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chimcess · 16 days ago

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⚔︎ Chapter Two: Your Name's Buck, Right? Pairing: Taehyung x Reader Other Tags: Assassin!Taehyung, Assassin!Reader, Assassin!Jimin, Dad!Jimin, Assassin!Yoongi, Gang Leader!Yoongi, Assassin!Namjoon, Swordmaster!Hoseok, Chef!Hoseok, Pimp!Seokjin Genre: Assassins! AU, Exes!AU, Lovers to Enemies, Action, Comedy, Suspense, Martial Arts, Drama, Thriller, Romance (if you squint), Heavy Angst, Violence, Age Gap, 18+ only Word Count: 22.2k+ Summary: A former assassin awakens from a four-year coma after her ex-lover Taehyung tries to kill her on her wedding day. Driven by revenge for the loss of her unborn child and stolen life, she creates a hit list and embarks on a ruthless mission to take down everyone responsible. Warnings: graphic violence, grief, implied SA, stabbing with IV drip, bashing head in with a door, stolen car, very crude language, revenge plot, past relationships explored, previous reader and Yoongi, smut, backshots, friends with benefits, more than likely poorly translated Korean, my bad, bickering, swords are here, guns too, crying, seething anger, PTSD flashbacks, implied CSA, more backstory, pedophilia referenced multiple times, blood and gore, all of the content warnings really, dead dove: do not eat, seriously this really only gets darker as we go along, throwing knives at someone, I love Hoseok in this one, he's one of my favorites here, attempted murder, actual murder, ripping tongue out with teeth, jealousy, character in a coma, body scars, no one here is really a good person morally or otherwise, I don't think I missed anything but let me know if I did... A/N: Happy 4th!

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It was raining hard in El Paso. The storm hit Mesa Street in sheets, the streetlights flickering weakly through the downpour. Their halos cast brief, warped shadows on the wet asphalt. Cars crawled through the flooded intersections, tires cutting through the water. Windshield wipers slapped against the glass in frantic rhythm, and hazard lights blinked in every lane. Some drivers had given up, pulling to the curb with their turn signals on. Others huddled in their seats, squinting through the storm.

Three floors up at El Paso General, the building rattled with the force of the storm. Room 304 sat at the end of a beige hallway that looked like it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades, the walls lined with buzzing vending machines. The air inside smelled of mothballs, bleach, and old paper. The room was still. The bed was neatly made around the body, the tubes connected, and machines hummed in a steady lullaby of survival: a soft beep, then another. No flowers, no cards, no voices waiting for her to wake up.

The name on the chart: Rhonda Portnoy.

A man had come to identify her—Bill White. Big guy, quiet. Hard to place. He came four days after the paramedics had brought her in. Signed the papers, listened to the surgeon’s rundown without blinking. He didn’t ask about the swelling, the coma, or the chances of waking. He just signed and left. Took the baby with him.

A girl. Born premature. Five days in NICU under blue lights and wires, machines breathing for her. Then Bill came back, this time with a duffel bag, and left with the infant like it was just another errand. No photos, no family, no questions. Just a man walking out of a hospital with a newborn like he was clocking out.

The nurses wondered, as they do. Did Rhonda even know she’d had a baby? Did she remember the wedding? The white dress, the flowers, the crowd that never made it to the reception. Tommy Groban was the groom. Shot in the chapel before the vows. Most of the family went with him. Blood on the church floor, champagne never popped. Rhonda took a bullet to the head, but somehow lived.

At first, they called it a miracle. News vans lined the street, reporters scrambling for the scoop. The Bride Who Lived. The story wrote itself. There were cameras, tabloids, a viral ambulance video. But Rhonda never woke. No blink, no cry. So the miracle faded. Headlines dried up. The cameras moved on to other tragedies. The world forgot.

Now, there was just the hum of machines, the rain beating against the windows, and a silence that had stopped waiting. Four months of it. No visitors, no changes. The air in the room had turned stale, a sour, chemical smell—like melted plastic or a burnt match. The kind of air that clings to you.

She lay there, untouched by time except in the way it drained her—soft muscles, drained color, a body left to maintenance. A life on pause. The monitor kept its steady beat, like a metronome counting nothing. The IV kept dripping, a drop at a time, into a vein that never twitched. The staff kept up their routines, but none of them expected her to wake.

Down in the rain, a black car slid into the hospital lot. It idled for a moment before dying, the only sound the ticking of cooling metal and the steady slap of wipers. Then, the door clicked open. A red umbrella unfurled, sharp and efficient, the kind of movement that came from practice, not panic. Yellow boots splashed into the ankle-deep water, followed by the woman herself—tall, composed, wrapped in a bright coat that seemed out of place in the washed-out world around her. She didn’t rush. The rain hit her shoulders, her face, and slid down her cheeks, but she walked as though it was nothing.

The ID badge clipped to her collar read: R. Stone, RN. The name meant nothing. The photo was blurry enough to avoid suspicion, and the laminate caught the light just right. It was a good fake—hospital-grade, correct barcode, and even the weight was spot on. The automatic doors slid open for her, just like the night before when she’d tested the entry points, counted the cameras, and watched the shift change.

Inside, the hospital buzzed under fluorescent lights, the air thick with the scent of disinfectant. The floor was too shiny, and the dry, sterile air barely masked the faint mildew and copper tang that lingered beneath.

Janice sat at the desk, barely awake, scribbling through a crossword with two untouched coffees beside her. Her scrubs were wrinkled, shoes discarded, feet swollen in pink compression socks. She didn’t look up when the woman walked by.

“Late shift?” she muttered, more out of habit than curiosity.

The woman gave a tight, professional smile, empty and practiced. “Always short-staffed.”

Janice grunted and scratched at the puzzle, too tired to question anything.

The woman moved quietly down the hallway, her footsteps soundless on the linoleum. Her pace was steady, her eyes sharp beneath the brim of her umbrella. She didn’t break stride as she passed the nurse’s station, the vending machines, the rooms marked with numbers no one cared to remember. She turned into the restroom, and the door clicked softly behind her. The lock slid into place.

The mirror caught her slowly—first her shoulder, then her face—drawing her in like a photograph developing in real time. The umbrella lay crumpled at her feet, leaking water into the grout. Her soaked coat hung from her shoulders, rain dripping from her elbows, her mouth set in a firm, unreadable line. She moved with a calculated grace, the kind earned by discipline or violence—every action precise. She peeled off the coat, folded it tight, and sealed it in a plastic bag with practiced ease.

She sat on the edge of the sink, pulling on white stockings that snapped against her thighs. The fabric was slick, uncomfortable, but she wore it anyway. Next came the white nurse's shoes—standard-issue, ugly—and she slipped them on without ceremony.

The uniform was a near-perfect match for the hospital’s own. Just enough wear in the seams to pass unnoticed under tired eyes. She adjusted her cap, smoothing an invisible wrinkle on her chest, flat palm over the fabric, breath held. Her reflection stared back. One eye icy and sharp. The other hidden behind a clean white patch, sealed at the edges with surgical tape. Her lips were bright, rose red, her face symmetrical and flawless. She looked like someone who knew how to get away with anything.

From her duffel, she retrieved a stainless steel tray, placing it carefully on the counter. On it, a single glass syringe. Next to it, a vial of something clear and viscous—mercury without the shine, more shadow than liquid. She held it to the light, but it didn’t reflect. She rolled it in her palm, watching the liquid slither from one side to the other. Then, with steady hands, she drew it into the syringe—no bubbles, no tremble. When the plunger reached the mark, she flicked the needle once. A bead swelled at the tip like a tear.

“Goodbye forever,” she murmured to herself.

She capped the needle and slid the syringe into a pocket sewn just for it. A final check in the mirror, fingers brushing over her collar, her sleeves, her eyes—no flaws. Perfect.

She stepped into the hallway, the same sterile hallway she’d walked through the night before. Hospitals had a way of staying the same—clean floors, the smell of bleach and antiseptic, the hum of machines behind thin walls, carts squeaking, and somewhere, someone was crying.

She moved through it like she belonged. The ID badge clipped to her collar caught the light as she walked, the tray in her hands steady, unshaken. If anyone bothered to check, the ID would pass. The name wasn’t hers, but the photo was. It didn’t matter—there were no fingerprints on file, no records of any kind. Just a trail of dead ends. Brandi had gotten good at leaving them.

She walked with purpose, tall and commanding, her shoes silent against the linoleum. People glanced up, saw what they expected, and looked away. She didn’t try to hide—she just blended in, looking exactly how they thought she should look.

Years ago, she used to fight behind a warehouse in Modesto. Bare-knuckle, no gloves, no rules. The air smelled like piss and cigarettes, and she wasn’t angry, she was just fast. She fought to feed her sister, Presley, when there were no shifts left at the liquor store. She did what she had to do. Then Taehyung found her. He’d watched her knock out a man twice her size in under eight seconds, and the next day, he showed up at her door. He promised her an escape, a place for Presley, a life away from everything that had always chewed them up.

The next morning, her boss was found dead, and Brandi left with Taehyung before the sun came up. She didn’t look back.

Taehyung called her California Mountain Snake. Not because of where she came from, but because of how she moved—quiet, fast, and lethal. She didn’t charm or slither; she waited, struck, and disappeared. Y/N, though, had laughed when she heard the name. "Those snakes don’t even bite, right? Copycats. Harmless," she’d mocked. That pissed Brandi off, but Taehyung stepped in, stopping her before she went too far.

Y/N was better. Brandi knew it. Faster, smoother. When Taehyung looked at her, he saw everything. He gave her the keys to everything—everything Brandi wanted, everything she’d worked for. Brandi had loved him, fiercely, foolishly. And when Y/N walked in, everything changed. Brandi’s world tilted, and nothing was the same.

Brandi thought she could take Y/N on, but in the end, she was wrong. Thirty seconds, one slip, and Brandi was down. Y/N didn’t gloat. She didn’t have to. Brandi took her hand, but hated herself the whole way up.

Years passed, and through it all, there were pictures—Presley in a costume, Presley with cake smeared on her face, Presley on stage. Brandi studied each one like it might explode, then locked them away. She never reached out. She never tried to find Presley. That deal had been made long ago. Presley was alive, and that’s all Brandi wanted to know.

That life was worth less than shit on the bottom of her shoe.

Brandi stepped into the hall, the same quiet hall she'd walked down the night before. Hospitals didn’t change. The floors were too clean, the air dry with the scent of bleach and disinfectant, and the buzz of fluorescent lights was constant. Behind the walls, machines hummed. Somewhere, someone was crying.

She moved with purpose, tray in hand, badge on her chest swaying with every step. It would pass any scan. A perfect fake. The name, the photo, everything matched the records, even the barcode. No one would notice the difference. Brandi had spent years perfecting the art of vanishing in plain sight.

Now, she walked down the hallway to room 304. The door was old, the nameplate crooked, clinging by rusted screws. “Rhonda Portnoy.” The name pissed her off. Soft. Stupid. She knew what she was walking into. The door opened without resistance. Inside, the room was too still. The light overhead flickered, buzzing a sick yellow. One tile sagged, curling at the edge. Outside, rain smeared the windows. Inside, the machines hummed, the oxygen hissed, and the monitor beeped in an endless rhythm, like time moving without weight.

Y/N lay in the bed, unmoving. Eyes open, mouth slightly ajar. Hands folded over the blanket. She didn’t blink. Didn’t stir. Just stared at the ceiling. Brandi knew this person. Not the body. Not the shell. But the woman who used to burn bright.

Brandi stepped in, like a witness, like a judge. She set the tray down, and the cold metal clicked. The syringe gleamed in the low light. It was the end. The final step. The thing that would stop all the waiting.

She looked at Y/N—not the body, but the ghost of the woman she used to be. The one who fought and burned everything in her path. Now, there was nothing but breath and machines. No fire. No soul. Just a hollow shell.

“I don’t think I ever liked you,” Brandi said, her voice rough, the words tasting like ash. “Actually, no. I hated you.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear, her fingers gentle in a way they hadn’t been in years. “But I respected you.”

Brandi set the syringe in her hand, tapping it once, twice. She moved to the IV line, found the vein without looking. The plunger was ready. The silence was thick, and for a second, Brandi wondered if she could hear Y/N's heartbeat. Then, she whispered, “Dying in your sleep... that’s a mercy we never get.”

She hesitated. Just for a moment, her thumb pressing against the plunger, ready to end it.

“My gift to you.”

But then, the phone rang.

It cut through the silence like a knife. Sharp. Wrong. Unwanted. The monitor beeped in confusion, struggling against the sound. Brandi froze, her hand still holding the syringe.

Brandi froze mid-step, every muscle locked tight. The syringe in her hand didn’t waver, but she could feel the rage crawling up her spine. The phone buzzed again, sharp and insistent. She reached into her coat pocket, slow and methodical, and answered.

“Yeah?”

“Brandi.”

His voice. The name. It sliced through her like an old wound, reopening everything. The tension inside her shifted—subtle, inward—but it wasn’t calm. It was controlled. Her jaw ticked. She couldn’t hide the disgust in her chest. The air seemed thicker now, too thick to breathe.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice dead, stripped of everything. “She’s out. No change. I’m standing over her.”

There was a pause before Taehyung’s voice came back.

“I changed my mind.”

Brandi’s body didn’t move, but the words hit her like a sucker punch. She felt something freeze inside her. She didn’t even know how to react.

“What do you mean?” she growled, every word cutting through her teeth.

“Pull back.”

The laugh that slipped from her was broken, hollow. No warmth. Just a dry rasp that seemed to fill the room with its emptiness. She didn’t know if she was laughing at the absurdity or at herself. But she had to say it.

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“Now you’re switching it up?”

“It was always mine to switch.”

The words hit like a crack down her spine. She turned on her heel, pacing in tight circles, the anger bubbling inside her. Her heels snapped against the floor, louder with each step. The syringe still hung in her fingers. The tray sat cold on the counter, untouched. The whole world was shifting. The one person she thought she could rely on had just changed everything.

“You don’t owe her anything,” Brandi snapped. “You don’t owe her shit!”

There was a pause. Her voice dropped low, a breath caught in the middle of everything.

“You don’t owe her shit.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. And then Taehyung’s voice came again—steady, sure, cutting through everything.

“You all beat the hell out of her, but you didn’t kill her. I put a bullet in her head, and her heart kept beating. You saw that yourself. With your own beautiful blue eye, didn’t you?”

Brandi didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. The truth hit her hard. She felt it, deep in her chest.

“We’ve done things to that woman,” Taehyung continued, his voice gravelly, each word dragging. “And if she wakes up, we’ll do more. But we don’t sneak in like rats and kill her in her sleep. That’s beneath us.”

A beat of silence.

“Don’t you agree, Miss Phoenix?”

Brandi stopped dead in her tracks. The syringe slipped in her hand, and her fingers tightened around it, knuckles turning white. Her jaw flexed, her body vibrating with the change in the room’s air. The tension was unbearable now.

She looked at Y/N, still there, still lifeless. But there was something in the room now. A heaviness. An awareness. Y/N had been here before, and now she was just a breath away from death. Or mercy.

Brandi inhaled. Slow. Like she was preparing to vanish.

“I guess,” she said, the words slipping out like poison.

Another pause, and then Taehyung pushed.

“Do you really have to guess?”

Her eyes flicked to the peeling paint on the wall, the dark stains on the ceiling tile. She couldn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.

“No,” she whispered. “I know.”

She stood there, still, in the silence of the room. For the first time since walking in, Brandi felt it. The pull. The twisted history. The venom of memory that had never quite let her go. Y/N’s presence, even in her coma, felt like something was still alive—something that refused to die.

Taehyung’s voice cut through the silence again. Soft. Sweet. That tone he always used to get what he wanted.

“Come home, honey.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. The tension drained from her body. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath. The syringe dropped slightly in her hand. Her shoulders slumped.

“Okay,” she breathed.

Taehyung never had to convince her of anything. All he had to do was speak like that. Sweet as bourbon, rough as salt. He made her feel like she belonged—even if it wasn’t real.

“I love you very much.”

Brandi’s gaze dropped to the floor. Her heart was heavy, but she had no choice but to speak the words.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Bye-bye.”

Brandi stood in the doorway, feeling the weight of her decision, but not moving. She wasn’t sure what had changed, but something had. The tension in the room settled on her shoulders, thick and suffocating.

Her fingers clenched around the syringe, but they didn’t tremble. She was pissed. Her jaw tightened as she stood there, watching the woman in the bed, the one who used to own every room she walked into, reduced to nothing more than a body being kept alive by machines.

Y/N used to be the most dangerous woman in the world. Now, she was a husk. Just a body on a bed, still breathing in sync with a machine.

Brandi looked at her for a long moment. She remembered the girl Taehyung brought home back in 1990. The woman she became over the following ten years. But this wasn’t her. This wasn’t the girl who made men stumble over their words and women step back. The very same woman who’d kill an entire crew single-handedly and walk away without a scratch.

Brandi stepped closer to the bed. Her shoes made no sound on the floor. She stood there for a while, watching the rise and fall of Y/N's chest. The machines hummed and beeped in time, but it was all lifeless. The air in the room felt thick, like it had been soaked in bleach and blood for too long. A scent she could never wash out.

When she spoke, it was slow, almost measured. “Made me come all the way out here,” she said, her voice low and cold. “Steal a uniform. Forge the badge. Walk through a fucking thunderstorm. Just to stand here and get told to stand down like I’m a motherfucking intern.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, because there wasn’t one. Y/N’s body didn’t respond. It was just there, lying in the same position it had been for months.

Brandi’s mouth twitched. “Only good thing about it, is that I can see how fucking pathetic you are.”

Her gaze dropped to Y/N’s face. The woman who had once made her want to tear her apart now looked so small, so… ordinary. The once sharp cheekbones, the daring eyes, all softened into nothing. There was no power left in her. No fire. Just a faded memory of what she used to be.

Brandi’s expression hardened. The softness drained from her voice. “You shouldn’t wake up,” she muttered. “Now that I get a good look at you?” Her voice turned whisper-thin, sharp. “You’re not even that pretty.”

Her eyes scanned Y/N’s face, dissecting it. The curve of her nose, the slack jaw—it wasn’t beautiful anymore. It wasn’t anything. Just like the bitch in the coma.

“Face like that only works from a distance,” Brandi said, a dry laugh escaping her lips. “Put you under real light, and what’ve we got? Crooked nose. Plain face. Probably snore. Probably drool. Probably stink.”

Brandi stood still, her body tense as she watched the woman in the bed. No anger now, just a cold, deep disappointment. Her head tilted, almost mechanically. “My skin’s better,” she muttered. It wasn’t a boast, just a blunt fact. A reminder of what Y/N used to be—and what she was now.

Without thinking, she straightened, the syringe still in her hand, the metal catching the dim light. The weight of it felt familiar, like it had always been hers, like it had always belonged there.

Then Y/N coughed. It wasn’t a breath or anything close—it was a wet, hollow sputter, the kind of sound something rotting makes as it falls apart. It didn’t echo. Didn’t make a noise that felt alive. Just existed for a moment. A fleck of it hit Brandi’s cheek—warm, damp, and undeniable. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. She just froze. Her limbs locked up, rigid as stone. Slowly, her hand rose to her face, not out of alarm, but something worse—disgust. She touched the wet spot like it had insulted her.

Her jaw clenched. Her lips went flat. Her nostrils flared like she could smell something dead.

“Oh,” she whispered, her voice low and filled with venom. “No, you didn’t.”

She reached for the gown, grabbed it with a sudden pull, yanking it. The body shifted, limp and unresisting, the tubes pulling tight, the tape curling at the edges. Y/N’s head snapped to the side. The machines screamed in alarm, a chorus of metal shrieks, the lights flashing red.

Brandi didn’t give a shit.

She drew back, then swung—once, fast, a punch to the jaw. Her knuckles hit hard, rattling teeth that didn’t even seem to remember what pain was anymore. Another strike, higher—right to the temple. A clean hit. One last punch to the chest, right above the sternum.

The machines screamed louder, stuttered, then picked up their normal rhythm again.

Brandi stood over the bed, fists clenched, her chest rising and falling, slow and even. She leaned in close, her breath brushing against the dead skin that still felt warm. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“If you ever—” she said, each word like it had been carved from stone. “—drag yourself out of this bed—ever—”

Her voice faltered for a split second, her anger only increasing with every word.

“I’ll kill you myself, bitch.”

Brandi let go. Just shoved the body back into the bed like she was returning a broken piece of furniture. Y/N collapsed, limbs slack, arms hanging off the bed.

Brandi didn’t move right away. One breath, slow and deep. She smoothed her uniform, resetting herself. Her face remained blank. She needed to calm down if she wanted to speak with Taehyung once she left. He would be angry if she knew what had just happened.

She glanced at Y/N one last time before she turned and walked away, leaving the room behind. The door clicked shut behind her.

The hallway buzzed with the cheap hum of fluorescent lights. Polished floors, blank walls, machines beeping like it meant something. Nurses moved with practiced urgency. Strangers talked too loud about nothing that mattered. A hospital doing its best impression of control.

Brandi didn’t pause. Didn’t look back. As far as Taehyung was concerned, the job was done. Whether she liked it or not.

She’d made it ten steps before a door cracked open behind her. A young doctor spilled into the hallway, wild-eyed and bloodied, dragging a gurney like momentum might save the patient.

“We’re losing him!” he shouted, voice high and breaking. “Nurse! Help me!”

Brandi kept walking. Eyes forward. Spine straight. One loafer in front of the other. Behind her, the alarms screamed louder. Code blue or red or whatever color meant dying. Machines panicked. Nurses scrambled.

“Tough titty,” she muttered. Just loud enough for the tile to hear. “I quit.”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Not for the blood, not for the chaos, not for the sound of lives cracking open behind her.

By the time anyone thought to ask who she was, she was already gone. All that remained was the echo of her whistling her way out of the front door. And even that didn’t last.

The room was dim. Fluorescent light flickered overhead, throwing thin shadows across the white walls. The air was stale and smelled heavily of ammonium. No one had touched the furniture. The scuff marks on the tile looked frozen in time. A nurse had come by at seven. That was it. The night shift forgot she was even there.

Y/N lay motionless in the narrow hospital bed, swallowed by stiff, scratchy sheets that hadn’t been changed in days. Her body was frail—little more than skin stretched thin over bone, nearly weightless. Her eyes stayed open, dry and unblinking, staring at the water-stained ceiling tiles like they might shift into something that made sense.

Her hair was dry and brittle. It broke off in soft clumps, collecting in the creases of the pillow like dust. She hadn't moved in years. Four of them—long, silent years.

Just above her left temple, a crescent scar curved across her forehead, its edges pale and raised. Beneath it, a metal plate—an ugly, necessary thing. The bullet had missed the vital parts of her brain by millimeters. A miracle, the doctors had called it. But still, she hadn’t woken.

Her vitals were normal. Brain activity, too. Nothing about her looked wrong—except for the fact that she wasn't there. It was like her body had been waiting for her to come back.

The room was quiet except for the machines. One kept time with a soft, patient beep. Another hissed every few seconds, pushing medication into the thin line that disappeared into her arm. A third clicked, slow and metronomic.

A mosquito drifted through the still air. It landed on her forearm, then bit in, feeding on its easy meal.

Then, miraculously, she moved. At first, just a flicker in her fingers. Small. Almost imperceptible. It could’ve been a twitch. A reflex. But it came again—sharper, more deliberate. Her hand lifted and then dropped.

Slap.

The mosquito was crushed. A smear of red on translucent skin. Her hand hovered, trembled, then brushed the remains aside.

Her eyes blinked. Once. Twice. They focused.

She was awake.

Her body convulsed upright in one sudden, panicked jolt. A scream tore out of her—raw, cracked, like something rusted breaking free. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, gasping waves. Breath came in hard and uneven. Her lungs, unpracticed in the chaos of living, struggled against the rhythm machines had held for years.

Her eyes darted around the room. White walls. Fluorescent lights. Machines still whirring, still unaware. A camera in the corner. A door with no window. Nothing familiar.

Then the memories hit.

A chapel. Roses in bloom. Music playing low. A man’s voice—warm, certain. Then light. Then pain.

Her hands flew to her head, digging into her hair. She found it. The scar. The plate. Hard and unnatural beneath her fingertips.

Tap. Tap.

Tink. Tink.

Her throat felt scorched, her voice barely a sound. “My baby,” she rasped.

She clawed at the thin hospital gown. Her fingers slid over her stomach—soft, unfamiliar, hollow. Then they stopped. A scar. Long. Healed. Her hands froze.

The room didn’t. The machines went on without her.

She looked down at her palm and began tracing the lines, slow, methodical—like she was reading tea leaves. One. Two. Three. Four.

Her gaze shifted to the wall across from her. A calendar hung there, pages curled and yellowed at the edges. The year: 2004.

“Four years,” she whispered. The words felt foreign in her mouth.

Something deep inside her cracked.

Her chest tightened. The weight of her own breathing pressed in, sharp and raw. Her lungs fought to remember how to expand, how to fill. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Her shoulders began to tremble—small, uneven shakes, like a warning before a storm.

Then the tears came. Fast. Violent. Not graceful. Not cinematic. They gushed down her cheeks, soaking the pillow, her gown, her tangled hair. Her mouth opened in a wordless cry, her jaw shaking with the effort of trying to make sound happen. Her face, blank for years, folded under the force of emotion—creases of pain, of memory, of things lost.

She reached for the gown again, gripped it in both fists. Twisted hard. The fabric pulled tight across her lap, straining, threatening to tear. Her body convulsed—not from sobs, but from something deeper, more primal.

Beep. Hiss. Drip.

The machines didn’t pause.

She wept. Everything she’d once had—gone. Erased. A life folded closed and filed away somewhere she couldn’t reach. And now here it was, back in front of her, impossible to look at without shattering.

She had carried a heartbeat that wasn’t her own. Protected it. Loved it.

Now there was silence beneath her ribs. Just the machines. Just the room. Just her.

Then she heard it. Step… step… step. Distant, muffled at first, but unmistakable. She froze mid-cry, her swollen eyes snapping open, not with hope, but recognition. The cadence. It cut through the haze of her emotions and hit her with a force that made her heart stutter. Taehyung. The name surged in her chest, filling her entire being. Her mind seized the sound, molding it with memories that had been locked away for far too long. She saw him then—his black leather boots striking the floor with that exact rhythm she had heard before, a sound so ingrained in her mind that it was etched into her very bones. The image played behind her eyes like a film reel, the memory of the chapel flooding back—his presence walking down the aisle, the distant sound of wedding bells ringing, the roses scattering beneath his feet. And then, gunshots. Screaming. Blood on white.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she almost believed he was there, just beyond the door, walking toward her like it was a lifetime ago, before everything fell apart. But then, another set of footsteps joined the rhythm—quieter, irregular, wrong. Step… step… squeak. No boots. Rubber soles. She barely moved her head, just enough for her ear to catch the subtle shift in sound. Reeboks. A hospital orderly. Not him.

Her body remained frozen, suspended in the collision between the haunting memory of him and the harsh reality of the present. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her breath caught in her throat. The room seemed to spin around her, the walls closing in. The illusion of Taehyung’s presence still lingered, fighting for dominance in her mind, refusing to let go of the ghost it had conjured.

And then the voice came, breaking the fragile thread of her thoughts. “She’s right in here.” It was too nasal. Too flat. It wasn’t him. But her brain twisted the words, distorting them with his intonation, layering them with his deeper, smoother voice. The sound of his voice—familiar and warm—cut through the confusion, and her body involuntarily flinched. It wasn’t him. But in that moment, logic didn’t matter. The mind could be cruel, playing old reels at the worst possible times, trapping her in a memory that wouldn’t let go.

Outside the room, there was muffled conversation. Then, three figures appeared behind the frosted glass of the door. One in scrubs, two in mismatched uniforms that had no hospital logos, no stethoscopes. Their presence was commanding—broad, upright, and expressionless.

Her breath narrowed into controlled, shallow gasps. Panic wasn’t an option now. She couldn’t afford to be seen, to make a sound, to break the stillness that had fallen over the room. They couldn’t know she was awake.

In one swift, practiced motion, she snapped back into the bed, flattening herself against the pillow. Her body went limp—limbs slack, jaw loosened. Her eyes fluttered closed, but just barely. A sliver remained, enough to see, enough to plan.

The door opened, and the orderly stepped in first, speaking over his shoulder to the two men who followed. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t even acknowledge her existence. His attention was fixed on the clipboard at the foot of the bed as he scribbled something down, his movements automatic. One of the men scanned the room with a practiced sweep, his eyes flicking from corner to corner, searching for anything that might pose a threat. The other stood stiffly near the door, his posture rigid and watchful, as if expecting trouble to spring out from the walls at any moment.

Y/N remained motionless. Her eyes didn’t blink, didn’t shift. She didn’t breathe a hint of movement. But she saw. She was aware of everything around her. The subtle bulge beneath the jacket of the man closest to her—the unmistakable outline of a weapon tucked under the fabric. She committed their profiles to memory. The way they stood, the way they carried themselves—too controlled, too silent to be hospital staff. Too deliberate, too tense to be just guards.

Her gaze was unfocused, not really on them. Her mind wandered elsewhere—back behind them, past them, to a place where a phantom figure still loomed. The memory of Taehyung remained, his presence almost tangible in the air, as if he were still standing in the doorway, just out of sight. His image slipped away from her every time she tried to concentrate on it, like water running through her fingers. But his footsteps lingered, echoing in the background, following her even here, in this cold, silent room. She felt them, deep in her bones, haunting her with the weight of unspoken things.

She didn’t move. She didn’t even try to force herself into the world she had left. She was a shadow now, a body that wasn’t really alive, a presence that was forgotten in the space between the past and whatever future she hadn’t yet found.

The men moved around her, completely oblivious, as if she were nothing more than a fixture in the room—an object no one had bothered to remember. That was her advantage. Let them think she was nothing, that she was still just a body on a bed. She would let them believe it, until she could learn more, until she had the strength to act, until she had a plan.

She waited, every breath measured, every muscle tense but still. Her eyes were closed, but the world kept moving around her. The door opened wider, the sounds of the hallway spilling in. Footsteps, distant voices, the hum of hospital life carrying on without interruption. And in her mind, the chapel reappeared—the soft crunch of rose petals underfoot, the unmistakable rhythm of steps she had once known too well, then the sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot. Blood spilled over white satin, and pain flared in her abdomen. The last breath of a second heartbeat—the one that had been taken from her.

The orderly turned slightly, moving to the foot of the bed, like he was on autopilot. His motions were bored, almost lazy, as if checking her vitals was just another item on a list of things he had to do. His eyes didn’t meet hers. His hands moved through the motions with no real intention behind them. He glanced at the clipboard, shifted it as if pretending to read.

The men behind him hung back near the door, towering and silent. Their size was enough to make their presence known without a single word. The first man scanned the room again, looking over the machines, the walls, the hall outside. His eyes lingered on nothing, but it was clear he was calculating. The other focused entirely on her—the body in the bed, the woman who hadn’t moved in years. He was watching, waiting, assessing. She could feel it, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her.

Her body remained still. She let her limbs fall limp, let her face slacken with the same blank stare she had worn for so long. But her mind was anything but still. Behind that vacant expression, her thoughts raced. She studied every detail, took stock of every tiny thing. The faded tattoos on one man’s forearm. The way the other’s jacket hung lopsided, weighed down by something hidden underneath. The stench of old sweat and cigarettes clung to their clothes, giving them away. These were not hospital men. Not staff. Not guards. They didn’t belong here. Yet, here they were.

Her eyes were open, wide, unblinking. She let them take her in, let them think they were in control. The game wasn’t over yet.

The orderly shifted, moving to the side of the bed. He pulled the thin hospital sheet back, the rough fabric crinkling as it was dragged. He lifted her gown with a slow, deliberate motion, a kind of crude ceremony. His eyes flicked to the men as he did so, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he were showing them something worth their attention.

“Now is that the cutest little pussy you ever saw, or is that the cutest little pussy you ever saw,” he said, chuckling like it was a joke between old friends.

One of the truckers—tall, with a pitted face and a voice like gravel—nodded approvingly. The other—shorter, squatter, his arms crossed—shrugged with affected disinterest.

“I’ve seen better,” he muttered.

Y/N didn’t blink, but there was a flicker in her eyes. Not quite a flinch. More like contempt. Barely controlled.

The orderly scoffed, not missing a beat. “Yeah, in a movie - maybe. But I know damn well this is the best pussy you ever saw you had touchin’ rights to. The price is seventy five dollars a fuck gentlemen, you gettin’ your freak on or what?”

He held out his hand. The taller trucker reached into his pocket, peeled off a folded wad of cash, and slapped it into the man’s palm.

The orderly turned back to them, his face dropping into something close to professional. “Alright, listen close. Here’s the rules; Rule number one; no punchin’. Nurse comes in tomorrow and she got a shiner - or less some teeth, jig’s up. So no knuckle sandwiches under no circumstances.”

Both men nodded.

“And by the way, this little cunt’s a spitter. It’s a motor reflex thing but spit or no, no punchin. Now are we absolutely positively clear about rule number one?”

“Yeah,” The taller trucker says.

The other one just nods again.

“Rule number two; No monkey bites, no hickeys - in fact no leaving no marks of no kind. But after that, it’s all good.”

The Orderly finished counting the money and stuffed it into his back pocket.

“Her plummin down there don’t work no more, so feel free to cum in ‘er all ya wont. Keep the noise down. Try not to make a mess, and I’ll be back in twenty.”

More nods.

He pointed toward the door. “Keep it quiet. No yelling. Don’t knock over anything. And clean up after yourselves.”

Then, as he turned to leave, he paused, reached into his satchel, and pulled out a half-empty jar of Vaseline. He handed it off like an afterthought, barely concealing his amusement.

“Oh by the way, not all the time, but sometimes this cunt’s cunt can get drier than a bucket of sand. If she’s dry, lube up with this and you’ll be good to go. ”

He smirked.

“Bon appétit, boys.”

The door clicked softly behind the orderly, the sound too quiet to be anything but deliberate. It wasn’t the kind of sound that should have been heard—it was the finality of a lock being turned, the certainty of isolation. To Y/N, it felt like the cold embrace of a deadbolt sliding into place. Now, it was just her and them.

Inside the room, the two men laughed—low and wrong, the kind of laughter that carried nothing but malice. It wasn’t amusement. It was nervous energy, the kind that signals the start of something that shouldn't have been allowed. Warren, the larger of the two, fumbled with his belt, hands clumsy, tugging at the leather strap beneath his stomach. He didn’t glance at her; he didn’t need to. She was nothing to him. Furniture. Inventory. Part of the room he’d already written off.

Y/N blinked.

It wasn’t deliberate. Not a flinch. Not fear. Just a reflex. A quiet reclaiming of her body after so long, a whisper of life. Her lashes flickered, just enough to stir in the dim light. But it was enough.

Gerald saw it first. His voice, still playful but with a sharp edge, cut through the haze of laughter. “Hey, Warren... she just blinked.”

Warren didn’t even look up. His focus was still on his belt, the effort slow and unfocused. “He said she can’t blink.”

“I know what he said,” Gerald replied, quieter now, voice dropping an octave. “But I saw it. I’m not imagining it.”

Warren grunted in response, the sound of his pants dropping loud in the tense silence. His hands were heavy, fumbling with his jeans. “Just nerves, man. You’re jumpy. You think I care if her eyelid twitched?”

Gerald didn’t answer. He stood still near the foot of the bed, uncertainty in the way he held himself, his eyes flicking to Y/N like he didn’t know what to make of what he had seen.

Warren, irritated, moved to the bed. His bulk sank it with a groan, his knees pushing into her frail body. Y/N didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She was stone beneath him. The gown pressed cold against her skin, but she didn’t let herself react. Her muscles were tight, rigid, holding on to the stillness like it was the only thing she could control.

Her heart hammered in her chest. The only thing alive in her body.

She stared past him, eyes dull and empty. A mannequin. A shell. Her mind was a hundred miles away from the man above her, but it wasn’t in peace. She was a captive, caught between the body she couldn’t move and the memories that still haunted her.

Warren shifted his weight, letting out a grunt of discomfort. “Hey, Gerald.”

Gerald blinked, his arms folded as if trying to block out the awkwardness of the moment. “What?”

“This ain’t no damn peep show,” Warren muttered, eyes narrowing. “Go wait outside. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Aww, c’mon, you serious right now?” Gerald’s voice was petulant, but it didn’t last long.

Warren’s glare darkened. “Dead serious. Get out.”

Gerald muttered under his breath and shuffled toward the door, his shoulders slumping as he cast one last glance at Y/N before slipping out into the hallway.

The door clicked behind him with finality, leaving the room empty save for the sounds of machinery. The steady pulse of the heart monitor, the hiss of the ventilator, and the hum of the fluorescent light above filled the silence. The air in the room felt colder now, heavier, like the space had closed in on itself.

Warren turned back to her, his eyes roaming over her body with a sneer. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, bending close as he leaned over her. His breath was sour, stale tobacco and decay, and his eyes gleamed with something ugly. “You really are pretty up close. Like a doll somebody left in the attic.”

He positioned himself over her, hands braced on either side of her head, blocking her view of the ceiling as his lips parted. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, his breath heavy as it neared her.

And then, without warning, she moved.

It wasn’t hesitation or uncertainty. There was no struggle. It was raw action, fast and decisive. Her arms shot up from the bed with brutal precision, hands locking into the back of his greasy hair, yanking his face down toward hers. Her mouth opened, and in an instant, her teeth sank into his tongue.

The sound was immediate—a sick, wet crunch, followed by a strangled, guttural shriek. Blood flooded her mouth, hot and coppery, coating her tongue and throat. Warren jerked back, howling in pain, his hands clawing at his face in panic. The scream was garbled, unrecognizable—his mouth no longer formed words.

He stumbled, tripping over his own pants, blood streaming between his fingers.

Y/N sat up with the suddenness of a corpse reanimated. Her chest heaved as her chin, slick with blood, turned. She spat the severed piece of his tongue onto the floor, the sickening thud echoing in the room.

She didn’t flinch.

Her eyes locked onto him—clear, blazing with life, a fire ignited in her chest.

With a practiced motion, she ripped the IV from her arm. Blood welled from the site, but she didn’t even flinch. The sting barely registered. All she could feel was the rush—the flood of adrenaline, every muscle alive and ready to move.

Warren, now trying to crawl backward across the bed, was still shrieking through gurgles, his eyes wide with disbelief, his hands still clawing at his mouth.

She didn’t wait.

She launched herself at him, throwing her body forward and slamming him down flat against the mattress. She straddled his chest, her fists planted firmly above him. The IV needle, now in her hand, glinted with cold steel under the harsh fluorescent light. She drove it into his left eye.

His scream tore through the room—a pure, primal sound that reverberated off the walls. He bucked beneath her, thrashing, but she held tight, twisting the needle deeper. There was resistance, then a soft, wet pop. His limbs stiffened, his spine arched—and then, with a sickening finality, he went still.

It wasn’t the stillness of sleep. It wasn’t the stillness of unconsciousness.

It was the stillness of death.

But she wasn’t done.

Gripping the collar of his shirt, Y/N shoved his weight sideways. His body rolled toward the edge of the bed, and with a twist of her hips, she sent him crashing into the metal bedframe. The impact rang through the room, a hollow, awful crack that punctuated the silence that followed.

Y/N crouched at the edge of the bed, her body splattered with his blood, her gown clinging to her like a second skin. Her breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale burning, each exhale heavy with the weight of what she had just done. Sweat beaded at her brow, her vision pulsing with adrenaline, sharp and distorted. She scanned the room quickly, making sure there were no more surprises.

Outside, Gerald paced. He’d heard the shift—a grunt, followed by a scream, then nothing. His instincts told him something wasn’t right.

He banged on the door. “Hey! Hey, man, keep it down in there! I can hear your ass from out here!”

Silence.

One second. Two. No answer. No more sounds. Just a deep, unsettling quiet that settled in his gut like a bad omen.

Something wasn’t right.

He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Then, he pushed it open.

“Come on, Warre—”

The sentence died in his throat, stifled by the overwhelming stillness of the room. His eyes scanned the scene, trying to make sense of what was unfolding. His mind struggled to process the violence before him.

Warren was on the floor, crumpled in a heap beside the bed, his limbs twisted unnaturally, like a broken puppet discarded on the floor. Blood pooled beneath his head, so bright and red it looked surreal against the pale linoleum. The bed was in shambles—ripped sheets, soaked blankets, and machines strewn across the floor as if they had been cast aside in the chaos. But the woman…

She was there. Exactly where they had left her. She was flat on her back, eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Motionless.

Gerald blinked, his confusion deepening. His gaze flicked between the bodies, trying to find some logic in the mess. There was too much blood, too little movement. Everything was wrong. He took a tentative step forward, unsure of what he was seeing.

Y/N blinked. It wasn’t a flinch. It wasn’t involuntary. It was deliberate. Her eyes moved, and in the next instant, she acted.

Her arm shot upward in a blur of motion—fast, practiced, explosive. She grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him toward her with a force he wasn’t prepared for. He stumbled, thrown off balance, and pitched forward, only to meet the cold steel of the IV needle still slick with Warren’s blood. It sank into his temple, and a sickening crunch echoed in his ear. Metal piercing flesh. The kind of sound that made your stomach twist.

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

She twisted the needle, driving it deeper.

Gerald’s body jerked, spasming uncontrollably. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out—just a bubbling, choking gurgle, like drowning in air. His limbs kicked and flailed, but it was too late. His body sagged, heavy and lifeless, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Y/N released him.

He dropped to the ground beside Warren, a wet lump of dead weight.

For a moment, Y/N stayed still. Her breath was shallow, her body streaked with blood. The adrenaline buzzed through her, but there was no time to savor it. The two men, both much larger than her, lay dead around her, and she hadn’t moved more than a few feet from the bed she had been trapped in for years. But it wasn’t over.

With a quick, fluid motion, she ripped the blood-soaked sheets off the bed and swung her legs over the side. Her bare feet hit the cold tile with a slap, and she tried to stand—

Her knees buckled beneath her. Her body folded like dry paper, crumpling to the floor. Pain shot through her ribs as she hit the hard surface, and a tray of instruments scattered, clattering across the tile like metal rain. Tubes snagged on her ankle, tangling in a mess she couldn’t escape.

She lay there, her cheek pressed against the freezing floor, gasping for air. Her legs didn’t move. They were numb—foreign. They didn’t feel like her own. Panic surged, but she forced it down. Now wasn’t the time. Survival wasn’t going to wait for her fear.

She closed her eyes, focused on her breath.

One second. Two. Just enough to recalibrate.

Then, she heard it.

Footsteps. Not Warren. Not Gerald. Her heart skipped in her chest.

Taehyung?

His name echoed in her mind like a shot fired in the distance, but she didn’t speak it. She couldn’t afford to. Instead, she focused. She focused on what she could control.

Her head turned, just enough to see who was coming.

Gerald's body lay sprawled on the floor beside her, his jacket hiked up from the fall. His belt—still intact—held a trucker’s knife in a worn leather sheath. Y/N’s hand shook as she reached out, her fingers brushing the cool steel. With a steady grip, she grabbed the hilt and pulled.

Click.

The blade snapped open with a clean, satisfying sound. The noise cut through the air, sharp and empowering.

In the hallway, she heard an elevator chime. The doors slid open with a squeak, and footsteps followed, each one slow, deliberate—the orderly. Y/N pressed herself flat against the floor, sliding against the wall next to the doorframe. Her body screamed in protest, muscles strained and protesting the movement, but her grip on the knife didn’t waver. It was steady, cold.

The footsteps stopped. The door opened.

The orderly paused, the mess before him catching his attention. Blood pooled on the floor. Bodies were scattered. Sheets shredded and twisted. The horror of the scene struck him, but not her. Not yet.

“Oh, shi—”

The words never finished. Y/N struck.

In one swift motion, she cut down, the blade slicing through the air with precision. It hit his Achilles tendons—both of them—splitting through flesh, tendon, and bone. His scream tore through the corridor, high-pitched, desperate, and ragged. He collapsed, his legs giving way, folding beneath him as his body crashed to the floor.

Y/N didn’t give him a moment to recover. She crawled toward him, her muscles burning with the effort, teeth clenched against the strain. She grabbed a fistful of his uniform, blood smearing across the floor as she dragged him into the room. His legs twitched uselessly behind him, his body weak and limp.

With a growl, she pulled him toward the door and slammed his head into the frame.

CRACK.

The sound of bone hitting wood filled the room. His scream was muffled, but it only pushed her further. She did it again.

CRACK.

And again.

CRACK.

Each blow sent fresh waves of blood splattering across the floor. His body jerked, limbs twitching in a desperate attempt to escape, but Y/N held him steady. His breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain. And then, they locked onto her.

And he saw her.

His face twisted in terror, raw and unfiltered.

Y/N crouched over him, her breath labored, strands of hair plastered to her face with blood and sweat. She wasn’t just looking at him—she was seeing him. She was past the point of mercy.

“Where’s Taehyung?” she rasped, her voice jagged, like shards of broken glass.

His lips trembled. “I—I don’t… I don’t know—”

She slammed his head into the doorframe again.

CRACK.

He gasped, his body shuddering in pain.

“I saw him,” Y/N growled, voice thick with fury. “Here. In this room. You tell me where he is—or I’ll beat your brains in until you can’t lie anymore.”

“I swear—I don’t—”

SLAM.

The room was quiet now, heavy with the weight of the silence that followed the last blow. Blood seeped from his face, dripping steadily, his breathing short and labored. Y/N didn’t speak. She just stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she caught a glint of something at his neck. A flash of gold caught in the dim light. A thin chain, delicate despite the blood and grime clinging to his skin.

Her hand shot out, quick and sure, and she yanked the chain with all the force she had left. The link snapped with a sharp ping, the tension sending the pendant swinging into her palm. She didn’t hesitate as she examined it. It wasn’t jewelry.

It was a coke straw.

The metal was cold, smooth, worn down by years of handling, the mouthpiece tinted from use, heat, habit. It wasn’t meant to be noticed. It wasn’t flashy. It was personal. Private. And it was deeply familiar.

Her blood ran cold as she realized what she was holding.

She’d seen this before. She’d seen it hang from a neck like this, swinging and tapping against a collarbone in the dim light. Taehyung had worn it, a signature of sorts, like it was part of him. The click of it against his lighter echoed in her mind. The way it swayed when he leaned in close, whispering things that blurred the line between promise and poison.

Now it was here. In her hand. On this man.

Y/N stared at the straw for a long moment, the world shrinking down to that single object—its shape, the cool metal, the heat from the skin it had touched. She felt her chest tighten as she looked down at him.

“Where,” her voice was low, the words cold and cutting, “did you get this?”

His eyes, wide with panic, flickered up to meet hers. His lips barely moved, strained by shock and pain.

“It’s mine,” he gasped.

Y/N didn’t say anything at first. She just stared at him. And then, she laughed—no humor, just disbelief, sharp and biting.

“Bullshit,” she hissed under her breath.

Her hand tightened around the doorframe, ready to slam it down again, but something caught her eye. Ink.

She saw it on his hands, faded but still visible. Amateur tattoos. Crude block letters, likely done in a backroom or some dark corner of a prison. The letters stood out against his skin like scars.

B.U.C.K.

F.U.C.K.

The words hit her like a punch to the stomach. She wasn’t just shocked by what they said, but by what they meant.

Her eyes locked on the tattoos, and in that moment, her mind slipped away from the present. It slid into something older, something darker. The memory hit her like a wave.

The room was dim, bathed in the cold glow of security flashlights that cut through the shadows. Y/N lay there, helpless. Trapped in her own body, floating somewhere between a dream and oblivion, unable to move, unable to scream. And then, he’d appeared.

He stood at the foot of her bed like a storm she couldn’t escape, his presence dominating the space. His voice had been thick with a Southern drawl, slick with overconfidence.

“Well, ain’t you just the slice of cutie pie they all said you was,” he’d said, his words dripping with a disturbing kind of charm. “Ma’am, I’m from Longview, Texas. My name’s Buck. And I’m here to fuck.”

She hadn’t been able to respond then. She couldn’t even move. She had been frozen in that hospital bed, paralyzed, unable to fight back. But now, the tables had turned.

Now she was awake.

The memory of him—his tattoos, his boots, the stench of cigarette smoke mixed with rot—had haunted her for far too long. But this time, she wasn’t trapped in a dream. This time, she was fully in control, and he was here.

Her vision snapped back to the present. She looked down at him, cold fury simmering in her eyes.

“Your name’s Buck, right?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost too calm, as if she were confirming the simplest of facts. “And you came to fuck.”

He froze, recognition flashing in his eyes even as blood poured from his wounds. His body trembled, a sick realization sinking in: she knew exactly who he was, and he wasn’t going to make it out alive.

“Right?” she pressed, louder now, a challenge in her voice.

“Wait-”

Her grip tightened on the doorframe, her muscles coiling, ready for what came next. And then, with a sharp motion, she brought the door down.

CRACK.

The sound was deafening, final, wet. It ended him. He didn’t move after that—not a twitch. His body was still, lifeless, his breath stilled forever.

Y/N stayed crouched there for a moment, her body slumped slightly, arms trembling from the force of it all. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Her legs were still numb, unresponsive, like they belonged to someone else. But she didn’t care. He was gone. The weight of him was gone.

The room was silent again, the sterile hum of machines the only sound. The world outside continued to spin, oblivious to the violence that had just unfolded within these walls.

Slowly, she leaned over the body, her fingers working to find something useful. She brushed against the cracked leather of his pocket, tugging out a battered wallet. It smelled of sweat and cheap cigarettes. The faded gold letters on the outside still read, BIG EL PASO PIMPIN’. She curled her lip in disgust and opened it.

A wad of bills, mostly ones and fives, damp from the heat of his body, sat in the wallet. Y/N didn’t hesitate. She shoved them into the inner pocket of her scrubs without a second thought. Her hand brushed against the front pocket next, and she found the keys.

They weren’t just keys. A bulky plastic fob dangled from the ring, shaped like a tacky novelty license plate. Bright yellow, with pink flames licking the sides. PUSSY WAGON in a loopy, absurd font.

Her fingers tightened around it. It was vulgar, ridiculous. But it was hers now, and it was her way out.

She pocketed the keys quickly, then shifted her focus to Gerald’s body. Her arms felt like lead. Her lungs burned with the effort of each breath. But she dragged herself across the floor anyway, leaving a trail of sweat, blood, and fury behind her. She found the knife where it had fallen, still open, the blade slick with old blood. She wiped it clean on Gerald’s pants, then gripped it tightly once more.

She looked back at Buck’s body, still lying in a heap. One more thing to take.

With a grunt of effort, she began to peel his uniform off him. The fabric was damp, clinging to his body, still warm from his flesh. She worked one sleeve off at a time, her arms shaking with the effort, but she didn’t stop. It didn’t matter if the clothes fit. It didn’t matter if they were clean.

It wasn’t about comfort. It was about freedom.

When the last piece of his uniform came off, she pulled it on. It wasn’t smooth, her movements clumsy, but she was determined. Her legs still refused to work. Numb. Unresponsive. But her mind was sharp. Her arms were strong. Her will was unwavering.

She might have to crawl out of here, but she would get out. And she would take whatever she needed to make it happen.

The elevator doors opened with a low hiss, like something ancient trying to stretch itself awake. Flickering fluorescent lights spilled into the dark, damp parking garage, revealing a cracked, oil-streaked concrete floor, stained from years of neglect. The air felt thick—heavy with diesel fumes and dust, as if even the air had given up on movement, resigned to a stagnant existence.

Y/N’s wheelchair shot forward with swift precision. The wheels clicked rhythmically as she pushed, each rotation sending a jolt of pain through her arms. She gripped the rims hard, her palms blistered, pushing herself relentlessly. Her shoulders burned, muscles protesting, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the ground, her scrubs sticking damply to her back. The oversized fabric bunched awkwardly around her hips, borrowed from a dead man’s body. Her legs hung motionless in front of her, pale and stiff, like lifeless mannequins strapped to the chair. No feeling. No response. Just dead weight.

At least her arms were working.

The garage stretched out before her, a dim maze of columns and half-lit corridors. Cars sat like dormant creatures, their shapes ghostly beneath the flickering lights. The shadows seemed deeper down here, every sound sharper. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, louder than the hum of the overhead lights or the distant whir of a ventilation fan.

She maneuvered through the rows, the wheelchair tires rolling over debris and cracks in the concrete. Every few feet, she stopped, scanning the vehicles—make, model, color—matching them to the image etched into her mind. It was in here somewhere.

And then she saw it.

A yellow Chevrolet Silverado, sitting low to the ground against the far wall, half-hidden in the shadows. It stood out like a neon sign in the dark. Red flames curved across the sides, peeling at the edges, as if the paint had been burned on. The word PUSSY WAGON sprawled across the tailgate in bold, fluorescent-pink cursive. Obscene. Ridiculous. Unmistakable.

Her chest tightened. It was real. Not a hallucination, not a memory. After everything—after him, the blood, the pain, and the years locked away—there it was. Still there. Still waiting.

Her hand slipped into the baggy pocket of her scrubs, fingers closing around the key ring. The plastic fob dangled out—gaudy and yellow, shaped like a miniature vanity plate. The same absurd font gleamed beneath the garage lights. She stared at it for a second. Just a moment. Then, without hesitation, she pushed herself forward.

Her wheelchair wheels clicked faster, urgency spiking inside her. When she reached the truck, she didn’t pause. She slid the key into the lock and turned it. The sound of the mechanism snapping open hit her like a blow. Simple. Clean. But to her, it split the world in two. Before and after. Caged and free.

The door creaked open. Warm, stale air rushed out—thick with the smell of vinyl and old sweat. It hit her like the breath of a sleeping animal disturbed too soon. She reached up, bracing one arm against the seat, the other gripping the doorframe. Her fingers slipped a few times, but the third time she caught it.

Her muscles screamed in protest as she forced herself upward, her elbows scraping against the metal. Every inch of her body resisted, but she didn’t stop. She gritted her teeth, a grunt escaping her lips as she pulled with everything she had left. With one final surge, she collapsed into the cab.

Her body hit the backseat in a jumbled heap, her head crashing against the cracked vinyl with a dull thud. Sweat streamed down her face, slipping into her eyes, her arms hanging limp at her sides, trembling from the strain. For a moment, she just lay there, panting like she had run a marathon, the exhaustion from the last few hours crashing over her in waves.

Her legs lay stretched out across the seat, stiff and lifeless, like two pale pillars frozen in time. Her bare feet were caked in dirt, toes pointed upwards in the stillness, as though her legs had never moved at all. She stared at them, her mind reeling with the disconnect between her and her body.

So close. So far.

She nudged the wheelchair with her heel, watching it roll a few feet before tipping sideways and crashing to the floor with a metallic clang that reverberated through the empty garage, loud and jarring like a gunshot. The sound hung in the air, then settled into silence.

Alone. Hidden, for now. Buried in the belly of this forgotten, cold space.

Her eyes shifted to her right foot, her gaze fixating on her big toe. She stared at it as though it held the key to something important, something she had forgotten how to reach.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered. Her voice cracked with desperation.

Nothing.

She repeated it again, quieter this time, as if the words could somehow coax movement. “Wiggle your big toe.”

Still, nothing.

Her eyes narrowed. She focused harder. Her breath slowed, measured. It was that one small piece of her. That tiny bridge between mind and limb. She needed it to move. Just that one thing. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

“Wiggle your big toe,” she said, the words now coming with the cadence of a chant, a desperate plea, a silent demand for her body to obey.

No movement.

She wasn’t going to give up. She couldn’t. That toe had four years of sleep to wake up from. And she was going to wake it, no matter how long it took. She wasn’t going back to the bed. She wasn’t going back to that place, that silence. She had a truck, keys, cash in her pocket, blood on her arms, and names in her head—names like prayers she hadn’t spoken yet.

She had a mission now.

But as she concentrated, her thoughts shifted, deepening into something darker, older, more familiar. She wasn’t in the garage anymore. Not fully. The stale air, the cracked vinyl seat, the flickering lights—they all blurred at the edges of her awareness as something colder and heavier slid into her mind like smoke, creeping beneath a locked door.

The faces returned. Not as ghosts. Not as visions brought on by trauma or fever. No, they came as memories—names, histories, real people who had been part of her life. Each face slipped into her mind like a puzzle piece finding its place, fragments of a life she had lived, of betrayals that had shattered it. They came without order, but their presence was a fire all the same.

Yoongi Min.

He had once been her calm in the chaos. Cottonmouth. The quiet one. Always the sharpest in the field, the one who spoke the least but saw the most. For a time, he had been one of the few people she allowed to see her without armor. He was precise, elegant in his violence, the kind of man who would leave a room of people dead without saying a word. She had trusted him, even loved him once, before everything had blurred and bled together.

They had shared secrets, missions that required silence, that left them covered in blood and dirt, unable to speak of the things they’d done. He had been her friend, one of the only ones she had left.

And yet, when the time had come to make a choice—when her name had been spoken in that room—he had stayed silent. He hadn’t argued, hadn’t asked questions. He had simply let it happen. Worse, he had known about her daughter. And still, he had let it happen.

He would be the first.

Not because he was the easiest target, but because he had known exactly what they were doing and had done nothing to stop it.

Then there was Jimin Park.

Copperhead. Her mirror image, her partner in crime, the quiet rebellion in a world of rigid obedience. Jimin was the one who made her laugh when everything else felt like it was sinking. They had trained together, fought side by side, and trusted each other with a loyalty forged in the fires of their past. They both had wanted out—once, briefly, they had even believed it was possible. She had helped him disappear. Off-grid, out of Mexico, up into the hills of California with some girl who dreamed in watercolor. Big eyes, kind voice, a future untouched by blood.

She wondered if he was still there.

She hoped he was.

If he was, it meant he’d made it out. Truly escaped. If he wasn’t, finding him wouldn’t take long. Jimin, for all his sweetness, had a sharp edge. He’d made enemies on the West Coast, and all she’d need was a name, a rumor, a whisper, and she’d find him.

But if he had stayed quiet, like Yoongi? If he had known what they were doing to her and walked away? Then that edge of his wouldn’t be enough to save him.

Her hands curled into fists in her lap, then released.

Brandi Phoenix. California Mountain Snake.

Cold. Beautiful. Calculating. Brandi wore her hatred like perfume—light enough to be unnoticed but poisonous beneath the surface. From the moment she stepped into the fold, Brandi had resented her. For her skill. For her rank. For the space she filled beside Taehyung. For simply existing where Brandi wanted to be.

Their fights were legendary—venom in their words during missions, fists behind closed doors. Brandi was a storm in heels—always circling, always striking. There had been no mystery in her betrayal. It had been coming for years. Brandi had needed only the excuse.

And she got it.

That confrontation would come. Eventually. It wouldn’t be clean. It wouldn’t be subtle. Brandi wouldn’t beg for her life. She’d fight to kill, and Y/N had no illusions about that.

And honestly, she welcomed it.

But Brandi wouldn’t come easy. She’d be close to Taehyung, as always. If Y/N wanted one, she’d have to face the other. When that time came, she’d need to be ready for both.

Then there was Namjoon.

Namjoon Kim. Sidewinder.

Taehyung’s older brother. Stoic, haunted, built like a fortress but just as empty. Namjoon had never truly belonged to their world—not the way the others did. He had inherited the family legacy, a weight he never wanted. Over time, it had slowly broken him, year by year.

He hadn’t been cruel. But he hadn’t been kind, either. He’d simply been... resigned. Watching his own story unfold from behind a wall of glass.

And yet, he had been there. He had participated. He hadn’t stopped it.

That was enough.

She wouldn’t make him suffer like the others would. Her rage didn’t burn as hot for him. But he would die. Quietly. Quickly. No warnings, no speeches. Just a clean ending for a man who had stood silent while she was buried alive.

And then, always at the center of it all, was Taehyung Kim.

The Snake Charmer.

The leader. The architect. The one who had bound them all together with whispered promises and elegant plans. He had trained them, molded them into something more than human. He had spoken of legacy, eternity, while hiding a blade behind his back.

He had touched her like she mattered.

He had promised her a future—a shared future.

A life.

And then, with cold precision, he had signed the order. Clinical. Exact. The same hand that once traced lazy circles on her skin had sentenced her to four years of silence, stillness, stolen breath, and severed motherhood.

He was the father of her child. Her lover. Her executioner.

No one else came close.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the pain wash over her. The constant ache in her body had become familiar, a pulse deep within her muscles and bones, a reminder of the years spent in stillness. But beneath the physical suffering, deeper than any physical wound, was the rage. It wasn’t hot anymore. It didn’t burn like it used to. It cut. It was cold, sharp, focused. She opened her eyes, her gaze fixing on her foot again.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but steady.

Nothing.

Her foot stayed still, lifeless. But something in her shifted. There was no disappointment in her face. Only determination.

The silence around her grew thicker, but she was anything but still inside. She could feel the fire inside her, the rage pulsing beneath the surface. She wasn’t done. She wasn’t free yet, but she would be. She would feel the ground beneath her feet again. She would move again. It would start with her toe. Then her foot. Her knee. A step. Then a run. And when she ran, she would hunt.

She knew where to start. Yoongi Min. If he was still alive, he'd be in Korea. And she would find him. She would look him in the eye, and the last thing he’d see would be her.

His face appeared in her mind without effort—soft features, a strong chin, pale skin with freckles in the summer, though he never tanned. His hair was as black as a raven’s feather. He moved like a cat, always calm, always assessing.

Yoongi’s life hadn’t been easy, though he would never admit it. His father never laid a hand on him, but he hadn’t seen his entire family slaughtered, either. Yoongi’s first real encounter with death had come when he was just eleven years old, in the summer of 1981. She couldn't recall the exact date, but she knew it had been hot. He’d told her once, many years ago, how warm the room had been, the sweat dripping down his back, his breath shallow.

Yoongi had been hiding beneath a rusted iron cot in a small apartment on the outskirts of Busan, the kind of place where the ceiling leaked when it rained and the walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors’ every move. He was small, too small for the horrors he’d already seen, too small for what was unfolding now.

He curled into a ball beneath the bed, his limbs bent like fragile paper, wedged between an old pair of sneakers and a half-empty tin of candy. His mother’s candy, the kind she used to sneak into his backpack, telling him to chew quietly during class. Yoongi held his breath, his hands clamped tightly over his mouth, as the cold wood floor pressed into his ribs. Dust filled the air and his nose.

Above him, the room was chaos. His father, still in uniform, sweat darkening his shirt, was fighting three men. They were strangers, but not unfamiliar. They wore dark suits, polished shoes. The kind of quiet that came with practiced violence. They were members of the Chilsung-pa, a crime syndicate as old as the neighborhood itself. These men were no thugs. They were trained, hardened, and they were here with purpose.

One of the men carried a blade longer than Yoongi’s forearm. Another moved with the calm assurance of someone who didn’t need to rush—because he never needed a second swing.

The first man lunged. His father, once a sergeant, met him head-on, muscle and instinct colliding. The sound of their struggle filled the room, the shuffle of feet, the crash of furniture. The man’s neck snapped loudly, cleanly, like a branch breaking in a storm.

But it wasn’t enough.

The other two were faster, smarter. Steel gleamed in the dim light. It cut through air, then flesh.

Yoongi couldn’t see the details—only flashes of motion, grunts, and the spray of blood. Red splattered across the walls, the floor, the photograph of his grandfather pinned crookedly to the wall. His father made a sound—half snarl, half gasp—and then he collapsed. A heap of blood and breathlessness.

Yoongi didn’t scream. His voice had vanished somewhere in the violence. He didn’t blink. He didn’t cry. He just watched, frozen, as the world around him shattered.

They dragged his mother into the room, barefoot and frantic, wild with fear and anger. Her resistance was relentless, a last stand against everything that had already broken her. She fought like someone who still believed there was a way out—kicking, clawing, her body a whirlwind of desperation. Her curses filled the air, her cracked lips spitting venom. Her teeth snapped at the hands that tried to control her. But even in her fury, they moved her with ease. The bed loomed ahead, and she was shoved toward it.

Yoongi watched from his hidden spot, trapped under the bed, unable to move, unable to help. His eyes were locked on the struggle above him, his heart hammering in his chest. Her foot struck one of the men holding her, and for a moment, it seemed like she might break free. But then came the backhand—hard, sharp. It landed with a hollow crack, and she crumpled.

They didn’t hesitate. Two of them hauled her up by the arms, dragging her limp body the last few steps. She was crying now, but not out of fear—this was pure, unbridled fury. Her body shook with the force of her grief as she was thrown onto the bed. The mattress sank under the weight, groaning with the strain. The bedsprings screeched, the dust falling through the seams in the wood.

Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat. He could smell her—citrus and talc, warm and familiar. But that scent was quickly overtaken by the metallic stench of blood and sweat and something darker, something far worse. He clamped his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his ears, hoping for silence.

It didn’t help.

The noises started—sickening, unrelenting. The sound of bodies colliding. Her screams started out defiant but quickly turned into broken gasps, half-screams, choked sobs. The kind of sound you make when all hope is gone, when you’ve lost everything that could save you.

Yoongi was frozen. Trapped in his own body, not by fear, but by the sheer magnitude of his helplessness. His hands balled into fists so tight his nails broke the skin on his scalp, but his body refused to move. His teeth ground against each other, the pressure building until a molar cracked, but he barely noticed. He pressed his face into the splintered floorboards so hard his nose bled, warm blood trickling down his lip and pooling in the dust beneath him.

But none of it mattered.

The bed above him dipped and rose, groaning under their weight. The rhythm of the violence was sickening, steady, relentless. The sounds—every thrust, every scream—carved themselves into him, deep, permanent. It was like being marked, like each noise was a chisel, shaping him into something different.

Time stopped. The seconds stretched into eternity, each one slow and distorted. Reality blurred like smoke, like the edges of a dream slipping into something darker. He felt as though he was underwater, struggling to reach the surface, but never getting any closer.

And then, through the chaos, came a whisper. A sound so small, so broken, it nearly crushed him.

“Yoongi…”

Her voice. His mother’s voice. It was a breath, a prayer, shaped by pain and defeat. Her words were barely audible, muffled by her suffering. She wasn’t just calling out to him; she was reminding herself that he was still there. Still alive. Still hers.

That one word broke him. It shattered the last of his resolve. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t do anything.

So, he stayed there. Silent. Hollow. No tears left.

He was still staring into the dark when the blade came down. It sliced through the mattress with a sickening crack, cutting through flesh and bone with a brutal, decisive force. The sound of it—sharp and final—was one Yoongi would carry with him for the rest of his life. His breath stopped in his throat, his body freezing in the moment, as if everything had paused with the strike. The tremor that shook the frame seemed to ripple through the world itself, as if the earth itself winced in response to the violence.

Blood soaked through the mattress slowly, cruelly. The warmth of it was thick, spreading downward like it had all the time in the world, creeping into every fabric thread, darkening the cotton, turning it maroon, then black. One drop fell through the mattress and landed beside Yoongi’s eye. Then another, splattering his cheek. It didn’t stop—more followed, dripping onto his lips, his forehead, like a slow rain.

The blood clung to his skin as though it had been there forever, like his mother’s touch had once clung to his hand. And just like that moment—he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t fight it. He lay still beneath the bed, covered in her. Still, he made no sound. No scream. No breath.

It was over.

Not just the violence. Everything.

The room seemed to hold its breath, a heavy pause that hung thick in the air. Then, one of the men spoke, his voice low and calm, almost bored. Yoongi couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t want to. His mind had gone white, the kind of empty stillness that comes when everything around you has shattered. He floated somewhere above the horror, detached from the mess unfolding above him. But still, his eyes didn’t leave them.

He saw the man move to the side of the bed, wiping the blade clean on the edge of a pillow. Watched as he straightened his tie, adjusted the cuffs of his suit as if he were stepping out of a business meeting, not a slaughterhouse. The man’s face was composed—cold, calculating. A scar marked his right cheek, a thin line, old and worn. The kind you get when you’ve been in the thick of it, up close, and survived. His eyes were dead—dark, lifeless coal that had long since lost their light.

Shin Ji-Sung. They called him Boss Shin. Yoongi never forgot that face. Not then. Not ever.

He stayed there, unmoving, until the door slammed shut behind them, until their footsteps faded into the stairwell, and the quiet resumed. The rain had started again, tapping lightly against the glass, like it knew it couldn’t do anything but bear witness.

Only then did Yoongi crawl out. His knees slid in the blood as he pulled himself forward, inch by inch. His movements were slow, mechanical, drained of everything but the force of will. When he reached the edge of the bed, he stopped. He looked up.

His mother’s body lay twisted, her eyes wide open but unseeing. One arm hung over the edge of the bed, her fingers curled toward nothing. Her mouth was slightly open, as if still trying to say his name.

Yoongi stared at her for what felt like forever—minutes, hours, maybe more. He couldn’t tell. His own mouth was open, but no sound came. Not a cry. Not a breath. Just a hollow, unbearable stillness.

Yoongi was eleven years old, half-Korean, half-Japanese, a base kid—an accident in a country that barely acknowledged his existence. But even at that young age, something inside him survived. It wasn’t his innocence—he lost that the moment he was forced to witness violence beyond comprehension. It wasn’t his sense of safety—he never had that to begin with. But something deeper, something colder, remained. A promise. Silent. Absolute. Forged in blood and etched into the marrow of his bones.

He would survive. That was his truth. And when the time came, he would rise. The men who had done this to him—he would find them. All of them. He would track them down, one by one, and make them bleed.

The world had broken him in so many ways, but it had also shaped him. He had learned to live with the pain, to swallow it whole and keep moving forward, even when every instinct told him to stop. And one day, that hunger for retribution would fuel him. He would find Boss Shin. The man who had sealed his mother’s fate and shattered his life. The man who would pay in ways he couldn’t yet fully comprehend. But Yoongi would make sure he bled. He’d make it hurt.

In the cruelest twist of fate—or perhaps the cruelest design—Yoongi wouldn’t have to search far. Boss Shin, for all his power, for all the fear his name inspired, carried one fatal flaw. A craving. A hunger for boys who looked just like Yoongi. And in time, Yoongi would give him exactly what he wanted. He would become the thing that haunted Boss Shin's every nightmare. And when he did, there would be no escape.

By the time Yoongi Min turned thirteen, he had stopped being a child. He had learned to stop asking questions, to lower his gaze, and let silence speak for him. He had perfected the art of stillness—watching without being seen, listening for what wasn’t said. He had learned to hear the meaning beneath words and the threat behind a smile. He spoke less but saw more.

But what he had learned most of all was patience. Not the kind you’re taught in school or the kind that’s scolded into you by tired parents. This was something darker. A patience that comes when you’ve been hollowed out, when the only thing keeping you upright is the shape of the rage you’re saving for later.

He waited. Not for days or months, but for years. He moved through the system like smoke—foster care, state programs, shelters with locked food cabinets and bars on the windows. He was polite, obedient, invisible. Until the moment came.

And when it came, it wasn’t gentle. It came with blood.

The room reeked of false luxury—gold-leaf frames on the walls, velvet drapes drawn tight against the light, the lingering scent of expensive cologne. It was all soft, muted. Except Yoongi.

Boss Shin, the man on the bed, was nearly asleep, his eyes heavy from wine and narcotics, his body limp from a life of routine depravity. His breath came shallow and uneven, a smugness laced in every exhale.

Yoongi stood over him. Smaller than he would ever be again—thirteen years old, narrow-shouldered, wiry, but taut with focus. His hair was jet-black, tied back beneath a wig, and he wore a schoolgirl’s uniform—pleated skirt, white blouse, knee-high socks. He had spent weeks preparing. Days enduring. It wasn’t shame; it was strategy. Because Shin liked boys who looked like girls. Everyone knew that. And Yoongi had made sure Shin noticed him.

Now he was here.

Yoongi climbed onto the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress without a sound. Shin’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, the haze of his stupor thick around him.

And then the blade came down.

There was nothing delicate about it. No finesse, no grace. It was raw. A thick military-grade combat knife, taken from a dead man months ago, plunged into Shin’s chest with a grunt of effort. The steel slid between his ribs. Shin’s eyes snapped wide, and a wet gasp tore from his throat.

Yoongi didn’t stop.

He twisted the blade. Blood erupted—hot, arterial—splattering across his neck, his chest, the pale blue sheets. Shin thrashed, his body arching in agony, but Yoongi held him down, straddling him like iron. The man’s strength already began to fail, his nails scraping futilely against Yoongi’s skin.

Yoongi watched it all. Not with hatred. Not even with satisfaction. But with cold, clinical detachment.

This wasn’t revenge. It was correction. A realignment of the world.

When the light finally left Shin’s eyes, Yoongi pulled the blade free and exhaled. The silence that followed was brief.

Shouts thundered from the hallway. Heavy footfalls. Yoongi moved quickly, slipping off the bed and into the shadows beneath it, blending into the folds of the velvet bedskirt like he had rehearsed a hundred times.

The pistol was already in his hand, taped beneath the bedframe for days, waiting. A small .22, stolen, modified for close-range, silent, deadly. It felt cold in his hand, familiar. He didn’t need to think. He was ready.

The door crashed open, the hinges groaning under the weight of the men rushing in. Two of Shin’s enforcers. Guns half-raised, but their bravado faltered as soon as they saw the scene inside. Blood-soaked sheets, their boss’s lifeless body slumped across the velvet pillows, red dripping from the mattress and pooling on the floor. They froze, not with grief, but confusion. Fear. Real, raw fear that shot through their chests like ice.

They didn’t see Yoongi yet.

He was hidden beneath the bed, crouched in the shadows. His knees pressed to his chest, pistol steady in his hand. Silent. Still. Waiting.

The first man stepped forward, cautiously, barking orders at the dead. His boot heel thudded just inches from Yoongi’s face.

Bang.

A clean shot to the chest. The sound cracked through the air like thunder. The man dropped instantly, a startled gasp leaving him as he flailed briefly before crumpling onto the marble floor. Blood pooled beneath him.

The second man reacted in panic, shouting and lunging toward his gun.

Yoongi was faster.

He rolled left, coming up on one knee, and fired twice.

Bang. Bang.

The first bullet ripped through the man’s throat, the second hitting him in the shoulder mid-fall. He spun into the doorframe, hitting it hard, and slumped to the ground, coughing up blood. His body twitched once, then stilled.

Yoongi stood slowly, his movements controlled, calm. There was no thrill in his actions, just the weight of inevitability. The pistol hung loosely in his hand, blood drying on its grip. In his other hand, the knife remained, still warm and dripping.

His breath was steady, his eyes cold. No fear. No exhilaration. Just motion.

The suite was filled with the scent of death now. The thick, coppery smell of fresh blood mixed with sweat and fear—fear that filled the air with every dying breath. It clung to the velvet curtains, soaked into the carpet, streaked across the cream-colored wallpaper like blood-written script.

Yoongi moved through the rooms methodically. He knew this place. He knew the layout. The blind spots. The shift changes. He’d memorized everything.

The guards were nothing. Complacent. Half-drunk. Slumped in side rooms, slack faces illuminated by the glow of TV screens. He ended each of their lives with the same quiet efficiency. A gun to the head. A knife to the throat. No cruelty. Just necessity.

There were no screams. No pleading. Just footsteps, soft thuds, a few strangled gasps—and then silence.

When it was over, the suite was still. Nine dead. One boy standing. Yoongi didn’t pause to admire it.

He moved through the same route he had come in: down the hallway, past the empty kitchen where the cooks had abandoned their posts, through the swinging back door that led to the stairwell. He descended three flights in silence.

No one stopped him. No one even looked. The staff knew enough to avoid the scene. Whatever had happened in that room, it was better left unseen.

He stepped out into the alley just as the rain began to fall again. Soft, warm drops washing away the blood from his bare calves but not from his hands. A cab waited at the curb, just as planned.

The driver didn’t ask questions.

Yoongi slid into the back seat, the worn leather sticking to his bloodied thighs. The wig, matted and soaked, was shoved into a plastic bag beside him. His socks were damp, crusted with blood, but his eyes were clear. Sharp. Focused. He sat still, watching the rain blur past the window as the cab pulled away. Tires hissed on wet asphalt.

He didn’t look back. Not once.

There would be no news reports. No police inquiries. No rumors of retribution whispered through the backrooms of politicians or mob bosses. Boss Shin had surrounded himself with loyal men—men willing to die for him, and the ones left standing would know the cost of speaking his name. It was a code. A simple one. You spoke his name, you joined him in the grave.

Justice, as Yoongi understood it, had been served. Not through courts or lawyers or long, drawn-out appeals. Not behind prison walls or slow deaths at the hands of officials. No, it had come in the form of a blade, a gun, a thirteen-year-old boy, and a vow whispered in the dark. Simple. Final.

And yet, as the city lights flickered by, streaked across the rain-smeared window, Yoongi didn’t feel peace. He didn’t feel anything at all. The blood had been spilled, and the world had kept turning, indifferent to what had been done. To what he had done.

By the time Yoongi Min turned twenty, his name had become an echo, heard only in the darkest corners. His name wasn’t on any official documents. It wasn’t part of any police briefings or secret intel files. It didn’t show up in headlines or trending topics. Yoongi’s name existed in whispers, passed between powerful men who only ever spoke of him in shadows. They never looked at him directly, never dared to. They only saw the consequences of his presence—the bloodshed, the chaos, the power shifts that seemed to follow in his wake.

Yoongi didn’t have a country. No flag to swear loyalty to. No passport, no fingerprints. He had no past anyone could prove. But he had a record. Not an official one. No papers to file. His record was a trail of disappearances, accidents, and sudden, unexplained shifts in power. A collection of bodies scattered across continents. And those who saw Yoongi Min knew it was already too late. Those who didn’t? They were the ones he preferred.

He was a ghost with a pulse. A master of stillness, of precision, and of murder. The kind of man who didn’t need orders. He needed only coordinates.

On a rooftop in the blistering heat of a Central American capital, Yoongi lay flat against the sun-baked concrete. He had been there for hours, and he would stay as long as it took. Sweat trickled down his face, caught by the bandana beneath the brim of his cap. His black-gloved hands gripped the matte body of a custom-built sniper rifle, the stock pressed tight against his shoulder. The barrel extended out beyond the ledge, covered with a heat-shielded tarp that blended seamlessly into the rooftop’s gravel.

The scope was adjusted with practiced precision. The crosshairs found their target without hesitation. Yoongi didn’t guess. He calculated. Every move, every angle, every second was mapped out in his mind before he made it.

Three stories below, a silver SUV inched through midday traffic, its armored exterior reflecting the sunlight. The SUV was flanked by two motorcycles, the lead bike carrying two men in mirrored sunglasses, the second one already scanning rooftops too late. Yoongi watched as the SUV slowed to a stop at a red light. The noise of the street, the shouting of a vendor trying to sell mangos, the squawk of a parrot from a balcony, all of it faded into the background. It was chaos, a mix of life, sound, and color. But in the scope, there was only stillness. Only precision.

The backseat window caught the sky for a split second before dipping down, revealing his target: General Ernesto Gaviria. Former intelligence chief turned cartel-backed politician, with private prisons and private armies to his name. He’d once been a revolutionary. Now, he was just a parasite feeding off the system he helped create.

Gaviria was laughing, his head tilted back, his stomach heaving in amusement, a man who hadn’t fought a battle in years—or perhaps never had. Two women sat beside him, their bodies rigid and poised in a way that made it clear they were well-practiced in the art of silence and beauty. Miss Panama and Miss Venezuela. Their sashes shimmered under the light, the fabric clinging to bodies sculpted with wealth and threats.

The general's hands rested casually on his knees, a pose of entitlement, the kind of careless dominance that came from too much power. Yoongi exhaled slowly, his breath measured, pushing out the heat, the noise, the weight of the past. His finger found the trigger. It curled around it like a whisper, soft but steady.

And then, with the crack of the rifle, it all shattered.

The sound was sharp, godlike, a roar that cut through the thick, humid air. The shot sliced the afternoon in half. Inside the SUV, the top of the general’s skull disappeared in a burst of red mist, a violent bloom of blood, bone, and gray matter that exploded upward, splattering the ceiling with gore. The noise was muted by the glass, but the image—crystal clear, forever etched—would never fade.

The woman to his right screamed, recoiling as if struck. The other froze, her mouth open, eyes wide with the horror of what she'd just witnessed. Yoongi didn’t watch. He didn’t need to. He was already moving, his body in motion before the chaos began to unfold below him.

The casing rolled near his elbow, catching a brief flash of sunlight before falling silent on the rooftop. He dismantled the rifle with mechanical precision, his movements smooth, practiced. Each action was like muscle memory—barrel unscrewed, stock folded, scope detached and secured. The rifle slid into a slim, matte-black case, nondescript, efficient, forgettable.

He didn’t confirm the kill. He never did. He knew.

By the time the chaos bloomed beneath him—sirens wailing, screams cutting through the air, armored boots pounding against pavement—Yoongi was already gone. He was down the stairwell, through a service door, and around a corner into the skeletal remains of an abandoned church. The cameras never worked there. It was a place no one could trace.

In less than sixty seconds, Yoongi changed clothes—dusty jeans, a bleach-stained T-shirt, a cheap knockoff Dodgers cap. He walked into the market square like he belonged, just another face in the crowd that moved like water, undisturbed by disaster.

The cab that picked him up blended in, too. The driver said nothing. The cash was exact. The route was direct. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Yoongi was already out of the city, no trace, no trail. He didn’t leave behind a name spoken aloud or a footprint anyone would follow. He was just another ghost, fading into a world full of them.

Another job done. Another name crossed off a list no one would ever see.

For Yoongi, it wasn’t personal. It never was. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel something. In the space where others might find relief, guilt, or satisfaction, Yoongi Min felt only one thing: momentum. And it was pushing him somewhere darker.

At twenty-three, Yoongi Min became the latest name on an infamous ledger—a list that didn’t exist on paper, kept out of sight in rooms the world preferred to pretend weren’t real. It wasn’t an organization, not really, but a design—precise, efficient, built for one purpose: death. Officially, they were known as the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad, but in the underworld, they were simply called the Vipers. A name that spread like poison through intelligence channels, whispered in black-market ports, and muttered by the dying who understood what it meant to be hunted by one of them.

Now, Yoongi stood in a windowless room, somewhere outside any country that mattered. The space around him was cold and sterile—unpainted concrete walls, a single overhead light casting long, calculated shadows. There was no clock, no insignia, no way to tell if they were underground or above the clouds. The silence hung heavy, pressing against the air like it carried weight.

Yoongi didn’t break it. He stood alone at one side of the table, still and deliberate. His frame was narrow but lean, his body honed, not hardened. Black boots, black pants, black shirt—no adornments, no flash. He didn’t look dangerous in the way most people would imagine. He looked precise, like a man who knew the exits before he entered the room, who understood the angles and could turn anything into a weapon if needed. He wasn’t there to impress anyone. He was there to belong.

Across from him sat Taehyung. Older, with sharp features and a clean-cut look that seemed timeless. He looked like he belonged to every decade and none at all. His eyes, however, were sharp and studying, as if he could see through Yoongi and straight into his bones. He sipped tea from a porcelain cup with a calmness that suggested he’d ended more lives than heart disease. His suit was dark and crisp, but unbuttoned—relaxed, but not in a way that suggested comfort.

“I’ve heard stories,” Taehyung said at last, his voice smooth, warm, and quiet enough to pull attention. “I don’t usually believe them. People romanticize this work too much. But your record?” He gave a small, appreciative nod. “That—I believe.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. He just watched—his silence as controlled as the room was filled with power.

Beside Taehyung, Y/N leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. She was younger then, early twenties, her jawline still sharp with defiance. The blood on her hands hadn’t yet dried into ritual. Her hair was longer, tied back loosely but with intent. She wore scuffed boots, a jacket two shades too dark for the room, and eyes that didn’t stray from Yoongi. There was no warmth in her gaze, no judgment. Just calculation. She wasn’t impressed, but she wasn’t dismissive either. She was reading him, watching every muscle shift, every subtle movement.

After a moment, she tilted her head and spoke, her voice dry. “He doesn’t talk much.” She paused, then added, “Is that part of the act, or do you just enjoy being cryptic?”

Yoongi’s voice, when it came, was low—measured and quiet, almost like the tail end of a threat that hadn’t been fully spoken yet. “I talk when it matters.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in challenge, but in recognition. She knew exactly what kind of man stood before her.

Across the table, Taehyung let out a slow exhale, his eyes glinting with something that might’ve been amusement. He set his teacup aside and leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his posture casual but calculating. “Cold,” he said, eyes never leaving Yoongi. “Controlled. Surgical. But you’ve never worked on a team. Not like this.”

Yoongi nodded once, the gesture brief but firm. “Then I’ll adapt.”

There was no arrogance in his voice. Just a quiet certainty. A fact.

Taehyung glanced sideways at Y/N, as though looking to her for confirmation. She didn’t break her gaze from Yoongi, not a blink, not a shift. The air between them was thick, charged, but she remained silent.

Taehyung turned back to Yoongi. “He’s fast,” he said, a statement that seemed almost to float between them. “Not emotional. Not reckless.”

There was a beat of silence, then Y/N gave a small, reluctant nod, just enough to signal that she had made up her mind. “Then give him a name.”

Taehyung didn’t hesitate. “Cottonmouth.”

The name landed in the room like a verdict, heavy and sure. Yoongi didn’t flinch. He didn’t acknowledge it with any outward response. It didn’t matter. The name slid into him, as if it had always been there, waiting to be said. He accepted it without question, without ceremony.

No formal welcome. No applause. No blood oath. Just a room full of silence. And a name.

And a shift.

By the end of the week, Yoongi had a new passport, new directives, and a kill list that spanned five continents. His first target was dead in three days. His second never even made it off the runway. No one ever saw his face, but governments knew when he passed through. They just didn’t know how to prove it.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t leave traces. He didn’t miss.

He left for Korea after that, and Y/N was sent to him a few months later. Taehyung had been too busy to teach her about swords and Yoongi had taken her under his wing. Within the six months she was there, their relationship went from nothing to meeting up in his bath room. They would explore one another for hours, and Yoongi made her feel good.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that.

There were no declarations, no promises, no softness. Just need. Just impulse. Just adrenaline, control, and something neither of them ever bothered to name. It didn’t matter that she belonged to Taehyung’s crew. At that point, she didn’t belong to anyone.

She was his Rabbit, and over the years they’d grown an understanding. Taehyung sent them on missions together frequently after her time with Pai Mei the year after she’d left Busan. In those hotel rooms she’d find herself able to slip away from being Black Mamba. With Yoongi, she’d felt like she was back home in Abbeville and he looked at her the same way Sam Wallace had before he’d died.

One of her favorite memories came without much effort.

In an out of the way hotel room overlooking a vantage point, Y/N clutched the bedsheets as she was pounded from behind by a smirking Yoongi. Y/N fought down her groans, not wanting to give her showman a teammate the satisfaction of vocalizations, even though she knew that Yoongi could feel how wet she was and how deep he was getting hit.

"Anata no soba---" Yoongi began before clearing his throat, pulling out. "Get on your side."

Y/N sighed at the unwelcome interruption as she lied on her hips, raising her leg like a tame dog as Yoongi entered her again, torturously working back up to his original tempo as Y/N fought to keep her breathing under control, the disappointment and anticipation being all a part of the kill for her friend. She found her right breast being squeezed as he began to pick up speed, sneaking there when she was distracted.

"Tch!" Y/N betrayed her surprise as Yoongi kept hammering away in her, tweaking her erect nipple in between his fingers. Y/N gave up, letting out a subdued moan as she came. Yoongi, not really surprised in any sense of the word, turned his head to pridefully peck her on the lips.

Afterward, Yoongi moved with the quiet finality of a man who was used to following through. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush—just slipped out of bed, his bare feet barely making a sound against the worn hotel carpet. The room, dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, felt still in his absence. The click of the bathroom door, followed by the soft hiss of running water, filled the space between breaths.

Y/N lay on her back, her eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling like they might somehow form a map of something that made sense. Her chest rose and fell slowly—not from exertion, but from the familiar weight of being close to someone and still feeling the air too thick to fully exhale. Her skin hummed, warm and flushed, but not from love, not from longing—just connection. The kind that lingers long after the adrenaline is gone.

The faucet stopped. A moment later, the door creaked open. Yoongi returned with two bottles of water—one of which he tossed to her without needing to say anything. She caught it mid-air, cracked the seal, and drank deep. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice a low hum of acknowledgment.

He slid back into the bed beside her with the ease of someone who had long since mastered the art of not being noticed. His skin was cool from the tap, and when his arm brushed hers, she shivered just slightly. He was already folding into the sheets like he’d always belonged there.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice low and nonchalant. The kind of check-in between old friends who’d long stopped asking just to be polite.

She smirked. “I’m good.”

They lay there in the quiet for a moment—just the hum of the city seeping through the barely working air conditioner, the occasional honk from traffic five floors below. Then Yoongi turned toward her, propping his head up on his arm, eyes catching hers in the dim light.

“Your breathing was off,” he said, his tone almost casual.

Y/N gave him a sideways glance. “You keeping stats on me now?”

“Maybe,” he said, his eyes flicking to her with an almost imperceptible smile. “You usually exhale on the upstroke.”

She snorted. “Creep.”

He shrugged. “Observant.”

A quiet laugh passed between them, easy and familiar. She nudged his shoulder with hers, and he leaned into it slightly. Their bodies fell back into the same rhythm they always had—no tension, no need. Just proximity. His hand settled on her waist, fingers drumming lightly against her hip.

“You ever gonna tell me what you think of Taehyung?” she asked, not bothering to look at him.

Yoongi sighed through his nose. “He’s interesting. Don’t care for him much outside of work.”

“You jealous?”

He scoffed. “No. He’s not my type. I like pretty boys, baby.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think I’m gonna sleep with him?”

“I think you might,” he said, his voice unexpectedly honest. “But not for the reason you think.”

“Oh?”

“You’re strategic. You don’t get close unless you mean to. But with him... I don’t know. Maybe it would just feel easy. Wouldn’t be for love, I could tell you that right now.”

She was quiet for a long moment, fingers absently tracing the ridge of his forearm. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. “You think I’m trying to survive him?”

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. He studied her face in the dim light, then reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with unexpected tenderness.

“I think you survive everyone,” he said, his words settling between them. “Even the ones who don’t want you to. Even me.”

Y/N blinked, then looked away, irritated with herself for the way his words hit too close to home. She hated it when he said things like that—too real, too quietly, like he didn’t mean to drop it in her lap but couldn’t help himself.

She liked to think herself in love with Taehyung Kim. Why else would she put up with his ass? It’s obviously real love because he disgusts her and puts up with him willingly when not many others would. Maybe Brandi would, but Brandi was insane and didn’t care about his more… unsavory traits. At least, none that she ever showed. She had to be in love with Taehyung. It was the only way any of this made sense. Even when she stopped thinking about him the second Yoongi came to visit, she knew that she loved him.

Y/N did not want to think about it anymore. It was too confusing.

She rolled toward him, curling into his side until her forehead pressed gently against his collarbone. He didn’t flinch. He just adjusted the blankets with one hand and wrapped the other around her back.

“You’re warm,” she mumbled.

“You’re cold,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

They stayed like that for a while—tangled in sheets and silence. No urgency. No plans. Just the kind of closeness that comes from knowing someone too long and too well to lie to them.

Y/N felt his breathing start to slow beneath her cheek. His hand continued its slow rhythm against her back, each gentle motion lulling her closer to sleep.

“Yoongi?” she whispered.

“Mmh?”

“Thanks.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just kissed her hair again, slower this time.

“For what?” he murmured.

“For always coming back.”

He was quiet for a moment before pulling her a little tighter. “Where else would I go?”

Y/N smiled, her eyes slipping closed. She didn’t know what this was between them, and she didn’t need to. Not that night or any other night.

Their relationship ended three years later, when Y/N and Taehyung started seeing each other differently. Or, as Taehyung had put it, she began acting like a grown woman. The others said he’d just waited until she was old enough to avoid looking like a creep. Y/N didn’t dwell on it. She’d always been with older men. This wasn’t new.

Yoongi, ever practical, accepted the shift, acknowledging their sexual relationship had run its course. Lynn Easton, his longest friend and most prized possession, swooped in to care for him like a mother. She was glad to be rid of Y/N’s presence. Jealous little rat. They left Mexico for Korea, returning only for missions tied to Taehyung’s operations. The bond between Yoongi and Y/N wasn’t the same, but it remained, still strong despite the distance. Y/N cared for Yoongi, and she knew he felt the same.

Four years ago, in the year 2000, on a West Texas morning beneath a bleached sky, a wedding turned into a massacre. It was meant to be quiet, intimate—far from politics, cameras, and consequence. The chapel, small with whitewashed walls and hand-carved pews, was made for whispered vows and fragile beginnings. The bride chose every detail: pale ribboned flowers, a sun-worn guitarist in the corner, an officiant who spoke briefly, knowing this was something sacred, not to be overstretched.

There were only a handful of guests—people she trusted, loved. No reporters. No guards. Just light spilling through stained glass, the faint hum of music threading through the silence. Everything was still. And then, the doors opened.

The gunshots were everywhere. In less than a minute, eight people were dead: Tommy’s parents, his sister, a last-minute college friend, the guitarist who didn’t even drop his instrument before he fell, the man with the Bible who’d asked them to join hands. And then Tommy himself.

The bride, dressed in white, life growing inside her. She didn’t see who fired first, only felt the light leave her and something tear through her chest like fire. The impact folded her in half. Her knees buckled, fingers reaching for something that wasn’t there.

She fell hard, stained-glass light still dancing around her as she hit the floor. Blood soaked her lace midsection, blooming quickly—bright at first, then darkening, the white dress drinking it in. From the floor, she saw him.

Not the one who shot her. That was Brandi—smiling like she was doing God’s work. No. It was the other one. The one who didn’t smile. The one who moved like smoke.

Yoongi Min.

He hadn’t fired the shot that dropped her, but he had ensured no one else could rise to stop it. His job was taking out her groom. Silenced pistol in hand, he moved through the chaos with the precision of someone far removed from it all. No tremor in his hand. No hesitation. He stepped over the dead without a glance.

When she writhed on the floor, bleeding, breathless, Yoongi held her down. He didn’t spit at her, insult her, or speak. He just pinned her shoulders to the blood-slick wood while Brandi Phoenix did what she did.

None of them expected a heartbeat to survive that day. They didn’t rush to leave. No panic. No second glances. No double-checking for survivors. They were professionals. The job was done. Eight confirmed kills. One silenced chapel. No cries. No movement.

They should’ve killed nine, but they didn’t. Because Y/N didn’t die.

She remembered everything. Not in flashes, not like a dream, but in brutal clarity. The crack of gunfire echoing off vaulted ceilings. The splintering pews. The sound of bodies hitting the floor. Her own strangled gasp as the bullet hit, knees buckling like broken beams.

She remembered the color of her blood, soaking through the lace of her dress—bright at first, like a flare, then darkening. The smell—the mix of roses, gunpowder, and iron. The weight of another body near hers, warmth spilling onto her bare shoulder. The sticky wetness. The stillness.

Yoongi Min stood over her, not a drop of blood on his face. Blood caked her lashes, but she saw him clearly. His face unreadable, no curiosity, no cruelty—just focus. He didn’t look at her like a woman or a target. He looked at her like a loose end. He helped the others finish her off once the others were taken care of.

Then came the darkness.

Four years. Four years of machines, wires, and strangers’ prayers. Two times, she was declared brain-dead. Two times, a doctor marked the time on a clipboard and walked away. She was kept alive by a nurse’s pity—hidden, forgotten, buried alive. Until the moment she started to wake.

It wasn’t pretty. It didn’t come all at once. It was slow, violent, like pulling herself from wet concrete—blind, gasping. Her mind clawed its way back long before her body did, trapped inside, screaming silently.

Now, she lay curled in the backseat of a stolen truck beneath a blanket that smelled of engine grease and stale air. Parked between desert scrub and rusted fences. The road behind her was gone, the road ahead uncertain. Her body was broken—foreign. Her skin too tight in places, numb in others. Her muscles sagged, deflated. Her legs, stiff as wax, stretched out. Her fingertips tingled. Her breath shallow, lungs relearning survival.

But her mind—her mind was wildfire.

She could feel the hum of memory beneath her skin, relentless and alive. Her pulse thudded in her neck, fast and heavy, reminding her she was alive. She couldn’t remember her face anymore, couldn’t picture her reflection. But she remembered everything else. The echo of her name, shouted just before it was drowned out. The scrape of her nails against the chapel floor, as she tried to crawl. The flutter beneath her ribs—her child—growing still. And Yoongi Min. Silent. Still. Pressing her down while someone else tore her apart.

She hadn’t died. And because of that, because they hadn’t finished the job, they would all pay.

Her body lay in the dark, breath shallow, skin slick with sweat gathering in the hollows of her spine, soaking into the seat beneath her. The air in the truck thick—humid with oil, dried blood, and the sour scent of fading adrenaline. Outside, the desert heat pulsed like a living thing. Inside, time collapsed into nothing but stillness and breath.

Her eyes drifted down her body. Slowly. Deliberately. Past the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Down to her right foot, unmoving. Pale. Slightly curled at the toes. Still. Dumb. Useless.

It looked like it belonged to someone else—like it had been sewn onto her by mistake.

Her jaw tightened, and her hands curled into loose fists on her thighs. Every nerve in her body screamed with confusion, as though someone had rewired her and then left without a trace. She took a slow, steadying breath, thick with resolve. Whatever had been done to her, whoever had taken control of her body, they would pay. She would walk again. She would hunt them down. And when the time came, there would be no mercy. Yoongi might have been the shadow in the chapel, but she was the fucking hurricane.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if the simple command could bridge the distance between her and the action she craved.

Her eyes narrowed, focus tightening like a vice. She stared at her foot, willing it to move, as if sheer force of will could make it obey.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she repeated, louder this time, her voice sharp with impatience.

Still nothing.

Then—

A tremor.

Just a flicker. A subtle, almost imperceptible twitch that disturbed the dust on her skin.

She blinked hard, heat rushing behind her eyes, the sting of tears threatening. Her throat tightened. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle around her, like the stillness after an explosion.

The toe had moved.

And that was enough.

Her cracked lips parted, voice raw and thin. “The hard part’s over,” she muttered to herself, her words barely a rasp. “Now let’s get the rest of these piggies moving.”

It took an hour just to sit up.

Every second felt like war.

Her arms trembled beneath her, muscles unfamiliar and weak. Her shoulders burned, her breath shallow and frantic. Sweat dripped into her eyes, but she didn’t blink it away. She focused only on the task ahead: moving. Dizziness pulled at her, nearly swallowing her whole. Twice, her vision blurred, her fingers going numb. But she kept going. One breath at a time.

Finally, after what felt like forever, she was upright.

Slumped forward, shaking, soaked in sweat, gasping like she'd been pulled from the sea. Her hospital gown clung to her, a reminder of the fragility she still carried. But she was sitting. That was something. That was power.

She let her head fall forward, staring at her left leg.

“Your turn,” she whispered.

She focused, hard. Her body wasn’t responding; it was remembering, like each limb needed to reacquaint itself. Her left foot didn’t move at first. Then, a twitch. A faint tremble in her calf. A sudden jerk in her thigh, more seizure than progress.

But it was something.

“Again,” she murmured, voice shaky. “Come on.”

Her hand gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white. She slapped her thigh—once, twice. Hard. Not out of frustration, but command.

Another minute passed.

Another tremor.

She let out a breath that caught in her throat, threatening to choke her before she smothered it with the back of her hand. She couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. But the tears came anyway. Not from fear or pain, but from the weight of it all. Years of silence, stillness, being trapped in a body that didn’t obey. She breathed through it, let the tears fall, wiped them away, and kept going.

By hour seven, the tremors were constant, though still uncoordinated and unpredictable. Her limbs were waking up in fits and starts, like a machine that hadn’t been used in years, sputtering to life. Her muscles spasmed, kicked, locked up, then released. At one point, she reached for the window frame for balance, but instead collapsed sideways, her shoulder slamming into the door, rattling the hinge. She gasped, cursed, and kept going.

By hour ten, one leg dangled over the side of the seat, scraping the truck floor uselessly—a dead weight. But it was down. It was gravity. It counted. Then, with a grunt, the other leg followed—slow, twitching, her breath ragged as she forced it over the edge. Her body ached like it had been beaten from the inside out, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

By hour thirteen, she was ready. The truck was stifling, the air thick with heat and the smell of sweat. Her gown clung to her skin, her back soaked through, hair matted to her forehead. The seat beneath her was stained with sweat and grit from where she’d braced herself. Her hands were filthy, coated in dirt from every inch of the cab she’d used to steady herself. But now, she had two feet on the floor. Her heart pounded in her chest, a warning reverberating in every bone.

She took a shallow breath—pained, but enough—and then she pushed.

Her legs shuddered beneath her, like old, rusted machinery fighting to move. Her thighs jerked with violent tremors. Her knees buckled—not from her weight, but from the shock of standing. Her back arched, muscles protesting. Her fingers dug into the seat, nails biting into the leather, arms straining to keep her upright. Every tendon screamed. Every nerve burned.

Her breath caught, high in her chest. Her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, urging her back to the place where nothing moved, and everything was still. But she didn’t let it. She fought it.

She stood.

Her body bent forward like a reed battered by a storm, elbows locked against the truck seat, spine curved with the strain. Her legs shook violently, unfamiliar with their own weight, but she was up. Her eyes fluttered closed, sweat soaking her lashes. Her lungs rasped, desperate for air. Her body swayed once—enough to threaten collapse—but she caught herself, held steady by willpower alone.

With a voice cracked from hours of silence, she whispered, "The hard part’s over."

There was no triumph in her tone. No victory. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a vow. Then, she smiled. Not wide. Not bright. It was a smile forged from iron and exhaustion—bent at the corners, all teeth and rage. A smile born from blood and memory. A smile no one had seen in four years. A smile like steel pulled from fire. And now, she was fire.

When the first light of morning touched the horizon, soft and golden against the desert, Y/N swung open the backseat door. The hinges groaned under the weight of the moment, and the air outside smelled of dust, fuel, and the heat to come. Her bare foot hit the pavement first, the shock of raw skin against gravel stinging. She winced. The earth was tender, soft like it had never been touched, but she didn’t stop. She settled her heel, then her arch, then her toes. She hissed through her teeth, then brought the other foot down beside it.

Both feet. On the ground. Standing.

She took a breath. It hurt. Her ribs protested, her chest constricted, but it was a breath nonetheless.

And then, she began to walk.

Her gait was uneven, her balance uncertain. Her knees locked at odd angles. Her arms reached for anything to steady herself. She looked like a newborn deer—legs and uncertainty, driven by furious determination. Each step was a silent scream. Each second, a battle. But she kept going. Around the truck, her hand dragging along the scorched metal, her palm leaving a smear of sweat against the door. She reached the driver’s side, gripped the hot steel with one hand, and reached for the handle with the other.

She pulled the door open and climbed in.

The seat was too high. Her hips protested. Her back pulled tight with the warning of strain. But she got in.

It felt surreal—sliding into that seat again. A place that once belonged to someone else, someone cruel, someone arrogant. Someone whose blood still stained the floorboards beneath her bare feet. She could still smell Buck—cologne of bad whiskey and burnt plastic. Fast food wrappers rotting in the door pocket. Cigarette butts jammed into the ashtray.

The keys were still in the ignition, dangling from the garish yellow “PUSSY WAGON” tag. She reached for them, fingers closing tight around the plastic. The key turned with a low mechanical thunk.

The engine coughed to life, then roared—a deep, guttural sound, like an old beast shaking off its sleep. The dash lights flickered, and the vents blasted warm air into her face. The whole truck vibrated beneath her.

She gripped the steering wheel, hands steady for the first time in a long while. Her gaze flicked to the dashboard, where a pair of sunglasses rested, shoved against the edge of the windshield. Plastic. Cheap. Gold-rimmed knockoffs. Elvis-style. Gaudy. Stupid.

Without thinking, she reached for them, turned them over in her hand, then slid them on. They sat crooked. She adjusted them, fixing the angle until they felt right. Now, they were perfect.

She glanced up into the rearview mirror. The woman staring back wasn’t the one who’d bled out in a wedding dress. She wasn’t the one who had cried silently in a coma or been broken into pieces.

No, this woman had bruises under her eyes, chapped lips, skin stretched tight against bone. A large scar on her forehead where they’d taken the bullet out. But her eyes—they were alive. They were awake, alert, burning with something cold and sharp.

Y/N reached for the gearshift. Her hand didn’t shake this time. She dropped it into drive, the truck lurching forward with a growl as gravel kicked up behind her.

It was time to start the list. Eight names. One by one. And the first name was Yoongi Min.

Taglist: @haru-jiminn @fancypeacepersona @futuristicenemychaos @cranberrycupcake @mar-lo-pap @wannaghostbts @solephile @paramedicnerd004 @stargirl-mayaa @calmyourtitts7 @bjoriis @11thenightwemet11 @screamertannie @everybodysaynoooooo

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mhsdatgo · 1 year ago

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Whether they got lazy with the designs behind the scenes or actually informed themselves on the behaviour of someone with autism this is SO REFRESHING whoever decided this lemme kiss your forehead.

it’s so beautiful and real that helaena didn’t let that over the head braid go for YEARSSS

#some things in the show were done SO right - either on purpose or by a coincidence - and it's these little things that the fans of the show #ALWAYS #FAIL #TO ACKNOWLEDGE #like damn it SHE'S AUTISTIC #PLEASE UNDERSTAND THAT #< prev tags #HEAR HEAR HEAR #no she doesn't shove Alicent away because she's ungrateful or spoiled or sees her mother as nothing more than a tool #she is genuinely unable to form relationships with anyone in her circle #that is just who she is #she's hypersensitive and even the slightest disturbance in her comfort zone can turn her mood sour #two agitated people 1)BURST into her room 2)made the children leave 3)asked her the whereabputs of someone she couldn’t care less about #plus tried to initiate contact she clearly wasn't comfortable with #and she isn't even allowed to resist that without people throwing all kinds of phrases around?#“she hates her mum” NO SHE DOESN'T #doesn't matter if that affirmation is meant to degrade Alicent OR HELAENA HERSELF somehow?#I've seen people not even subtly imply that she acted with indifference/aggression ON PURPOSE??#SHE WAS DISTRESSED AND WANTED TO BE ALONE #as someone who lives with a low functioning autistic I've been brushed away for less than that

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veephoenix · 2 months ago

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zutto — chapter twenty | wc: 5.2k | series masterpost | prev. chapter

Chapter summary: Noah and Lia try new things in the bedroom to help ease Lia's overthinking.

Reading time: 20mins aprox.

Tags and trigger warnings: anxiety, insecurities, overthinking, slight mention of Lia's traumas and past, sexual content including getting a safe word, dirty talk (Noah's such a tease in this one), mentions of Lia's virginity, "good girl", bondage, blindfolding, dom/sub dynamics (implied switching), lots of kisses and soft touches, fingering, oral sex (Lia receiving), p in v (unprotected), recurrent mentions of fluids, Noah being super caring, lots of communication and consent. Let me know if I missed sth.

General trigger warnings: this work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction, abuse, & violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

It was the third time Noah had seen Lia pacing the entirety of her apartment since he’d made his afternoon coffee thirty minutes earlier. He watched her, his left eyebrow slightly raised. He was standing behind the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. He’d been checking what was in the fridge, thinking about what they could cook for dinner, until Lia’s pacing pulled his attention.

He could feel the energy radiating from her, and it wasn’t good.

“Want to go out for a walk?”

She stopped abruptly in the doorway between the living room and the hallway that led to her room and the studio, turning her head toward him. She had her phone clutched in her hand.

“What?”

“You’ve been pacing the apartment for the last thirty minutes, doing nothing but locking and unlocking your phone every ten seconds. I can feel your anxiety from a mile away.”

“They said they would call this morning,” she replied, her voice tinged with worry. It reminded Noah of the same voice and tone she would use as a kid, whenever she would fret over the flowers in the garden wilting. “To confirm if they want to exhibit my work in the gallery. It’s already past 4pm.”

She’d spent the entire week going from gallery to gallery, showing her artwork to strangers and asking if they’d consider giving it a chance, or at least letting her rent the space for a few weeks, maybe a month. Every gallery was booked until next year. Only one had shown some interest, saying they’d get back to her by Friday morning. They mentioned a small room they had reserved for independent artists. It would be available for booking in two months. But her art had to go through a review and had to be approved by a board.

That was the call she was waiting for.

Ever since she and Noah had talked about the idea of exhibiting her work, she’d thought the hardest part would be making the decision of sharing something more personal and intimate than the illustrations she did for Bad Omens to the public. Now she was realizing that the hardest part might be simply getting noticed and being valued.

“Maybe they just got caught up with something and are late on schedule,” Noah said, finishing the last sip of his coffee and setting the mug down, pushing it to let it slide away on the counter. “You know how these things go.”

“I have a feeling they didn’t like them.” Her paintings. Her artwork. Her style.

“That’s just your head talking.”

“Sometimes my head is right.”

And sometimes you are impossibly stubborn, Noah wanted to say.

He let out a breath and fixed his eyes on her, shoulders sinking, knowing she wouldn’t let it go. He reached for one of the tricks he knew would help to shut off her mind and silence the voices, if only for a little while.

“Wanna have sex?”

Lia blinked, frowning. Her hand still gripped her phone tightly. She began to raise her arms and open her mouth, but Noah beat her to it.

“To take the edge off,” he clarified. “No ulterior motives. I’m thinking about you, and I figure that might work better than going for a walk.”

“What if they call while we’re in the middle of it?”

Noah stood silently for a moment, eyebrows raised as he studied his girl. Then burst out laughing.

Shaking his head, he rounded the bar island and took her hand, tugging her toward the hallway.

“I’m serious, Noah,” she exclaimed, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

“I’ll stop touching you and you can answer the call, if you’re that worried,” he replied casually.

Lia was stunned by his response and by how nonchalant he was being. And yet, as always, he got to her. Got under her skin. Made her smile despite herself.

“Okay.”

“Good,” he concluded as they entered the bedroom. He released her hand, taking her iPhone from the other to leave it on the nightstand and motioning for her to sit on the bed. When she did, he stood before her, tall and steady. His hands cradled her cheeks and he tucked some hair behind her ears. “Breathe with me.”

She did. She matched her breath to his, pushing aside the thoughts doing her more harm than good. He closed his eyes and she followed, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his hands against her skin.

Minutes passed, and by simply being with him like that, with all his attention on her, she started to feel the tension easing. She acknowledged her worries, where they came from. The anxiety that always painted a failing future…

When she felt herself slipping again, she reached up and wrapped her fingers around Noah’s wrist.

“Sex, please,” she murmured, eyes still closed.

Noah let go of her face and stepped back. When their eyes met, his gaze was flicking between lust, concern, and something more. Insecurity?

“I was thinking if you’d be up to me tying you up while we do it. And blindfolding you. That way, your senses—your brain—,” he tapped his left temple, “would only focus on my touch and voice. Nothing else.”

A sharp inhale from her. After a moment, she exhaled, her shoulders falling. It took her a few seconds to answer.

“Okay…”

But Noah wasn’t convinced.

“You’re not sure,” he said softly, answering for her.

“I am,” she replied quickly, her hands pressing into the mattress. She was only wearing cotton shorts and an oversized cozy sweater. “It’s just…”

“If you’re not ready, you can just say no. You know that.”

He would keep reminding her of that every single time, and she felt guilty that he had to. She wondered if Noah’s patience with her had a limit. She didn’t want to know.

“I’m ready,” she resolved, chin up.

But still, he wasn’t convinced by her tone. His thoughts were also piecing themselves together, and he tried to read her as he often did. Maybe now, he thought, she wasn’t worried about the gallery exhibit anymore.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Lia,” he stated, starting to shake his head. “Ever.”

“I know that,” it was her turn to reassure him. “And that’s not what I’m thinking.” Just like he could sometimes read her mind, she could sense what was going on in his. “It’s about… I need to know what’s going to happen.”

Oh. Noah frowned for a second, then understood what she meant, why she needed—or thought she needed—that control. But his plans for this moment were precisely to show her she didn’t need it.

“No,” he said, “you don’t. Not with me.”

He moved closer to her again and crouched down, taking her hands in his. His thumbs stroked the backs of them, slow. She was wearing the ring he’d taken from her vanity a few days ago when he went to Tiffany’s with Jolly. She hadn’t even noticed it was missing for hours.

“Listen,” he began, hoping he could make her understand. “I know you need to have control over everything around you. I know why. And I’d never take that right away from you.”

As a child, she’d lived at the mercy of a woman who didn’t care about her. She’d been forced to stay on alert, to survive. That need for control—to be prepared for anything—had grown with her, sometimes weighing her down and making it hard to step beyond her comfort zone. Then Mitch had come and proven to her that she needed that control, that she needed to stay alert at all times because anything—anyone could hurt her.

“But when we’re in the bedroom,” Noah continued, “it’s just you and me, Lia. You trust me, right?”

Her nod was immediate. “More than anyone.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“That’s what this is about,” he went on. “I want you to let go of that control for a little while. I want you to relax and allow yourself to feel whatever I give you. You know it’s only going to be pleasure. I swear.”

It wasn’t difficult to believe his words. There wasn’t a single part of her that doubted him. Still, she bit her lip, watching the way his tattooed thumb moved across the delicate skin of her hand.

“What if…” she raised her free hand to gesture at her head. “Something snaps?”

“Then we’ll stop. We’ll talk. I’ll comfort you.” His answer was quick. “It might take time for you to get used to all the new things we’re trying. And that’s okay. I’m learning too, baby. I just… I need to share this part of me with you. This dominant side. It’s part of who I am. And I hope you can accept it—I need you to.” He paused, took a breath. “That doesn’t mean I’ve got it all figured it out. I’m not saying I’ll lose control—never. That’s not what I mean.” The way he was shaking his head and the way his eyes worked to carry the weight of his words, was more than enough to make her understand. Lia was slowly starting to smile as he tried to explain himself. He was cute, even when talking about dominance. “I’m just making it clear that we’ve got time. All the time in the world. I’ll wait as long as you need. But I need to give you this part of me, and I need you to give me that part of yourself, too. You can’t keep controlling everything, Lia. And I’m only asking you to let go when you’re with me, here, where it’s safe.”

It made sense. Deep down, Lia knew he was right. She didn’t need any more reminders that nothing bad would happen to her with Noah by her side. They’d already come so far.

She nodded, letting her free hand drift up to run her fingers through his hair.

“Maybe we can just start with the blindfold,” he offered, relishing in the feel of her fingers scratching his scalp lovingly. “Leave the ropes for another time. Whenever you don’t feel comfortable, you can just take it off. What do you say?”

Lia puffed out a breath, glancing around as if weighing invisible scales.

“We can try both,” she said, surprising him. “I’m ready.”

“Yeah? You’re not saying that because you feel pressured by what I just said?”

“I’d tell you if I was. I know how to get my way around you if I need to, no matter how bossy you are.”

Noah’s eyebrows shot up at her sudden boldness.

“Okay then,” Noah stood up quickly. Lia’s hand slipped from his hair. “I’m getting the ropes, absolutely,” he added, mock-stern, as though ready to punish her for calling him bossy.

His reaction made her laugh.

He didn’t leave right away. Instead, he stood in front of her with his hands on his hips, then, because he couldn’t help it, he smoothed her hair with both palms before leaning down to kiss the crown of her head.

“I want to please you,” she whispered.

Noah stilled.

“I know If I focus on that,” Lia continued, “it’ll help me too.”

She got it. That it wasn’t just about bodies. It was about their trust, their wellbeing, their care for each other that would benefit both of them.

“I promise you’re not going to regret this,” he moved toward the last drawer in the dressed by the window. He opened it and pulled out the blindfold and the ropes. “Would it help,” he asked, glancing back at her, “if we had a safe word?”

“Sure.”

“Think of anything.”

“Hmm…”

Lia sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, lips pursed. Her eyes drifted to the window, where the last streaks of afternoon light stretched across the floor, through the grey, thin curtains. She thought of anything that made her feel grounded, things that comforted her. Something that meant strength, not weakness. Reassuring. Something beautiful, something that didn’t mean ‘I can’t do this’, but ‘I just need to take a breath’.

“Ume.”

Noah looked over his shoulder. “Ume? Is that English?”

Lia snorted. “It means plum blossom in Japanese.”

“Oh, here comes my flower specialist,” he teased, walking back to her. He laid the silk blindfold and the ropes on the mattress next to her. “What’s up with plum blossoms?”

“They bloom in late winter, when it’s still cold and snowy, that’s why they are a symbol of quiet strength. They also mean grace and hope.”

Noah’s smile softened as he understood why she chose that word—because in case she needed to use it, it wouldn’t mean failure, or that she was hurt, or a coward. It would mean that she was still being strong while acknowledging that she needed a stop, a break.

“You’re adorable, you know that?”

“It doesn’t hurt to be a little adorable before you get me naked and start whispering nasty things in my ear.”

Noah bit his lower lip, momentarily at a loss for what to do with this wonderful girl.

He cupped her chin and brushed his mouth against hers.

“I love you in a way that’s insane, Lia Parker.”

“Show me,” she replied, cheeky and sure. She pulled off her sweater. No bra underneath.

Noah’s tongue flicked out against his lower lip as he caught sight of her breasts—that glint of metal in her nipple. She’d changed the piercing recently, wearing one with a blue flower on each end, each cradling a tiny diamond that caught the light every once in a while. He tried to keep his composure, but blood was already rushing downward.

“Where do you want to do it?”

“One the bed,” Lia answered, sliding back to stretch herself out. She supported her weight on her forearms, her body relaxed but her eyes sharp. “I’ll feel more comfortable lying down.”

“Good call. Any preference for how you want to be tied up?”

They’d had a few evenings experimenting with Shibari, both in the bedroom and in the studio floor, going over knots and studying patterns, tying and untying, sometimes in full focus mode, others laughing at how complicated and messy it could get as they sipped on coffee or tea.

She tried to recall the names of some of the designs but she couldn’t remember most of them.

“I don’t know. I thought that would be up to you if you’re the one in control.”

“Not necessarily,” Noah explained. “Definitely not today. It’s your first time—and mine—, and you need to ease into it.”

“Okay,” Lia murmured, letting her back and head fall onto the pillows. She became more aware of her body, her skin tingling as she looked up toward the bed frame, the cold making the nipples hard, her own hair tickling her shoulders. “What about my hands tied to the headboard?”

“We can do that. It’s not much different from when I fuck you and hold them above your head.”

He was so unapologetic that she felt both stunned and wet.

“And we can tie your ankles to the bedpost,” he added, too casually.

Lia held his gaze, then looked away for a second.

“I’ll be… very exposed,” she admitted, the image of herself naked and spread out flashing through her mind.

“That’s the point. What worries you?” He asked, stretching the ropes and warming them up in his hands.

“You will see me and…” she winced, “I might not look pretty opened up like that.”

Noah exaggerated his frown, offended on her behalf.

“Did you just say you might not look pretty? Tied up? Opened up for me?

“I have insecurities, Noah.”

“So do I. I’m fucking Slenderman,” he said, looping the rope now between his fingers, “and yet, for some reason, you find me attractive.”

“Because you are. You’re hot. Like, really hot.”

“And so are you. Even more when you’re naked. And tied up. And opened up only for me to see.” He got one knee on the bed, and then the other, positioning himself over her, caging her lower body beneath his. He moved until he was hovering on all fours over hers. “I can see it already… You have no idea how sexy you’re going to look.”

Lia didn’t respond, her mouth gone dry. The way he was looking at her would be enough to disarm anyone. She rubbed her thighs together, her hands gripping the sheets.

“Give them to me,” he instructed when he noticed the goosebumps on her skin.

She was good at obeying him.

“Are you cold?” He asked.

“No.”

“Okay.”

He tied her wrists with a smooth, practiced motion, forming soft cuffs before securing them to one of the headboard bars. He tied them low enough that her arms could rest on the pillow, but tight enough that she couldn’t move much.

“Not too tight?”

“It’s perfect.”

“That one’s easy,” Noah replied.

He got off the bed and took his t-shirt off, revealing his lean tattooed frame, and picked up the silky red band. Lia’s eyes followed his moves, knowing she would lose her sense of sight in a matter of seconds.

“Lift your head.”

She did, and he slid the blindfold into place, knotting it gently at the back of her head. Darkness enveloped her, making her more aware of the sounds around her, the softness of the sheets, the warmth emanating from Noah’s body, his cologne, the way her own breath was quickening.

Noah stood still for a while, just watching her. The way her nipples tightened. The way her feet flexed, toes brushing at the sheets.

“Noah?”

“I’m here,” he answered, voice low. “Just watching you.”

The pink in Lia’s cheeks spread down to her neck and chest.

“Can you talk to me through it?”

“Of course.” His voice turned gentler. He shifted closer and laid his palm flat on her stomach. “I’m going to take the rest of your clothes off now. Then I’ll tie each ankle to the posts, okay?”

Lia nodded.

“Use your words, Lia.”

It was a command, she could tell by the tone he’d used, the severity of it.

“Yes, that’s okay.”

“Good girl.”

The praise sent a shiver through her.

The way he removed her shorts and thong from her body made her skin erupt in goosebumps. He was slow, torturously so—each inch of fabric dragged down unhurriedly, making her hyper-aware of his fingertips brushing her thighs. As the clothes reached her knees, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, and she could swear he blew softly toward the bare skin between her legs. She wished she could see him, because she was sure he had a smirk plastered on his handsome face.

A moment later, with all her clothes off, he tickled the base of her right foot. Lia wriggled on the bed and told him to stop. Both their laughs filled the room.

With Lia naked now, Noah wrapped his fingers around her left ankle and lifted it off the bed. He slipped the rope around it. A minute later, it was secured to the bed post. Another minute after, and the other followed. And just like that, Lia was restrained, tied up to the bed, naked, blindfolded, and at his mercy.

God, she was beautiful.

She was stunning like this. Vulnerable, yes, but also powerful. She had no idea.

Noah exhaled, then removed his sweatpants, leaving only his boxers.

“I’m going to start touching you now,” he indicated. “Focus on that. Just my touch.”

“Alright.”

He began with her hair, brushing strands away from her shoulders with soft fingers, careful not to make contact with anything more. Then his lips met the graceful curve of her shoulder, where he peppered kisses right to left and back until he moved to the hollow of her collarbone. Then he kissed her face—cheeks, nose, forehead, lips. She felt him smiling against her mouth and of course, she smiled back.

It felt so nice.

Lia wasn’t sure if she’d said the words aloud or only thought them, but Noah seemed to catch them either way.

When the contact stopped for a moment, her body ached in the absence.

And then, wet heat. His tongue on her pierced nipple, flicking and swirling. Her breath hitched, back arching off the bed, but she was caught, restrained. He switched to the other breast, then back again, his tongue playful and reverent all at once.

His fingers slid down, tracing the edge of her hip, then lower, brushing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She instinctively tried to angle herself closer to him, to guide him where she wanted him, but the ropes reminded her she wasn’t in charge.

“You know…” Noah began, using his tongue every two words as he moved up to lap or trace a lazy circle around her nipples, “I could spend the entire evening doing this. Touching you. Playing with you. Edging you. I would touch myself while I touch you, and I would come at the sound of you begging me to let you come.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is having to deal with other responsibilities when all I want is to stay here all day with you, making music out of the sounds you make when I touch you.”

Lia was burning. But the smile on her face spread wider than the heat consuming her. Noah saw it, felt it, and prided himself in the fact that his plan was working.

The mattress dipped as he shifted to get on top of her, keeping his knees at each side of her, then bending down to worship her stomach with his mouth while his hands—his thumbs, brushed her face, her cheeks. His lips mapped the inked patterns on her skin, trailed lower to her navel, then toward the dark, soft curls between her legs.

“Bet teenage-you never thought we would be doing this, that I’d be going down on you while I had you tied up.”

Lia’s response was a moan.

“I thought about taking your virginity a few times,” he admitted, licking at the flowers on her thigh, “but I pushed those thoughts aside because you were my best friend, I was supposed to take care of you, and you were still underage. But I should have done it. I should have waited and then do it, take you, make you mine from the very beginning.”

She wanted to tell him that she’d been his from the beginning. Sex had nothing to do with it. She’d belonged to him the moment he offered to let her ride his bicycle, showing her a kind of selfless love and care that she’d never been given before.

But she was unable to form words at that moment.

“Hmm…” he nibbled at her hipbones making her squirm and moan his name. “Yes, baby? What do you want?” He was teasing her and she knew it. His voice—the tone he was using, was dangerous and addictive.

“You,” she breathed.

“Me? Which part of me?” The question reached her as his fingers sketched slow, maddening shapes along her inner thigh, so, so close to her center.

“My mouth, my fingers, or my cock?”

As if to emphasize his question, Noah licked her from hipbone to breast at the same time that his thumb brushed over her clit and his cock grinded against her thigh.

A whimper was her response. Noah had to contain a devilish growl.

“I fucking love the sounds you make when I touch you.”

“Fingers,” she said, her chest rising and falling fast, “then mouth, on my clit.”

Noah raised his eyebrows even though she couldn’t see. He felt amused and turned on.

“A bit demanding, don’t you think?”

She ignored him.

“And when you’re done making me come… your cock.”

He let out a low, appreciative laugh.

“Such a greedy girl,” his fingers dragged up the inside of her thigh, “wanting me to make her come not once, but twice.”

But even then, he wanted nothing more than to please her. Give her everything. And he also had to admit he liked it when she was demanding, like the time she’d been riding him and, when he’d tried to sit up, she’d pushed him down and told him not to move. She’d ridden him so sensually, with such a tilt and wriggle of her hips, her teeth scraping her lower lip and her eyes on him, with that soft hair cascading around her, that even though he’d propped a pillow behind his head to get comfortable and enjoy the show, he came a couple of minutes later.

He pushed two fingers inside of her, stretching her so deliciously. As he started to pump them in and out, curving them just right, and her mouth fell open in a silent moan, he latched his lips around her nipple, and flicked at it with his tongue for a while, working her up cruelly slow, making her arch, gasp and moan while the ropes held her still and every sensation was made sharper and more overwhelming, until he couldn’t hold his own need to taste her anymore and he slid of the bed, getting on his knees and using fingers and mouth on her pussy, eyeing her every chance he got to devour the sight of her bound and trembling.

His fingers stayed inside her, slow and steady, as his tongue found her clit. The first touch made her hips jerk, a soft cry escaping her lips. He flicked, then flattened his tongue, then circled it around her, learning her all over again. He read every twitch, every sound, and worked to build her toward the edge.

The taste of her, the sound of her falling apart under his mouth…

But it was more than the physicality of it all. It always was more.

Having her like that, knowing she wanted to be—helpless and surrendered, trusting him entirely—thrilled him. The way she moaned his name, breathless and desperate, asking for more more more; the way her hips arched off the bed and into his face, writhing, almost trying to ride his mouth… It was filthy.

God, it was perfect.

His lips and chin were slick with her. Her taste mixed with his saliva as it ran down his jaw and wet her thighs.

Jesus, he was going to come.

And then, out of nowhere, he pictured Lia, wide-eyed and teary, looking down at the diamond ring he was offering in his hand, saying yes.

A wave of pleasure surged through him, too fast to stop. Even though he clenched his jaw and tried to hold back, he felt some of his release, dampening the front of his boxers.

Fuck. What am I? A teenager?

He pulled away, his breath uneven, slipping his fingers from inside her. Lia’s thighs were trembling.

He’d been two seconds away from asking her if she would marry him, not as in proposing, but a straight-forward question uttered with his head between his legs because he now realized he wanted her as his wife desperately. And more than that, he wanted to be her husband.

But that wasn’t the time. He’d brought her to bed to quiet the storm in her head, not restart it with something else; not to send her spiraling back to the anxiety she’d been wrapped in only half an hour ago.

So, instead, he rose to his feet, ran both hands through his hair to shove it out of his face, and wiped his mouth with the back of one wrist, catching the glimmer of her wetness still on his skin.

“Why did you stop? I was so close.”

“Give me a sec. Fucking hell. I nearly came in my boxers.”

Lia would’ve laughed hadn’t she been so desperate for an orgasm. She still couldn’t grasp her head around the fact that she did this to Noah, that she turned him into such a mess.

He stripped his boxers off, finally baring himself. Then crawled back onto the bed, covering her body with his.

“I’m going to fuck you now, baby” he said against her lips, kissing her after, slow and deep and pressing his tongue against hers.

Lia chased his mouth when he pulled back, desperate for more, more of the taste of herself on his tongue, more of him, of anything she could hold onto.

“Though I don’t know how long I’ll last,” he confessed, breath catching as his hips pressed closer. “You make me feel like a goddamn fifteen-year-old every time.”

“I don’t care,” she said, voice sweet despite her need, her hips lifting to meet his. “You always fuck me so good.”

That tone, those words… She was exactly where he wanted her: in that soft, needy, mindless headspace. He grinned, despite the ache pulsing through his cock, the head already rubbing against the inside of her thigh.

“Is that right?”, he drawled, teasing himself along her slick folds. “I always fuck you good?”

“So good,” she gasped, pulling at the ropes keeping her wrists tied at the headboard. Her hips kept lifting for more friction, trying to pull him in. His chest pressed against her breasts, and he felt the cool kiss of her piercing like a flick of ice.

“Maybe it’s cause you’re such a good girl,” he said, voice a gravelly hum, “and good girls,” he took hold of his cock and got it in position, pushing only one inch in, “deserve to be fucked so, so good.”

As another inch found her, he stilled and lifted one hand to cradle her cheek. His thumb brushed her lips, then slid between them until her teeth caught it gently, the way he liked.

And then he was fully inside her, his moan of pleasure filling the room. There was a shared breath of bliss. Lia’s hips ached at the stretch of Noah’s body getting comfortable on top of her, and so did her insides. She bit down harder on his thumb as her body shifted under the weight of his. The feel of his full body was nearly as delicious as the feel of his hard cock inside of her. The sensation of being filled and pinned and possessed unrivalled.

He felt so good; so hot, so thick, pulsing deep inside her. She felt claimed in the best possible way.

Noah missed her touch. Even though he had her underneath—wrapped around him—and she was at his mercy, he had to admit he missed the feel of her arms around him, or the way she would wrap her legs around his waist and dig her heels into his butt whenever they were in missionary position.

But most of all, he missed looking into her big, beautiful eyes when he was buried inside her.

He pulled out and pushed back in slowly, watching the way a small breath escaped her lips. He slid his thumb from between her teeth and moved his hand upward, pushing the blindfold back onto her forehead. Lia blinked against the light, her eyes finding his a second later.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi,” she smiled.

“I was missing those eyes,” he told her, his movements very, very slow. Barely there. One hand on her hip, the other brushing her cheekbone with his knuckles. “Look at me while I fuck you, yeah?”

She nodded, and as soon as she did, she corrected herself, whispering a sweet “yes, Noah”. She didn’t want to look anywhere else, because nowhere else—no one else—would ever make her feel so adored and so loved, just by the way they looked at her.

When a minute passed and he was still just looking into the ocean of her eyes barely moving, only pulsing inside of her, Lia was about to start pleading for him to move, to rub her clit, to thrust, to do something—anything.

A sound shattered the moment. Her phone started ringing and vibrating loudly on the nightstand, pulling both their attention toward it.

— previous chapter | chapter twenty one 🌶️

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#noah x lia #the inevitability of love at second sight #noah sebastian x ofc #noah sebastian fanfiction #bad omens fanfiction #zutto #noah sebastian fic #bad omens cult

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mwuaferrari · 2 months ago

Text

ROOM 308 ୨ৎ chapter 3

lando norris x reader; franco colapinto x reader

sum: because sometimes, being almost his hurts more than not being his at all.

warnings/notes: toxic relationships; lando being a fuckboy; fwb; smut (in the next chapters); english is not my native language. italics: conversations in spanish. JUST A FEW MORE CHAPTERS AND FRANCO APPEARS, I PROMISE.

(prev | next)

taglist: @htpssgavi @/madkohi i can’t tag you 😭

────୨ৎ────

You and your friends decided to stay a few more days in Australia to explore and see the city. Lando was supposed to fly back to Monaco, but he didn’t. Instead, he told Carlos, “It might be nice to stay here a few more days, can I join you guys?”.

You didn’t know if he was doing it to torture you or because he genuinely wanted to spend more time in the city.

It had been two days and, luckily, you hadn’t been left alone with him at any point.

Until now.

It was 7PM and you had gone out to buy a few things and take a walk alone through the city. As you returned and waited for the elevator with a water bottle in hand and exhaustion in your shoulders, the doors opened… and he was inside. Alone.

—Hey —he said, his voice lower than usual, like he knew you’d run if he was too direct.

—Hey.

You stepped in. You had no excuse not to.

The elevator began to rise. Silence.

—Had enough space yet? —he asked suddenly, without looking at you.

You glanced at him sideways

—No, I don’t know. It’s only been two days…

He nodded, a soft smile that felt more like resignation than anything else. The elevator arrived at your floor, you stepped out, and he followed you. You knew he would.

The hallway was quiet, lit by that dim hotel lighting that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.

You walked slowly, side by side. Not touching. Not talking. But the tension lingered in the air, dense, inevitable.

When you reached your door, you slid the keycard into the lock, waited for the green “click.” You hesitated, and turned toward him.

—Lando…

He was already looking at you and said what he needed to say.

—I don’t want you to think I’m playing with you. Or that this is just a whim.

—I don’t think that. It’s just that, what happened last night, it was… confusing to me.

—Confusing because you don’t want to like it? Or confusing because you liked it more than you thought?

—Because I don’t know if it’s worth it —you answered honestly.

—I’m going to be completely honest with you— He paused, as if searching for the exact words —I liked how you made me feel. I didn’t expect my night to end that way, with you. But it did. And honestly, I don’t regret it.

You stayed quiet, watching him. His eyes didn’t waver from yours. He wasn’t joking, he wasn’t playing. He was there, completely exposed.

—I had to say it —he added, lowering his voice slightly—. Because since that night, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I feel comfortable with you, I think we have good chemistry, and we laugh a lot together too.

—I feel comfortable with you too.

He sighed, like he was about to say something difficult.

—Look… A relationship is something that takes time. Energy. Presence. And I... I can’t promise that to anyone. My job comes first. It’s always been that way.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Not because of coldness, but because of what his words implied.

—But we can be friends —he added— Real friends. And if it ever happened again... if a night like that repeated itself... I wouldn’t lie. I’d do it again. Because I liked it. I like you. I just... I can’t give you more than that.

Was he asking you to be some kind of friends with benefits or something? To stay friends and “if a night like that happened again, I’d do it again.” That’s basically what he was asking, wasn’t it?

It hurt a little, though it didn’t surprise you. You knew who he was. You knew how he lived.

—Just… let me think about it.

You lifted your gaze. You were shorter than him, almost by a head, so you had to lift your neck to meet his eyes, and you hadn’t realized how close you were. You could feel his breath brushing against yours. “Tell me to stop and I will,” you heard him say.

If he got any closer, you didn’t know if you’d have the strength to pull away. And you didn’t.

Lando leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The bottle in your hand fell to the floor. The kiss was slow, warm, without urgency. Different from that night. This wasn’t euphoria, or drunkenness, or rushed desire.

Maybe you should’ve pulled away, but you didn’t want to. Maybe your mind wanted to (it didn’t really), but your body didn’t.

You slowly pulled apart, and almost without realizing it, you brought your hand to your lips.

—Good night —he whispered.

—Good night.

And he left.

You stayed there for a moment, leaning against the closed door, your heart racing like the start of a race.

y/n's close friends stories

lilymhe replied: bitch what

↳ y/n: no comments

↳ lilymhe: what did you do now?

↳ y/n: read.

────୨ৎ────

The next morning, the sun was streaming strongly through the hotel curtains, and you had barely slept. You took a long, cold shower, hoping the water would wash away the thoughts from the night before. It didn’t work.

The group had agreed to meet on the hotel terrace to have breakfast together before heading out to explore the city. You went down a few minutes late, thinking that arriving a little afterward would give you the perfect excuse not to have to greet everyone at the same time. Especially him.

The terrace was lively, full of plates, laughter, and the constant clinking of coffee cups as everyone tried to wake up. The sky was clear, the sea could be seen in the distance, and there was a warm breeze—one of those that make you want to stay without thinking too much.

—Hey! Finally, sleepyhead —said Manu as he pulled out a chair for you to sit next to your sister Helena.

—I stayed up late watching TikTok videos —you lied with a smile as you sat down.

The moment you settled in, you felt it. That invisible pressure, that warmth on your neck. You lifted your gaze discreetly, pretending to be interested in the toast, and there he was: Lando, across from you, two seats down, holding a cup of coffee in his hands. His still-wet hair fell slightly over his forehead, and he had that look of someone who hasn’t said a word all day. He was in silent mode... but not for you.

His eyes met yours for a few seconds that felt much longer. He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away either. As if he were waiting for something.

—Are you okay? —Helena asked quietly while moving a muffin onto her plate—. You seem... spaced out.

—Yeah. Jet lag, I think.

Lie number two of the day.

You tried to focus on breakfast. On the avocado toast. On the orange juice. On the fact that you were in Australia with your friends, on an incredible rooftop, and the sky was so blue it hurt to look at. But he was there. And the memory of his lips on yours, of the way he looked at you afterward, was still present like a scene your mind refused to stop replaying.

—We could go to the aquarium today —suggested Manu, interrupting your thoughts—. It's about twenty minutes away, and then we can stop by the pier. There’s a Korean food spot I heard is amazing.

—Yeah, I’m down —said Carlos—. Everyone in?

The “sí” echoed one by one. Including the soft, almost inaudible “yes” from Lando. But it was clear. Almost like he wasn’t talking to the group, but to you. Like he was saying yes, I’m going too.

After a few minutes, the table returned to its usual chaos: jokes, photo plans, debates about what to wear, and arguments over who took longer in the bathroom. But you had already checked out mentally. You were eating on autopilot. Every now and then, you looked at him without meaning to. And the worst part… was that he did it too. He watched you as if everyone else around was just background noise.

When you finished breakfast, you got up to go finish getting ready before heading out. You didn’t know whether to get up quickly or slowly. You were hesitating over something as silly as whether to walk near him or not. But when you turned around… he was getting up too.

You ended up face to face.

—Did you sleep well? —he asked, with that quieter-than-usual voice, no smile.

—Not really.

—Me neither.

Silence. Just that. And a glint in his eyes. As if he had said more than it seemed.

And he walked away. Without waiting for a response.

y/n's ig stories

────୨ৎ────

The entrance to the aquarium was impressive, with a glass structure that reflected the sky and huge posters of sharks and glowing jellyfish. Your friends were buying the tickets while you took a picture with Helena in front of the sign.

—Finally, something touristy —said Manu—, I feel like we’ve spent days just eating and sleeping.

—Speak for yourself —Lando replied from behind, and your stomach tightened just from hearing him.

You entered together. The place was full of kids running around, blue lights, and that strange smell between sea and air conditioning. The tour was long, with underwater tunnels, giant tanks, and immersive sounds that made it feel like you were all under the sea.

—Did you see that? —Lando asked suddenly beside you, pointing at a pufferfish that inflated like a magic trick.

—It’s nervous. Like me when I have to speak in public.

He laughed softly, a brief, genuine laugh.

—You seem really calm —he said.

—Sometimes I seem that way. Doesn’t mean I actually am.

—And now?

He looked at you. That kind of look that can’t be disguised. The kind that cuts through.

—Now… I’m not that calm.

He nodded slowly, as if he understood without needing words. And then, without warning, his hand brushed against yours. Just for a second. Just a gesture. But you felt it everywhere. He didn’t hold your hand. Didn’t grip it. Just… brushed it. And that was enough.

He didn’t say anything at first.

—You okay?

—Yeah.

Silence again. A silence that was starting to feel like his way of speaking to you. Until…

—I’m not going to pressure you. But I want you to know it wasn’t just one night for me. And I know I said I couldn’t promise anything serious… but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.

You looked at him. Really looked at him, with everything you were feeling in that moment: confusion, attraction, fear, desire.

—I don’t know anymore if it’s better to have you close… or far away.

—Me neither —he admitted.

#lando norris x reader #lando norris fic #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x you #lando norris x franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x y/n #franco colapinto x you

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landograndprix · 2 years ago

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where your heart truly lies ✾ l.n - vii

❧ in which you and lando are not together, right?

❧ if it wasn't clear yet, these two are my babies // to clarify, Satan is lando's 'gf' in your bffs phone :')

❧ prev part – next part

yourbestfrienduser

liked by y/nusername, maxfewtrell and 21,872 others

yourbestfrienduser fifth wheeling at it's finest today 🧜🏻‍♀️

tagged: y/nusername, maxfewtrell, landonorris

view all 290 comments

fewtrelllando fifth wheeling? Max has a gf?

yourbestfrienduser yeah..

fewtrelllando disgusting

yourbestfrienduser you tell 'em bestie 😔

landoscar fifth wheeling is implying that y/n and lando are in fact dating right...RIGHT?

dandoo yes but we're not going to talk about that 🥰

landoscar what do you know bestie?

landonorris that last picture is disgusting

norrys4 someone sounds a bit jealous 💀

lanlan don't worry, you'll find someone too yourbestfriendname 😔

maxmaxmax ur not third wheeling, ur their kid 🥰

☆☆☆☆☆

y/nusername posted on their story

☆☆☆☆☆

y/nusername

liked by riabish, landonorris and 23,768 others

y/nusername big things been brewing 📸

view all 331 comments

fabyn whatever it is, I'm excited!

y/nlandooo can't wait to see what you've been up too ☺

yourbestfrienduser proud of you ❤️

y/nusername ❤️

fewtrelllando aw supportive best friend 🥰

mcbull wait so she actually works??

sharl16 wtf did you think she was doing? She's influencing and modeling her ass off

mcbull these driver girlfriends lowkey all look like golddiggers lmfao

sharl16 y/n's not even anyone's girlfriend..

landonorris ❤️

☆☆☆☆☆

Taglist: @honethatty12 @alilstressyandlotdepressy @spideyspeaches @babyvinnie @summerslike11 @waratah-vroom @beatricemiruna @thecubanator2 @lunamelona @leclercdream @pedrileclerc @chelseagirl98 @azxulaa @mxsonxmountx @fleetastic @mycenterfold @oliviamarner @18754389 @scuderiahm @saschaa-ff @oscarissacsslut @fluffyspaceprincess @emely-b @chaosamu @livster @dangeroustacoalienbiscuit @celestialams @gentlemonsterjennie1 @fangirl-madz @v1naco @jayda12 @aundercover @maliamoon0219 @blacpiink

if your name is crossed out, it means I couldn't tag you!

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x you #lando norris au #lando norris smaus #lando norris fanfic #lando norris smau #lando norris imagine #lando x readwr #ln4

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knightjpg · 5 months ago

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landslide | chapter 4

chapter tags: alcohol mention, reader has a toxic boyfriend, implied cheating on reader by said boyfriend

prev | next

You dream of the ocean.

Blue against blue, hot dry sand between your toes. The aftermath of salt under your tongue. You're swimming. You look, feet kicking, hands paddling, but there's no shore to break your line of sight. The horizon stretches until it fades, a blurry blue line as vast as the world.

You don't feel afraid. You're just tired. Your arms and legs feel so heavy, and the water feels heavy, too. Waves are coming faster, weightier; you dip below and break through the surface—

until you're pulled under.

Buried alive under big heaving wells, swallowed down by surface gravity. You claw against the water, desperate, fighting for air—

and cough yourself awake. Your chest hurts, tight with the remnants of your nightmare, and for a split second you feel panic when a weight presses on you; but it's just Kettlebell who curled up on top of you somewhere during the night.

Upon feeling your hand in his fur his head lifts, big dark eyes blinking hello. Then he yawns and hops off you. Now that you're awake his job is done, and he can go annoy Mim in peace.

When you swing your legs over your bed you groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. Your temple throbs, occasional pinpricks of pain shooting like stars over your eyes.

Last night comes back to you slowly.

The bar, the too-many drinks, no sight of Dave. The kind stranger who listened to your blubbering about your boyfriend.

Hot shame rushes through you now that you recall your words in the wondrous, headache-inducing light of sobriety. God. You totally unloaded on a guy you'd never met before and then he...

He called you a cab, didn't he? And made sure you were sent home.

You bury your head in your hands and mouth the words what on earth is wrong with me.

The mortification is enough to eat you alive. You vow you'll never let it get that far again—with alcohol or waiting for Dave that long. Speaking of which...

You raise your head and grab for your phone. Predictably there's an apologetic text from Dave waiting for you:

01:24 Srry missed your calls, smthing came up with a friend x

You stare at the screen for a long moment.

Slowly, like your fingers haven't quite made up their mind yet about replying, you type out an answer.

08:50 I waited a long time for you.

You chew your lip as you send it, feeling anxious and small. When Kettlebell returns to the bed to let you know his and Mim's food bowls are still offensively empty, you shake yourself out of it and go through the motions of your morning routine.

Before you hop in the shower, however, you can't resist another peek:

09:22 Make it up to you?

You exhale.

See? He doesn't say it explicitly, but he's sorry. He'll make it up to you. He cares about you.

Life happens, things get in the way. You have to believe that. What is a relationship if you can't trust your partner?

What is a relationship if not the feeling of throwing yourself off the tightrope and waiting for the other to catch you mid-fall?

“Wear the sluttiest one you have,” Liv says. Her voice crackles on speakerphone; her face is out of frame on the video call, bending down to apply her eyeliner.

You laugh. “The sluttiest—? God, I don't know if I even have anything like that.”

You sift through your clothes again, slowly, pulling out one or two things that might make the cut. It's been a while since you've gone out with just friends, just for fun, just for yourself.

Without Dave.

He hasn't made good on his promise to make it up to you yet—says that with his holiday coming up he's extra busy, has to make sure things don't fall apart once he leaves.

The reminder of the stupid Bora-Bora trip with his stupid marketing colleague has been enough to leave you on edge.

And while you don't think Liv and you will ever become best friends she's been kind. When you texted her in a fit of tears about Dave flaking on you again you expected excuses for his sake—

You're so lucky!

—but instead she called him a cunt and said you should join her and some others to go dancing. Shake your ass and make him regret on losing out on time with you, she'd said, and even though it's not your thing you agreed.

If only to feel like you could.

“Wait, what's that one? The black one?” Liv peers into the camera. One eye is perfectly made up, smoky dark eyeshadow contouring an arched, pencilled-in brow.

“This one?” You pull the dress off its hanger and hold it up for the camera to see.

It was an impulse buy. On sale. The fabric felt soft and stretchy, and even though you could see your panties in the changing booth mirror when you bent down you loved the look of it too much to leave it.

You'd just started dating Dave. You remember you were still feeling giddy and excited with that nervous kind of confidence that made you blush and smile and think maybe I'll wear it for him one time.

It's been gathering dust in the back of your closet ever since.

“Yesss,” Liv says. “That's what I'm talking about.”

When she goes back to her make-up table you hold the dress up in front of the mirror.

It doesn't feel like you.

It feels like the person you once really wished you were, and even that wishful optimism is no longer part of your repertoire.

You turn around. “Hey, do you think—”

Your phone buzzes, covering Liv's face with a popup that says in big white letters incoming call!

You grab it quickly, throwing your dress on the bed. “Hang on, someone's calling—”

With one swipe Liv disappears, and you hold the phone to hold to your ear. Unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Simon.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” you smile, and shake the massive hand held out to you. Simon runs warm; his grip is firm and brief. “I, um. I heard about your mother passing. From Beth. I'm so sorry.”

He averts his eyes for a moment. They're a lovely warm shade of brown, starkly contrasted against his pale skin and blond lashes. Up close you see shadows of nicks and scars. Souvenirs from his work.

“Thanks.”

He hardly says another word all evening. At times it feels more like he's watching over rather than participating in your little party of friends gathered at Tommy and Beth's apartment; a hulking shadow brooding in the corner, shying away from the inner circle of light and laughter.

It'd be easy to forget he was there, but you don't.

You're a little fascinated by him. If Beth is like your sister, what does that make him? Family by-proxy-by-proxy. You've heard enough about him to decide he's got a good heart underneath his withdrawn demeanour, and it makes you eager to forgive what others might see as rudeness.

You sneak looks all throughout the get-together, in between board games and salty snacks and bad jokes. Try to map his heavy brow, his serious gaze, the scar running over his chin that mirrors the one Tommy has on the back of his neck.

After the first few times you chalk it up to coincidence. But when you look again, again—those brown eyes meet yours. It confirms:

Simon's been looking at you, too.

“I don't understand,” you say.

You're not convinced this isn't a prank call. No, worse—a scam. Even when “John” reads out Joseph's place, date, and time of birth—even when he could tell you Beth's middle name or Tommy's last place of work.

There's just no way.

“Just... after eight years? Isn't that a crazy long time...?”

A begrudging pause. “I can't tell you everything, sweetheart. Confidential. You understand.”

You try to. Simon left you something, John said. Wouldn't say what. Couldn't say how. But it's for you, if you want it, just making sure—

Of course you want it, you tell him. You have a P.O. box, he can send it anytime—

“It was requested you receive it in person,” John says. “On base.” Paper is shuffled and shifted in the background. Faintly you hear a door open and close. “There's one not too far from your address.”

“John” gives you the directions, and a quick google shows that he's not lying; there really is a base close by, and it fits John's description.

“Okay. Um... Do I need to bring anything?”

“Your ID should do.” John clears his throat. “I'll have one of mine handle it. Mention my name—John, Captain Price, whatever you like—and they'll sort you out.”

“Alright. Thank you...”

You end the call feeling dazed. Tonight was supposed to be for letting go of everything, for living in the now, in the moment—and suddenly the past comes knocking at your door.

The anxiety returns like a wave crashing on your shore.

You should be over this by now. It's been so many years. You've cycled through all of grief's vicious stages, and the sadness and loss has dulled to the point you don't think of it anymore every day. And even then—it was Beth who was your best friend, Beth who you cried for the hardest. Not Simon. Simon was��

(family by-proxy-by-proxy)

—special.

But him leaving you something behind shouldn't be enough to derail the peace you've clawed out for yourself.

Right?

You tell Liv it was a family thing when she asks, but she's concerned, says you look pale; “Are you sure you're up for going, babe?”

You open your mouth to say yes.

Before you can, though, a notification pops up. It's Dave. You told him you were going out earlier today and received no response—more and more often these days, you remember thinking—and shrugged. Put it out of your mind.

You open the text.

Oh I was thinking we do chinese tonight and a movie marathon

You bite your lip, hard. Text back, Sorry, maybe some other time?

He's not usually one to respond so quickly, but the three dots pop up before you're even done typing.

We can go out together sometime

Just call and cancel

I'll get your fav <3

—you crumble.

It's pathetic, but right now all you want is someone's arms to bury yourself into and to cry on a familiar shoulder. To not be alone in a crowd of strangers with girls that you don't know very well.

You take a shuddering breath and try for your best apologetic smile. “Liv? Sorry. Um—I think the family call thing got me a little harder than I thought.”

How do you explain what Simon was to you? What Beth and her family were to you?

“I'm really sorry for flaking on you suddenly, but is it okay if I go with you next time?”

“Of course, babe,” Liv rushes to assure you. “Take it easy, okay? You really don't look so good. We can go out dancing anytime—I'll add you to the groupchat.”

“Thanks. Have fun,” you tell her, and she says she will before the screen goes dark.

With trembling hands, you press the call button.

“Um, sorry. Am I in the way?”

“Not at all.” The guy before you flashes you an easy smile. “Want one too?”

You nod yes, and watch him pour you your drink. He has nice hands; slender, nails neatly trimmed, a plain watch around his wrist.

“I'm Dave,” he says as he hands you your drink. You accept with a smile and offer your own name, and go through the usual so what do you do for work, who do you know here, did you come with a friend, what food did you bring to the potluck?

“Er,” he says a little sheepishly, “just drinks, I'm afraid. I can't cook to save my life.”

“It's not so hard once you get started. They've got these food delivery boxes now, where you just get everything you need for a meal.”

“Ah, I want to, but. You know.” Dave gestures with his hand. “Work keeps me so busy when I get home all I want to do is pass out.”

You give him a sympathetic smile. You know that feeling too, all too well. “So that's why you're here, huh?” you joke. “To eat your fill and then leave before the cleanup?”

Dave winks. “Oops. Saw right through me.”

In the end Dave does stay for cleanup, though you suspect he only does so because he wants to talk to you after and ask for your number.

You're a little surprised at yourself for giving it.

It doesn't have to mean anything, you tell yourself later on the way home. It can just be practice. Getting back into the dating scene after disappearing from it for a few years.

Worst case you try a one-liner on him and he ghosts you.

Part of you hopes he doesn't, though. You enjoyed talking to Dave. He seemed nice. Normal.

Uncomplicated.

Beth would want that for you, too, you decide when you close the door behind you. A nice normal bloke you can live a nice normal life with. You can't hide yourself away forever; the excuse of work keeping you too busy to socialise is wearing thin.

Who knows? You smile to yourself as you drift off.

Maybe this could be the start of something really good.

Dave leaves early in the morning when you're still half-asleep in bed. You don't remember getting there last night; he must've carried you over after you fell asleep on the sofa.

You wrinkle your nose at the empty plastic containers littering the low table in the living room. It's messier than you remember it; Dave even forgot his jacket, still thrown over the back of the sofa. You pick it up and dust it off—

...?

You frown and lean in, sniffing the jacket.

Traces of something sweet and fruity still cling to the fabric.

You stand there, in the still morning light spilling through the windows, holding the jacket and staring at it. You're overreacting. You're reading into it. You're so sensitive. Jumping to conclusions.

Dave doesn't usually wear scent, does he?

crazy bitch, possessive cunt, stupid whore—

...But maybe he's started to. You'll... you'll ask him about it. That should be okay, right? You'll ask him, and then he'll say oh, yeah, just trying out this new thing.

And the world will be right again.

Tears prick at your eyes and you blink them away, carefully hanging Dave's jacket onto the hanger in the hallway. You avert your eyes as soon as possible.

You don't want to think about it.

If you do, you'll just make yourself go crazy. Talk yourself into doing something stupid, like calling him and then blubbering accusations at him like a lunatic.

You breathe out. No. This is your free day, and you're not going to spend in moping inside. You scoop up Mim, who's come out of his hiding place, and kiss his little head while he purrs in your arms.

You're going to feed your cats, feed yourself, and then...

Then you'll go to that military base. Get it over with. It'll get you out of the house, out of your head, make you think about something else than Dave wearing a woman's scent.

Even if that something else is the dead brother-in-law of your equally dead best friend.

#cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon ghost riley x reader #x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x y/n #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader

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b33zlebubz · 3 months ago

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RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER TWELVE

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | 18+ MDNI | MASTERLIST | AO3 PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, fluff angst & eventual smut, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment, flashbacks, implied past SA “Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 21ST, 2016 NORWAY, 2000 HOURS

The three days after are what Simon considers to be the most peaceful of his life.

It’s snowing hard. The wind whips across the rolling hills and blistered trees in a relentless storm that has been tormenting the base since that night you visited, and doesn’t seem to be showing any signs of letting up any time soon. Snow plasters the windows in a thick blanket of white, concealing the outside and trapping soldiers to their barracks. Simon swears the flickering of the lights above his head is becoming more frequent as the days come and go. The storm is enough of a hazard that all training has come to an abrupt halt and just the simple act of leaving buildings is declared insubordinate risk without reason.

Of course, that never stops you.

Simon thinks you’re like a dog. No matter how he chastises you, you just can’t help but attach yourself to his side. He still doesn’t understand why you’re so drawn to him—he just did what anyone should have done for you, after all—but he finds it impossible to stay mad when your smile greets him from under the hood of your parka every time, he opens his door. Your knock becomes a regular part of his routine no matter how much he tries to force himself to be annoyed at you for sneaking out into the snow and the wind; prancing inside, shedding your coat, and plopping yourself in his chair like you owned the place. It breaks up the day, pulls him from his thoughts for a few hours.

He finds, for once, he doesn’t mind the company.

For the first night you’re visiting his barracks, it's relatively quiet. You’ve got a book with you, and you seem content just to sit in the chair across from him with your legs propped up on the table while he works on paperwork. Ghost watches you passively; how small you seem to get, curled up with your legs pressed against the table. The way you bite the inside of your cheek when you focus, much like you do with a gun. He catches you staring, sometimes, and the second you look up to catch his gaze is the second the questions start.

“Do you sleep with that thing on?” Your voice is quiet. Like you’re scared of someone else hearing. It’s the first time you’ve ever acknowledged his mask.

He gives you the answer he always gives people. “Soundly.”

“What’s under it, anyway? Scars?”

“Negative.”

“Hm,” you hum, shutting the book. “Got something to hide, then?”

He smiles lazily under his mask, teasing. “Can’t go distracting the whole base.”

You only roll your eyes.

More questions are asked, after that. Some range from as simple as what's your favorite color to what do your tattoos mean? He answers them all. Vaguely, of course, but he can’t find it in himself to lie, and he doubts he’s talked for such a long time since therapy stopped being mandatory. You don’t press for answers when he deflects questions, and he appreciates it.

You tell him about yourself, too, about the places you’ve been and the people you’ve worked with—relating when you can even if he doesn’t offer much. After day two of your visits, he’s exhausted his paperwork and you’ve finished your book, leaving an ancient deck of uno cards and a full ashtray to take the place of pens and paper.

"You think we're all here for a reason?"

The third day, Wednesday, is when you pop that question. The one that makes him chew at the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the selection of cards in his grasp, deciding on a red four to place atop your green one. The wind whistles against the window and power has gone out; leaving the lantern on the table the only light source in the room. It's warm glow casts long shadows across the ceiling, dancing with the movement of cards and hands.

"You answer first," Simon replies, more curious about your opinion.

You sit back in your seat and the wood creaks as you lean back on it, throwing a shoulder over the side. Ghost notes that you're getting stronger; muscle thickening under the fabric of your black compression shirt, squaring your shoulders and curving at your forearms. Your palms are blistered under the wraps Simon had helped you with upon arriving, evidence of how hard you’ve been pushing yourself with training.

You look less tired these days. Brighter. Glowing.

Stars flicker in your eyes as you appear thoughtful for a moment before deciding on your answer. These ones are different, though—the recollection of memories.

"No," you say, placing down a red skip before shifting through your small deck for another card. "If they did, good things would always come out of something bad."

He hums, "you sound like you've got a story, there."

The lantern light flickers across your downcast gaze as you decide which card to play. Simon finds himself wondering what you're thinking about; what memories reel across that busy mind of yours. What kind of life you've lived that might impact your answer. What your family is like. What leads someone like you—passionate, quiet, smart—to the military.

"Yemen wasn't a good time," you say, not looking up at him as you flicker through your rather large number of cards. "Lost a lot of good people on both sides in a firefight that could have easily been avoided. Had to retreat, never went back, none of us got nothing from it but medical leave and more bad memories to the pile."

You eventually decide on a red seven, placing it atop the small pile on the table.

"There was no balance that day," you say. "There was no good from the bad. Just blood and abandonment."

Simon bites his cheek at your reasoning, listening intently and filing that information back into his brain. He figures maybe your tour in Yemen might be a massive part what did it, what made you so nihilistic and negative. Roger’s assault was just the nail in the coffin. He wonders what happened specifically, what happened in that country that generated such a massive blow to your ego and worldview but, as always, he doesn't ask. Doesn’t push.

He looks back to his own cards, a gloved hand tapping against the material as he tries—and fails—to strategize. Of all the card games you might have brought, he suspected an old uno deck the least.

He places his two green sevens on the deck as he finally decides on his own answer.

"I do."

That seems to pique your interest, "you do?"

"Think broader," he says. "You're thinking immediate retaliation for something bad, but what if the good comes later on? A bunch o'bad experiences slowly, coming together to get you one good thing? Peacetimes after a bloody war, warmth after a long cold—"

You place down a yellow seven and he immediately places down his second-to-last card.

"---Life after death."

You nod, slowly, as you sit on his answer for a moment. Simon knows what he looks like, how he appears to people—and he knows people expect him to be insane, vicious, especially not superstitious or empathetic in any way. He's grown to find amusement in throwing people off, with his appearance or otherwise, and you're no exception.

Your brows lower and you seem to consider something for a second, something in your gaze conflicted and maybe…sad? It's gone before Simon can quite pinpoint it because then you just snort and shake your head, smirking.

"Didn't peg you as the optimistic type," you tease, confirming his suspicions. "I guess you would know best, though, wouldn't you?"

He smiles back at you. "More than you know, Sergeant.”

The wind rattles the window and the lantern flickers to his right, batteries about to die after hours of continuous use.

"You forgot to say uno," your comment as you drop your cards on the table with a slap. "I win."

"Finally," he replies, exasperated. "We can play a proper card game."

You huff in offense, pushing yourself up. "Uno is a real card game. You're just mad you lost."

“It's a kids game, love."

"What qualifies as an adult's game, then?"

Simon sits back in his seat with a sigh. "Texas hold 'em, blackjack, rummy…any game with actual cards, really."

"With all due respect, Lieutenant," you reach into the drawer he keeps his stash of batteries in, squinting in the dark as you rummage around to find more. "I wouldn't have joined the military if I was good at math."

He huffs at that, shaking his head and crossing his arms.

"Don't need to be good at math, just gotta know what you're doing—like I said earlier."

You don't immediately retort, leaving the sound of the wind outside to fill the silence. Confused, Simon looks over at you again and watches you hesitate, batteries in hand—your attention snatched away by something else in the drawer. He pushes himself to his feet and pads over slowly, curious. He lays a hand on your shoulder and you startle slightly; holding a tattered, ripped picture of Tommy and Beth in your hands.

Simon freezes, and his blood runs cold in his veins.

"Is this…" Your finger shifts slowly towards the male face in the photo as you ask slowly: "Is this you?"

He blinks. Once, twice, three times. Then, he reaches out and takes the picture from your grasp. It’s an old one. He figures it must have slipped out from where he keeps the rest; in a box off to the side of the drawer. The tape is dirty and old in some places, leaving the pieces of the ripped picture slowly falling apart.

It's an easy mistake to make, really. Simon's hair has lightened over the years, not entirely matching the bright blond of his brother but close enough. The eyes are different, the scars are missing, and Tommy’s nose is straighter, smaller. But, yes, with what little you've seen of Simon's face—he can see how you might draw that conclusion.

Simon doesn't answer. He can't answer. His mouth doesn't move and his voice is stuck in his throat. His eyes are fixed on the small family pictured in your hands and it looks fake, far away. Familiar, but not his. A crossover between a world he left behind and the new one, with you and Camp Viking, that leaves his mind reeling and his heart in his throat.

A world with Simon's kid brother. Not Ghost's.

He figures a part of him wants to explain. Wants to trust you with his story just as you have with him. He wants to trust someone as easily as you have, to lean on your shoulder, to let himself be soft—for once.

Instead of any of that, though, his voice is clipped whenever he finally speaks: “you should go.”

Your shoulders drop, “Simon—”

“Now, Sergeant.”

You flinch, startled. Simon doesn’t look up to see the hurt in your eyes as he turns to toss the picture back in its drawer. Shutting the memory away again.

"Right," you mutter, clearing your throat and looking up at the frozen clock on his wall. "It's late."

Simon thinks he should say something. No, he definitely should—but he can't find the words. The explanation. He doesn't think Tommy's name has left his mouth in years.

"Yeah. It is.”

You avert your gaze to the floor, shameful. A moment passes before you shuffle to the door. Simon is no idiot; he feels your gaze linger on him as he turns away. He feels the hesitancy in how the door shuts, how for a moment it feels like you might say something before you just sigh and relent.

It’s then, whenever Simon swears the room loses warmth as the door shuts and silence fills every crevice—he realizes he’s gotten everything backwards. He’s the dog attached to your side; all snarling teeth and mangy fur, that’s just bitten one of the only people who’s ever shown him kindness.

#simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #cod #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty modern warfare #ghost fanfiction #simon riley fanfic #ghost x reader #cod ghost #simon riley

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heavens-crown · 4 months ago

Text

And They Were Neighbors Pt.9

Masterlist

prev / next

CW: 18+ Minors DNI, implied smut, stalking behaviors, whole lotta fluff

Tag List: @starkgaryan @gabsgabsvaz @happyfestpanda-blog

The next couple days there were no big fights between Delilah and Robby. He had essentially moved into her apartment and taken over one of her dresser drawers. His cologne was mingled with her perfume and his skincare sat with hers in the bathroom. At first she hadn’t quite known what to think about him living with her, logically she knew it was a little crazy since they’d only known each other for just over a month. There was a part of her though that felt settled having him there, like he was a balm on her soul. When she had talked to Cherry about it she had just shrugged her shoulders and told her to follow her heart.

While doing some work one morning Delilah heard someone ring her doorbell. Locking her computer she walked from her office and answered the door. It was a delivery guy holding a vase of flowers.

“Delilah Montgomery?” He asked. He had her sign his paper stating she had received the flowers before shutting the door and carrying the vase inside. Had Robby sent her flowers? Warmth settled in her chest as she inspected the vase, finally finding the card. That warmth disappeared and fear gripped her. There were only two words written on it.

‘To BlueBird’

She wasn’t sure how long she sat on her couch staring at the flowers, it could’ve been days for all she knew. Panic was coursing through her but she was frozen in spot as she clutched the card in her hand. Even when the door opened and shut she didn’t move.

“Delilah?” Robby asked. He moved quickly, kneeling down in front of her. She was staring into space, a vacant look to her eyes that sent chills down his spine. “Baby it’s me what happened?” He asked, his own panic growing. He saw the card clenched in her hand and gently pried it from her fingers, it was then that she reacted.

“He found me,” her voice was so soft he almost didn’t hear her. “He found me.” Robby brushed the hair from her face as he tried to keep his voice calm.

“Who found you?” She whimpered at the question, tears spilling down her face. “Hey hey it’s ok. Delilah look at me. It’s Robby baby, I'm right here.” That seemed to get through to her cause the next thing he knew her arms were wrapped around his neck and she buried her face into his neck. Sobs wracked her body as she struggled to calm down. Robby simply sat on the floor holding her in his lap as he rocked her back and forth, murmuring in her ear. It took forty minutes for her to calm down and catch her breath.

“It was Spencer,” she hiccuped. “He called me ‘his little bluebird’. I don’t know how he found me Robby.” She began to sob again and he could hear the fear in her voice. Robby simply held her close, letting her cry. When she had calmed back down he wiped her face with his sleeve pressing kisses to her face.

“I’m not going to let him hurt you,” he said. Anger was like a live wire inside him, it took everything he had to not try and find the man who had hurt her like this. He felt her shudder in his grasp as she curled in closer to him.

“He threatened to kill me,” she said, fresh tears streaking down her face. “What if that's why he’s back?” Her voice cracked and Robby felt his heart squeeze. Not knowing what to say he simply tucked her face back against his neck and held her tightly. Eventually her tears stopped and her breathing evened out. Running a hand through her hair Robby pressed a kiss to her head.

“I’m not going to let him hurt you Delilah,” Robby said. “This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to move you into my apartment for the time being, and if you need to leave the apartment either call someone from your family or wait for me to get off shift.” He waited to see what she said. In the time he’d known her she had proved time and time again she was hyper independent, so she was likely to balk at the idea of having escorts. Surprising him she nodded, sniffling as she wiped at her nose with the back of her arm.

“Ok, I’m sorry you’re getting roped into this. I understand if you want to stop our situationship.” She said softly. Robby just stared at her for a moment, a little dumbfounded. Taking a deep breath he lifted her face up to look him in the eyes before flicking her in the forehead. Yelping she rubbed at the spot on her forehead. “What the fuck Robby?”

“That has got to be one of the stupidest things you have ever said,” he grumbled. Shaking his head he pressed a kiss to her nose. “I am not going anywhere Delilah, do you understand me? You are one of the only things keeping me together right now and I refuse to let you go due to some psycho.” She stared at him for a moment longer before slowly nodding her head. Pressing more kisses to her face he eventually stood up from the floor, helping her stand as well. “Come on, let's get your stuff moved.”

“You mean to tell me we’ve been sleeping on my cheap ass mattress when you got this luxurious thing?” Delilah was currently laying on his bed, arms and legs spread out. Robby chuckled a bit, pinching her thigh as he walked past the bed towards the closet.

“Can you blame me? I liked being with you and you were more comfortable in your own home,” he laughed, hearing her huff out a breath behind him. He set her bags next to the closet before turning back around to look at her still laying across the bed. Warmth settled into his bones seeing her so content in his home. If he were being honest with himself, which he rarely was, he had grown far more attached to her than what their ‘situationship’ allowed for. Planning to bring up the idea of them making it official he was going to take her out for a nice dinner that night, but the plans had been squashed by finding her catatonic on her couch.

“Could we order some pizza? I dont feel like cooking tonight,” she asked. Robby smiled and squeezed her thigh as he stood in front of her.

“Pizza Sounds good to me.”

Leaning next to Jack on the roof the next day he told him about the situation with Delilah’s now stalker ex-boyfriend. Finishing up the recap he rubbed a hand over his face.

“He threatened to kill her?” Jack asked. Nodding Robby took a sip of his coffee, it tasted like shit but then again it was hospital coffee. “Did she try to get a restraining order?”

“She did, but even with a four inch binder full of evidence the court deemed it unnecessary. She was told by her lawyer at the time that it's hard to get one for domestic violence situations.” which pissed Robby off to no end. She had shown him her evidence binder and seeing the photos of her with bruises, or the abusive text messages he’d sent her made him horrified.

“It’s like they want these women to die,” Jack grumbled. “Did you get a chance to talk to her about making you guys more than your little arrangement?”

“I didn’t. You should’ve seen her Jack, she was just sitting there with this vacant look on her face and then she just started sobbing. It took me over an hour to calm her down enough to talk.” Robby said. He heard Jack mutter a harsh, jesus christ, before their hospital phones went off. Walking down from the roof they headed back to the pit.

“Do you think he’s been stalking you this entire time?” Cherry asked. Delilah was curled up on Robby’s couch, her laptop propped up on the arm so she could video chat with her.

“I don’t know. I don't think so, this is the first sign of him having left Kansas.” Delilah said, fear still evident in her voice. She had never been as grateful to have Robby as she was yesterday. The fear from receiving a blatant taunt from Spencer still hadn’t abided, but it was easier to manage now. “Enough about Spencer, you said you had news for me?” Cherry lit up at the reminder.

“I’m moving to Pittsburgh! I got a job offer in the trauma centers Pediatric ICU,” Cherry said with enthusiasm. Delilah sat up straight with a grin on her face.

“No shit! When do you start?” She asked. Hearing that her friend since kindergarten would be living in the same city as her again excited her. They hadn’t lived in close proximity to one another since she moved states with Spencer.

“I start next month, I’ll be making like double what i do now.” Cherry then went on a tirade about finding a decent apartment and how she wanted to keep their girls nights.

“Why don’t you stay with me? I got an extra room plus this whole thing with Spencer should be resolved by then.” Delilah frowned a bit when she saw Cherry’s pointed look.

“I’ll take you up on staying in your apartment, but we both know you essentially moved in with Robby.” Cherry teased. Delilah felt her face grow hot and she avoided looking at her laptop screen.

“It’s only temporary Cher,” Delilah mumbled picking at a loose string on her hoodie sleeve. “Besides we aren’t even officially dating or anything.” Cherry groaned loudly throwing her head back.

“Woman you two are living together! Don’t be a pussy and tell that man you want to be his girlfriend!” Cherry exclaimed. Delilah rolled her eyes before changing the subject. They continued chatting for a few more hours before hanging up their call with promises to talk more later.

Making dinner that night Delilah made the decision she would talk to Robby about making their ‘situationship’ more permanent. She just hoped it wouldn’t come back to bite her in the ass.

#dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby #the pitt fanfiction

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mi-co-uk · 5 months ago

Text

coming clean

blue!reader x saviour!matt

─── blue readers past has caught up with her just in time to rescue her when she needs it the most - childhood best friend and saviour matt wants to help every step of the way.

WARNINGS: descriptions of intense anxiety, implied abuse. the series itself will contain heavy angst , fluff and smut 𖦹

I've never written a fic before so any feedback and support is appreciated !

p.s the grammar is wrong but I like it that way coz it feels like a diary entry but if it's distracting I can change it :3

pls enjoy <3

MASTERLIST

prev parts: intro

CHAPTER 1 - "speak"

"you okay?"

the practically rhetorical nature of the question snaps me out of it.

the eyes that look much older than I remember pierce into mine. it doesn't feel real. I've made up a thousand stories in my head of having this perfect hero, rescuing me from the depths of his ghost house.

I tense when I remember this is real. my head turns towards the window, shifting myself as far away as I can. I let out a sniff and squeeze my eyes shut.

oh god I'm still crying.

"matt, just drive." a voice from the back of the car disturbs the heavy silence I created.

"I dont think she can speak."

the whispers continue much more than I can even bother to try and make out.

I can't speak.

my chest tries to cry more but every breath feels like it's wripping up my insides even more. I'm humiliated. I want to yell and scream and tire out my voice because of it. but I can't. he already took it from me.

it was an accident. I didn't mean to break the rule.

I heard something in there. there was a noise. there has to have been because the alternative is much worse. something fell or at least something changed in that room. the one he explicitly told me not to go in, to never even consider it. "pretend it's not even there. that's easy enough, isn't it?"

it's a twisted kind of torture.

the smallest room in the house. it also happened to be the only one with a mirror in. he didn't even lock the door, he just simply told me- he even calmly told me, it was out of bounds.

I got one step into that room before my gut contorted, tight together feeling like I had swallowed a thousand pound weight. I knew it was gonna go wrong. I felt my ears ring - my pulse physically echoed throughout my frame. warning signs relentlessly warned me over and over.

but I didn't hear him coming in.

early.

what did I do that was so purely wicked to deserve the fucked up luck of him getting home early.

two whole years. I broke that rule once in the two years of living there - two years of burying the human instinct of curiosity, just for the universe to spit in my face.

I can still feel his grip on my neck.

next part ->

𐙚🧸ྀི

a/n this is unfortunately based on real events that are quite personal to me so yeah but I'm obviously gonna change a lot of plot details hence saviour!matt lol it's essentially just the backstory stuff

let me know what you think !

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ - mi

tags: @pair-of-pantaloons

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httpsserene · 2 years ago

Text

httpsserene's F1 Kinktober '23

summary: george has created a serious problem. you two have been dating for over three years, and he fed from you the first time about three months ago. the problem lies within the fact that he conditioned you to orgasm every time he used you as his glorified high-class wine bottle. on second thought, that’s a pretty good problem to have; his thirst is sated, and yours is as well.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. i guess i got too into the plot and lost myself in the exposition. i was originally going to delete the beginning ramblings of setting the scene and what not, but this would be like 500 words if i did that— anyways have fun reading 🫶🏽

click here to view the f1 kinktober ‘23 table of contents

vampire & biting/hickeys — 𝐠𝐫. 𝟔𝟑 george russell x fem!black!reader 4k words. not beta read. vampire au. dubcon? (tagged because of the effects of vampire venom in this). safe, sane, and consensual. coming untouched. no penetrative sex. implied sex. blood drinking. hickeys, bites, & bruises. mention of multiple orgasms. the grid & mercedes knows about george being a vampire; the public does not.

george had gotten enough schooling to learn what classical conditioning is. pavlov conditioned dogs to salivate at the sound of a bell ringing; a conditioned response. george may have done the same thing to you–he made the mistake of making sure you orgasm as he bites and drinks from you. now every time he feeds from you, you cum, even if there’s no sexual build-up at all; it could be the most bland feeding session and the minute his venom enters your bloodstream, you can’t fight it—he’s pavlov-ed his girlfriend. he should’ve never allowed himself to feed from you.

when george first met you, he was enamored with you from the start. after every morning run, he would end at a local coffee shop and you would already be cozied up in a corner seat working away on your computer. you smelled delectable, george quickly picked up on that. he was thankful the barista had already memorized his usual order, because he really wouldn’t have enjoyed explaining why his canines had elongated into fangs. he couldn’t handle the way your blood was calling to him and left the coffee shop as soon as he got his drink, running into several people on the way out. you would be in the coffee shop on two out of the three days he came in, and he would be a serious hazard to any customer who came in during the five minutes he was there. it was like this for two months and twelve days (not that he was counting or anything), until you weren’t in your seat one day. george sighed in relief, shoulders relaxing and the fixed grimace in anticipation sliding off his face—what he didn’t expect to feel is disappointment at the lack of your appearance and addicting scent. he dismisses the emotions, convincing himself that he’s just used to the constant repression of his instincts around you. he even takes the time to engage in small talk with the baristas; two months ago he was well-invested into their lives, he has a lot of catching up to do. he allows himself to be forced into a seat at the counter to drink his coffee and indulge in a few pastries that are definitely breaking his diet. it’s an off day for him, his only plans are to stream in the evening with the usual quartet, so he can afford to dine in this morning…and indulge in catching up on the coffee shop gossip, he’s only a man, alright?

george is halfway through his cup of coffee and laughing along to a story about how this adorable kid tried to buy hot chocolate with monopoly money when the entrance door jingles open. he chokes on his sip of coffee, almost spraying it over the counter in surprise as you walk up to the counter. he turns to look at you ordering at the register, to confirm he’s not imagining your presence and—you look amazing. you’re wearing flared black trousers with a short-sleeved, white, collared shirt tucked into them, elegant gold jewelry accented against your brown skin—you’ve dressed up today. it’s different from the usual hoodie and headphones george sees you wearing in that corner nook of yours; at least that’s his excuse for why he ends up staring you down. after finishing your order, you head towards your usual seat and end up making direct eye contact with george, because the universe hates him. he sees your attempt at a polite smile and his cheeks burn red at being caught, and jerks his head forward breaking his stare. he hears you continue to walk past him, and the barista stares at him disbelievingly, “mate…you fumbled that.” george stutters through a denial, but then he hears your footsteps stop—and he knows you haven’t reached the corner seat yet. he picks up on the sound of you turning on your heels and heading back in his direction, and he drops his head into his hands, resigned.

“ah! someone’s taken your seat today,” the barista in front of george calls out to you—george narrows his eyes at the man in warning, “come sit at the counter then; you can tell me what you’re all fancied-up for.” the barista glances at george with a smirk, and he swears this may be the first time he bleeds a human dry.

you laugh and sit at the counter, one seat in between you and george. and george sighs in relief for the second time today; you’re wearing perfume and it taints the smell of your blood, enough for him to not start salivating, at least. its silent for a minute, and george can feel your awkwardness radiating.

“so…” you question teasingly, “not in a rush today, then?”

george turns to look at you, shocked that you’re even talking to him—he never figured he’d be in a conversation with you. while your voice may have been teasing, your eyes are soft, warmed with kindness, and george melts. he manages to muster a tease back in your direction, “no, not today. but, look at you—in business casual attire, i was starting to believe you only knew how to dress in sweatshirts?”

you roll your eyes at him, and a smirk replaces your painfully polite smile, “ah? today must’ve not been the only day you’ve been staring at me, if you’re so familiar with how i dress…even though we’ve never spoken to each other before.” george’s mouth drops open at you checking him, and he can hear both baristas giggling behind the counter. and at that moment, george is pretty sure he fell in love with you right then—even though he didn’t have the balls to ask you out for another month and a half.

for those weeks, every time george came to the cafe, you would wave him over to your table with a bright grin and invite him to sit down across from you. even on days when he really couldn’t afford to be late, he’d find himself sitting down to chat with you. instead of being early to zoom meetings with the mercedes team, he started being on-time, often enough for lewis and toto to comment on it. his only response to their gentle prodding at the change in his behavior being, “i added another mile to my morning run,” when he really was spending those minutes talking to you after his run. after he built up the courage to ask for your number (platonically, of course), he would show up to the driver’s briefings a few minutes late, rushing in yet tapping away on his phone struggling to hide the smile on his face. for all of his superior senses, he doesn’t notice how his grid mates stare at him like he’s lost his mind; eventually, one of the officials calls him out when he glances down at the notifications popping up on his phone screen for the fourth time in five minutes, “mr. russell, i am sure that whatever you find so interesting on your phone can’t be more important than our discussion about track conditions, can it?”

george flushed red (he knew he shouldn’t have fed until later) and stumbled through an apology. after the briefing ends, the drivers start teasing him for being ‘so unprofessional,’ and lewis doesn’t help when he reveals how george has started being late to mercedes team meetings, too. charles pretends to faint, alex gasps in horror, and lando’s eyes light up at the opportunity to be a gremlin.

“boysboysboys,” lando grins, gathering everyone’s attention, “i think it’s finally happened.”

george sighed, over the dramatics already, “what’s happened, lando?”

“you’ve managed to get yourself a girlfriend!” lando shrieks, his high-pitched laughter hurting george’s ears.

george flusters, and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, “she’s not my girlfriend!” and, he’s only made it worse.

alex’s eyes widen, pointing at george in shock, “oh my god—so you are talking to a girl!” george groans and spins on his feet to leave the room, ignoring the jibes and teases of the grown men behind him.

later that night, his hotel room is infiltrated by almost half the grid (including fernando, for some reason), all seeming to rally behind their common goal of getting george to ask you on an actual date. they debase all of george’s points about why he shouldn’t ask you out—the main point being that he’s a fucking vampire—and ask him the one question that he’s been refusing to acknowledge, “you can smell how she feels—does she smell like she likes you?”

george hisses at them half-heartedly, more like a frazzled kitten than a terrifying monster, “yes, i’m already aware that she’s interested in me—that’s the problem! i’ve already led her on this whole time, and she doesn’t know that she has a crush on an undead, immortal, vampire!” the room quiets at his outburst, and he can only groan and drop his head into his hands.

“so just tell her,” max states bluntly, not looking away from the fifa game he’s beating charles’ ass in. george stares at max, appalled.

“let her make the decision for herself, right?” max starts, pausing the game to look at george, “for some bizarre reason she likes you for who you are,” george scoffs, “so, just tell her from the jump—you’ve already led her on enough, so give her the opportunity to decide whether or not if she should date your lame ass.”

the vampire stares at max disbelievingly, “that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

the red bull driver shrugs, ears turning red under the surprised stares in the room, and quickly un-pauses the game and scores on charles. the monegasque screams dramatically, and the tense air is broken. george shakily sighs, anxious, and pulls out his phone to ask you on a date. originally, he was thinking about asking you through a text, but with almost every driver in the room disapproving of any way he goes about wording it, he bares his fangs at them, and steps out of his own room, to call you.

the phone doesn’t even complete the first ring before you pick up, and a pleasant, “hi, georgieeee,” slips from your mouth; he can hear how you’re smiling through the phone. he banters with you for a minute, listening to how you're singing praises about his performance even though the actual race isn’t for another day. when the conversation dies down, he blurts out the question, “do you want to go on a—“

“i would love to go on a date with you!” you cut him off, eagerly, “i mean–sorry, yes. i would like to go out with you.” george laughs, relieved and comforted by the fact that you’re as gone for him as he is for you. he can’t even bring himself to be mad when he hears the men in his room raucously cheer.

and when george took you out for brunch to the same cafe, ignoring the baristas’ proud expressions, he realized he had nothing to worry about. the conversation flowed easily, he made you laugh and you made him laugh, and most importantly, he didn't think about draining you dry like a caprisun. you’ve ditched the cozy outfits and dressed up again—dressed up for him—and george is out of his running attire and fancied up; and you make a off-hand comment about how unnatural this feels, and george is reminded of the one important thing he was supposed to tell you. time has flown by so quickly while the two of you were hidden away in your preferred corner seat, and it’s become mid-afternoon. george surveys the surroundings briefly and is shocked to find that it’s only the two of you, and the baristas in the cafe; it’s the perfect time to tell you.

when george states that he’s a vampire, you obviously think he’s joking, “well, you’re not burning in the sunlight, georgie–so i don’t believe you! i am afraid that if this is a kink of yours, i don’t see a second date in the future.” he tries to smile at your joke but it ends up as more of a grimace, and he exposes his fangs for you to see. he hears the breath catch in your throat, sees your eyes widening in shock, blown-out pupils shrinking in fear, hears your heart beginning to race in your chest, blood rushing in your veins, and smells your scent souring.

“george russell,” you whisper yell, glancing around anxiously, “what the fuck! i believe you—you shouldn’t do that in public! what if someone else saw?!” and that’s when he realized that sure, a small amount of your fear was from the confirmation that he is a supernatural being—but mainly that, you were afraid for him. and at that point, george knew that he could allow himself to be vulnerable with you.

and after three years together, he fed from you for the first time. a lot of planning went into the initial feeding: after the end of the racing season, a trip away just for the two of you, george would satiate his thirst with his usual blood donor supply, he wouldn’t drink more than six ounces from you, you’d eat a full meal and be properly hydrated, and of course, he’d drink from you when you orgasm. the bite hurts in the beginning—george has been told many stories from feeders—and the most common distraction to the pain is a simultaneous orgasm. you were apprehensive yet extremely willing to allow george to drink from you, and told him that you trusted him completely—you even sat through his numerous clinical rundowns of the plan without complaining.

however in the moment, george diverted from the script. instead of having you cum once, george forced three orgasms out of you and bit you on the last one. he practically mauled your neck, chest, and hickeys throughout the night, as if he was teasing himself with the indents on of his teeth on your body before he bit into you. you couldn’t figure out if it was the venom from his bite or the multiple orgasms that had you floating pleasurably. george couldn’t deny that seeing you covered in love bites and his actual fang marks didn’t provoke a hidden possessive trait in him. the love bites he left on your body would fade within a few days, the bite mark would fade in around two weeks—and you told george explicitly that if he ever wanted to feed from you again, he’d be more than welcome to do so.

the vampire always thought that he was the one who was at risk for getting addicted to your blood; his greatest fear being that he wouldn’t be able to resist sucking you dry. however, it rapidly dawned on him: you’re the one who formed an addiction.

george always made sure his thirst was properly sated with his usual blood bags before he drank from you. over three months, he’d consistently make you cum whenever he bit you, whether it was with his fingers, cock, mouth, thigh, etc. but he never quite realized that he conditioned you into cumming whenever he bit you, until the singapore grand prix.

singapore was hot. it wasn’t hell on earth like qatar, but it was still fucking hot. and then, he crashed. as he made his way back to the mercedes garage (stomping under the force of his self-deprecation), he became increasingly aware of the tingle in the back of his throat; he’s hungry, he needs blood. he ignores his race engineer asking if he needs medical attention, and asks for a ‘juicebox,’ the codeword for a blood-bag. only to find out, he had his last one yesterday after qualifying—the hotter race weekends have him draining his supply quicker than usual. the vampire whimpers, and suddenly he’s bombarded by you speeding over from the back of the garage. you’re tugging his face down to eye level, worriedly asking if he’s hurt, but george can only register how alluring your blood smells. contrary to popular vampiric-belief (if that’s a thing, he has no clue), blood does not smell sweet. it smells metallic, and the overall scent is affected by water content and ph-level; you smell velvety, and absolutely perfect to george.

the vampire briefly reassures you that he’s fine, before he grabs you by the hand and turns to toto. george begs his team principal to postpone any of his post-race interviews for as long as he can so he can get a brief feeding in with you before he loses his mind any further. toto cuts george’s pleads off immediately and allows him to do whatever he needs; the brit's temper is short enough already, if your blood can calm his mouth toto will personally send you a brand new g-wagon.

george pulls you along to his driver’s room, slowing when he hears how you’re tripping over your feet two match his speed. he shoves the door open, but kindly guides you with a palm on the small of your back into the room, before he steps in and slams the door shut, locking it with a quickness. he speedily sits on the edge of his couch, and pulls you onto his lap, staring up at you with wide, pleading eyes.

“love,” he starts, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip, “may i drink from you? i should’ve been smarter about preserving my supply, usually i’m more careful about it, but i think i was just overager with everything this weekend. i’ll only take a small sip, just enough to hold me over until we fly back home, yeah? i mean, if you’re uncomfortable, i will not drink from you. i should be able to wait—”

you cover the vampire’s mouth with a hand, and smile softly at him, “yes, georgie, you can feed from me. the whole point of drinking from me was to have me acclimate to the feeling for rare situations like this, yes? i’m okay with it, you can take as much as you need from me.”

george stares at you for a few seconds, for some reason, he’s surprised at your easy allowance, before he’s shaken out of his stupor by you waving a hand in front of his face.

“i won’t be able to make you cum—i need to get out there as soon as possible,” george rambles out.

“ok,” you state, looking at him oddly, “i’m pretty sure i’ll be able to handle it, and if not you’ll know before i do.”

the brit asks if you’re sure one last time, before he effortlessly stands up with you in his arms, spins around and places you on the couch, sitting you where he was. the vampire kneels in front of you, and parts your legs gently, before tugging at the waistband of your pants for permission. you’re still reeling from his easy manhandling (you forget about his superior strength, he never makes it obvious), and how he fell to knees for you—the duality of his actions has you embarrassingly hot. you lift your hips up allowing george to tug off your pants, and you see firsthand how he loses his train of thought.

when george brings you along to a race, he avoids leaving marks in a visible spots, so unfortunately for him, your neck and torso are complete bruise free; the humid weather in singapore meant that you would be wearing tank tops or cropped shirts, so he can’t risk someone seeing a smidge of a bruise on your body; they wouldn’t understand. although, george could take his fill of marking you up on your thighs. the dark skin of your inner thighs is mottled with bruises from his lips and indents of his teeth, all in various stages of healing observed by the various shades of purple they’re colored in. george slowly presses a finger into one of the marks and smirks when a strangled gasp escapes you from the pressure. if the vampire wasn’t so focused on the scent of your blood, he’d probably notice how that motion alone already had you wet.

george buries his head between your thighs, close enough that you can feel the exhales of breath from his nose over your panties. you shift, squirming away from the feeling—this is about giving george blood, which he needs for sustenance, not for you to get turned on at, you try to remind yourself. the brit halts your movements, his hands flexing around you only slightly. you try and buck your hips away to test his grip, and you don’t move a single centimeter. you glance down, making eye-contact with your boyfriend, and the teasing smile he’s hiding behind your thigh has your heart rabbiting faster, even though you roll your eyes at him. george begins to lick and nip across your thighs searching for the best spot to pierce your skin, and you are trapped in your own mind. you’re at the mercy of an immortal being, you have no chance of fighting him off if you needed to. of course, you’re very aware that george wouldn’t lay a finger on you, but your hindbrain runs off of instincts, and it’s telling you george is a predator and you’re clearly his next meal. the adrenaline thrumming underneath your skin causes you to start breathing a little heavier and you manage to wrangle the instinctual fear away to relax under him. george startles you from your thoughts when his cold hand leads yours to rest on the nape of his neck, and he pauses when he feels you jump underneath him.

“hey, you can still say ‘no’ if you’re not ready for this yet. there’s no pressure, love,” george reassures you. the calming tone of his voice has no judgemental lilt, and his words soothe you enough to double-down with your agreement.

“thank you for doing this for me, love. as soon as we get back to the hotel, i’ll take care of you properly–i promise,” george praises you, “now, remember, this won’t take any longer than ten seconds. if you need me to stop beforehand, pinch the skin on my neck and i’ll stop, okay?”

you swallow, clearing your throat, “yes, george. can we start already? my nerves will scare me away if we wait too long.”

george nods, hands petting at your waist reassuringly, before he focuses back on your thighs. his nose tracing along your sensitive skin for a few more seconds, until he stops and nuzzles at a spot almost on the underside of your left thigh, close enough to your pussy to have the fear fade under the anticipation of pleasure. the vampire kisses at the spot three times, before he lets his fangs slide out with an audible shlick. he presses them gently against you skin for a few seconds before he bites down.

the pain isn’t from the invasion of his fangs, but from the spread of the venom. it burns as it spreads through your bloodstream; you imagine this is what boiling alive feels like. the feeling is immense but fleeting. the initial bite has always been paralyzing, but when george takes the first pull of blood, the venom must have reached your brain and taken effect, because the pain instantly switches to an immobilizing amount of pleasure. the scream that was originally building in your chest transforms into a keening moan, the burning pain no longer present.

you feel your core tightening as george continues to feast on your blood; thighs trembling in pleasure, eyes rolling back overwhelmed, and toes curling. it’s happening so quickly, quick enough that you don’t register that you’re cumming. waves of pleasure crash over you unendingly, and you’re unable to figure out why. every drag of blood george takes ruins any chance you have to think. the pleasure is so catastrophic that you don’t even register when george releases the bite.

the vampire can only stare up at you in awe as your mouth parts, drool beginning to leak from the corner of your lips, your eyes slamming shut, and face scrunching from the force of the orgasm he ripped out of you. george soothes the bite closed with careful sweeps of his tongue, allowing you all the time you need to come back to him. he softly sucks a few more marks into the meat of your thigh before he fights himself away from cradle of your legs, brushing a kiss on your cunt over your panties.

the vampire slides his way onto the couch next to you, pulling you into his arms to allow you to shake through the aftershocks in his grasp. he presses kisses to your forehead, while he murmurs praises freely. while his mouth is running in one direction, his thoughts take a completely different turn.

he’s ruined you for any other person. he’s trained you to orgasm with a simple bite of his fangs. your body has correlated the painful spread of his venom with pleasure. george has tied you to him for the rest of your life. this is a huge fucking problem. his mind starts racing; if that’s the case he either needs to work that out of you, or he can never feed from you in situations like this again. you’ll be useless for the rest of the day, your brain has turned into jello. he needs to make sure that he manages his blood supply properly in the future, so he doesn’t have to drink from you where the media can discover how gone you are.

george has no idea how he would go about un-training your…pleasurable…response to his bite. on second thought, george doesn’t want to change your newfound reflex. if anything, it’s like an equal exchange. the vampire satiates his thirst, and you satiate your thirst. george coos at you adoringly when he hears the near inaudible moans your breathing into his neck—yeah, he thinks you’ll agree with him when you’re aware enough to do so.

he finds himself tracing the fresh bite mark with a thumb, groaning when your hips grind against him in return. he fumbles his phone out of his pocket to tell toto he needs at least another twenty minutes.

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