.

“I might be. But I’m still an authority figure over your sorry little asses, and if you don’t start respecting that..” He bends down a little further, still nowhere near the kid but making his whole troupe flinche back, and drops his pitch, “well, I can’t promise what’ll happen to ya, but unlike your teachers, I don’t play by the rules. You got that?”

Straightening himself back out, Billy pretends to start walking away before he adds, “Oh, and if you pick on my kid sister ever again, I will know. Just remember that, uh, Troy was it?”

The kid nods dumbly, literally vibrating with something like fear, and Billy can say he’s pretty satisfied with that. He pats the kid on the shoulder, a touch so gentle it wouldn’t’ve hurt a fly, and notably couldn’t get him in any trouble, but the little shit scampers off, three other puffy head bullies trailing after him.

Everyone sees it happen, Billy with his nasty smirk and his distinguishably high-schooler way of carrying himself, Troy running for the hills in the other direction. He leaves feeling like his point has been thoroughly proven.

It isn’t easy to make Maxine Mayfield cry, but it’s even harder to get away with it, and Billy knows it won’t be a problem from now on.

[perishman]

The Prodigal Son

Hey so this is for @nastyburger and their Dannyverse AU.  Just so you know, it’s an AU that may not make sense without checking them out

Danny B. Fenton snorted, ashen grey smoke erupting from his nose as Dani landed behind him. For the first time in years, he was at Fenton Works for christmas, home of now world famous ghost hunters Maddie and Jack Fenton, as well as their elder child, Jazzy. It was once his home too. He knocked on the door. He didn’t know why, since he was expected. He supposed he just hoped it was Jazzy who opened the door. He was afraid to phase in. His parents might not buy that they “just didn’t hear him come in” when he was the most anticipated part of the holiday. 

After a few seconds of silent waiting, Dani turned to her brother, silently asking if he really wanted to go through with this. And B wasn’t entirely sure he was. But, he’d promised Jazzy he would make an effort. The Fentons were old by now; it was why the elder child had returned home. The door creaked open, violet eyes glancing out before it was thrown open to reveal Madeline Fenton, hunched over with hair more grey than red, her hands rough and boney. Danny’s smile was still half formed when she latched onto him with a hug. Maybe it was his Core that had always caused him so much trouble, but she was cold to the touch. Most humans were. Silently, Maddie waved him and Danielle in. As soon as they crossed the threshold, Danny felt the house take aim at them, reacting to their shared ecto-signature. Danny had once removed its ability to sense him and Dani, but Jack had yelled at him when he’d realized. Danny had pointed out that it could’ve been Jazzy, but the Fenton patriarch had rebuffed that by pointing out Jazzy followed instructions. 

Soon, Jack approached from the tree, a somewhat strained smile on his face as he said, “‘Ello Daneil. It’s good to see you. Same t’ ya Elle.”

Danny nodded, “Hi Ja- Dad. and uh, yeah. Glad to see you both as well. Merry christmas.”

“If yer more comfortable callin’ me Jack, call me Sparrow for all I care. Haven’t been yer father in years,” Jack said gruffly. Danny noticed it sounded more irate than sad. More bitter than apologetic. 

The halfa siblings each raised an eyebrow and held up some bags (Elle had food, B the gifts), to which a younger, less bitter voice rang out from behind, “Food on the counter, presents are hidden in the guestroom.”

Danny hugged Jazzy much tighter than his mother had done to him. He’d been meaning to call her for ages, bur grading and hunting had been eating up his time. Despite not being back here in ages, he didn’t need to ask where the guestroom was, given that there was only one option. When he got up there, he snorted. The bright blue walls still had the fades that came from his posters; it was the same desk, so on and so forth. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it. 

“They didn’t touch it for years, ya know. They were hoping you’d,” Jazzy said with a pause, “come home.”

The redhead ran his hand through his hair and laughed horsley, “Considering how I left? Why don’t I quite believe it was a bilateral decision?”

Jazzy pursed her lips, not having a response to that. There had been a lot of yelling that night. Ancients, it had been Christmas Even then too. For the longest time, the most that Jazzy, Sam or Tucker had heard was that Danny Phantom was more and more active than had been normal. That his fire had been tinted blue. It had been a terse few weeks, and everyone was frightened out of their minds trying to figure out where Fenton was staying. When they found out Vlad had taken him and promised to hide him… It had been a difficult time. Loathe as the Phantom was to admit it, Plasmius had supported his human half in a way no one else could, and Danny was in his debt. 

Looking around the room some, Danny said, “I need to think about some stuff. You mind?”

Silently, Jazzy nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her. Danny looked around some more, and eventually found something he hadn’t seen in years. A picture of him with Sam and Tucker at eighteen, with the imprint of Dani in a nearly invisible red spot that almost no one else would see. If Danny had to hazard a guess, he was 19 here, and it was one of the last times he was happy at home. He sighed as he pocketed the picture and walked out. There was nothing more for him in that room, bar whatever present Jazzy had gotten him, he supposed. 

“Look who decided to join ‘is family afta all,'' snorted the old man from the living room. Danni glared at Jack, who snorted. 

Spitefully, Danny glared at his father and blew a smoke ring with his ghost sense. He knew it was childish, but Jack had been nothing but rude the entire time. To his surprise, it was his mother who glared at him with… a contempt usually reserved for Phantom... . Jack, for his part, almost seemed apologetic, before the mask was back on and he scowled. Both Jazzy and Danni rolled their eyes at their brother. 

Sensing the tension bubbling beneath the surface that threatened to lash out, Jazzy turned to Danielle, and asked, “So. Elle? What’ve you been doing lately? Last I saw on instagram you were in, Madrid, right?”

Danni nodded, “Yep. Met a cute girl or two, which was nice. But Spain isn’t for me; not a fan of their food compared to Italian. Actually I spent the last few weeks of my europe trip in Milan. But I guess I forgot to post it…” she shrugged. 

“Ooh, Milan. You have got to tell me all about it,” Jazzy said with a smile before she glanced at the falling snow. 

Danny tried to listen, really. But Danni had already told him about her time in Milan (and the girls she met there in some form.) He felt himself zoning out, before his father jostled his shoulder and led him down to the lab. Danny wasn’t sure what he expected, but the lab was still the best kept part of the house bar hi- bar the guest room. His father had to take an automatic chair to carry him down. The radioactive green of the portal still illuminated the basement, but there was now a glass container that Danny could tell was lined with ectoplasm to prevent phasing. Smart. The eldest fenton offered a beer, which the son silently turned down. But soon Jack had sat the two of them down, like when Danny was a kid. Then, Jack had called them their ‘boys talks,’ but now it was clear what this was. Two broken men, trying to fix themselves by fixing the other. 

“Now, you were always a bit oblivious on your best day. Which this most certainly isn’t. Suppose that’s my fault a bit. But, in case you hadn’t noticed. Your mother hasn’t said a word all day. Why do you think that is?”

Danny knew immediately, “Throat cancer. Jazzy told me a few weeks ago, when I was in Canada with Vlad… I tried calling, but…” 

Jack snorted, whether he believed his son or not being unclear, “Right. Ya know, when you were a tyke, I wanted you t’ meet Vladdie,” a snort, “more than anything in the world. But now? I wish I’d never met ‘im myself. Would’ve saved my family. Would’ve saved him, come to think. Regardless. I want you to tell ‘er. Before she goes. So she knows who you really are.”

The room went cold, as Danny knew exactly what Jack meant, and he tried to force the hurt down in a level tone, before asking, “You knew? For how long?”

“Knew you had powers immediately. Saw you fall through your floor, but you were too comatose from the accident to remember. Didn’t know you were Phantom for a while, but when Vlad won his first term- unanimous votes my ass- I realized somethings about him. Things were cemented when I saw you beat him into transforming back to human. If somethin like that could happen from Vlad’s accident…” he gestured to Danny.

Danny stood, eyes burning with tears and ectoplasm as he snarled, “You knew. You had to know I wasn’t some druggie. And you still let mom send me to rehab? You still wasted weeks of my life. You tore me from my friends. You still sided with Mom in almost every fight. How dare you ask for me to give her my secret now? You don’t care. You just want your guilt off your chest and think I can do that.”

“I’m the reason it was rehab and not the dissection table. Maddie was on to you, you know. By timing alone, and the devices going off. But I lied to my own wife, your mother, for months. I regret what I had to do, but not what I did. I saved my son.”

That gave Danny pause. He wanted to believe it. But years of being alienated from his family made him wary. Part of him screamed that if Jack was being honest with him, he wouldn’t have let Danny risk life and limb with minimal intervention. He wouldn't have shot at him. But the boy that wanted to be a family again ached at the possibility opening up. At being his parents’ son again. 

“Fine. I’ll do it. But after this? I don’t want to hear from you again, You’ll see me at the service, but after that, I’m gone.”

As he walked up the stairs, Jack sighed. Tears streamed down from the old man’s face. It was better Danny was angry at him, than the dying woman who’d nearly convinced him to experiment on his own son when they’d realized what happened. Jack didn’t see the incidents with Danny’s powers, it had been Maddie. And Jack had sent his son to rehab while he tried to talk his wife from the edge. He’d saved Danny, and all it cost him?

 His son.