#fic: predictive execution | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heartikeu · 10 days ago

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IN ALL YOUR PERFECTS

〔 𝒾 〕 How did you get so lucky as to bag one of the hottest men on campus, Sim Jaeyun? That question rings in your head often, even in moments you shouldn't feel insecure. And every answer is too unkind to speak out loud to the beautiful boy stealing hearts on the lacrosse field and upending your world with every smile he gives you. But he can sense something is off, and if you don't explain why soon, you may just be the downfall of everything.

𝐬𝐢𝐦 𝐣𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧 𝓍 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 12.2K ⋮ 18+ ⋮ fluff, angst, smut, plus-size!reader, lacrosse player!jake, semi-fwb au, college au, downbad!jake, insecurites (of the reader), self-manipulation, negative self-talk and thoughts, body worship, praise kink, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, creampie ᯤ 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 — 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘭𝘥𝘭𝘧𝘦, 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 — 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘢𝘭, 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 — 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯, 𝘥𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘺 — 𝘺𝘶𝘦𝘬𝘶, 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 — 𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 — 𝘥𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭, 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘴 — 𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦!

⌗ 𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── First and foremost, thank you for all the love the teaser for this fic got, it makes me so happy that everyone was receptive to this premise and wanted to see the entire story! All of my loves who read this (@lovetaroandtaemin @frenchkisstheabyss @xomakara @innocygnet @tinycatharsis @xylatox @aeristudios and many others), I love you guys and thank you for motivating me to continue it. And to all of you, like I said in the teaser, you are greater than your worst thoughts, and the love that you deserve is waiting for you no matter your size or self-doubts. I hope you enjoy!

You never step out of the car.

It's routine to pick Jake up after every Tuesday and Friday lacrosse practice. You detested the idea at first. You didn't know Jake's teammates and friends—you made a point not to—but you predicted long ago they would smell your anxiety the second you shifted gears on the pavement. "Just have San or someone else do it, please?" You'd responded with something to that effect the first time he asked, and the subject was dropped.

But sticking to your guns became especially difficult once Jake discovered your undoing via his incessant pouting and perfectly-executed neck kisses. Ultimately, your resolve crumbled.

You've driven to and away from the field many times in the past four months, yet your physical reactions in between the driving never change. You sit with bated breath as you see the clock on your dash shift, ten minutes past when you were supposed to be here passing in a blur. Fingers tap against the steering wheel in time to the beat of the song, the melody humming low from your speakers. All of the humdrum habits and safety of your car keep you from feeling small, but the second your head turns, or a sound pulls you from your daze, you're fucked.

Your 2011 Volkswagen is no match for the Audis and Range Rovers surrounding you in the parking lot next to the lacrosse field. In the 9 PM moonlight, they all shine something fierce. The chrome and glossy finishes are in excruciatingly stark contrast to the chipped paint on your front bumper and aged rubber lining your tires.

You can't picture what the field must look like. Booster parents and college alumni's donations ensured top-dollar amenities for the team that you've never seen play once. The Red Hawks have to be formidable in some capacity in order to garner such adoration from your peers and financial support from the school administration.

Jake laughed it off when you said you never went to a game before him and didn't plan on doing so even after ending up in his bed. He just went back to kissing you at the time and let it go because he knew the truth: it wasn't a part of the deal you both agreed upon.

"Yet picking him up is?" Jungwon asked one morning after you told him about taking Jake home the night prior. You lovingly told your best friend to fuck off and mind his business. The questions on his face could have easily cracked through your cool resolve, but you wouldn't let them.

All that can do that is your own nerves, psyching you out in a million ways before Jake can step away from the field and make it to your passenger side door.

Ultimately, though, finally seeing his sweat-soaked hair and cherry-red uniform hugging his body makes the fears dissipate enough for you to breathe normally again. A handful of guys walk off, but Jake and a few friends remain near the edge of the field. You can hear his laugh before he can get to your car, his conversation with his teammates turning from strategy to straight comedy, no doubt. Felix and Vernon share brotherly handshakes with him before making it to their own cars. You tell yourself not to follow them with your eyes, but they betray you the second the two men leave your peripheral vision. The girls waiting outside their vehicles are eager to greet them, sporting denim cutoffs and tank tops meant to show off their midriffs.

Subconsciously, your hand drifts to your own stomach. The skin there hasn't seen the sun in a hot minute. The last time had to be when you were too drunk to care. Now, more than clearheaded, you feel the hard truths come in like tidal waves. The outfit you could never pull off taunts you like the cars do. It's another piece of the puzzle to prove you don't fit in, not really.

The light but purposeful taps to your window pull you from the precipice of another mental spiral. You turn to find Jake fogging up the glass with his quick breaths. His megawatt smile is electric, unfurling your somber mood like a bird's wing. He may desperately need a shower and some rest, but he's never looked more radiant than with his flushed cheeks and damp curls. For how bright the moon shines outside, he's the sun incarnate.

He gets in the passenger side once he sets his equipment in your back seat. After he's settled in, his smile is back on you, warming you with silent heat.

"You smell," you say before pecking his lips. The kiss lasts for only a few seconds, but it could be a lifetime from how slow and smooth it feels, numbing your thoughts to their core like novocaine.

"Oh?" he asks when you pull away, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

"You're lucky I'm into that."

He chuckles. His lips are back on yours in the next second, the sound of his laughter still rumbling on his tongue when it enters your mouth. He presses his hand to your cheek, pulling you into him. The protective taping wrapped around his hand, running from knuckles to wrist, rubs against your cheek with every move of his mouth and fingertips.

You pull away to catch your breath, dizzy from the force of him. He whispers, "Let's go home."

He says the last word reverently, like home is just the two of you and nobody else. Exactly as it should be in his eyes. You try to believe it as you start the car, his hand firm on your thigh as you begin the drive back to his studio apartment. You want to take his words to heart, the only reassurance you'd ever need to quell the fear of opulence and beauty you barely possess, but you know the facts.

It won't last, so you have to enjoy what you can while you have it. But even that seems to be the hardest feat in the universe when you're reminded of what will soon be gone.

"Jaeyun—holy shit—right there." You gasp, moving your hips harder against Jake's soft lips. His tongue swirls around your clit as his fingers enter and exit your spongy walls. The brush of his fingertips hits you as hard as the murmurs of his words against your folds, praise leaving his lips as he admires the essence around his digits. You tighten around them with every swirl of his mouth on the hood of your cunt. He's desperate to make you fall apart once more, nuzzling deeper into you and moving faster.

You made it to his apartment quickly, the tension between you dissipating your earlier worries and transforming them into pure need. He may see it only as an expression of his desire for you, his stamina never-ending despite hours of practice. For you, it's the perfect way to make your ghosts go away, if only for a little while—his shower and rest be damned.

"She's sucking me in so well. Fuck, I love it," Jake comments, more for you than himself. He's a particular type of vulgar in bed. In normal conversation, he barely curses. Sure, he's still a guy surrounded by raging testosterone who possesses some fraction of perverted humor, but when he's lost in you and the sheets, he's feral. His composure becomes frayed in all the right ways when he sees your pussy flutter around his fingers, his tongue, his cock. He can't control it, and you don't want him to.

"God, please let me come again." You sink into his sheets as you arch your hips, chasing the feeling with eager and sweaty limbs. He pins you down harder, squeezing your plush skin between his palms while unraveling you. Jake's too good at this, snug amongst your soaked thighs and warm heat. Maybe he's made to live there in a land of skin and slick, forever existing between your legs.

"Yes, pretty girl. Let me feel it around me this time."

He switches positions quickly, sinking his aching tip inside of you as his wet fingers rub against your clit. He only manages a few strokes before you're losing your composure completely, clutching tightly to his shoulders with weak hands but lit-up nerve endings. His hips flex as your tongue shapes curses and half-completed moans.

"You're so perfect—ah, goddamnit—when you come. It's incredible. You're incredible." Sweat quickly paints his face as he maintains his slow but deep pace. He gains speed only once he feels his high trickling up his spine. "Where do you want it tonight, beautiful?"

You roll your eyes lazily, your head turning into the pillow from his praise. He always asks, although you both know the only correct answer. But you're so lost in him and the afterglow, you swallow the rhetorical barb on your lips and whisper, "Inside, Jaeyun. Fill me up, please? I want it all."

Jake curses once more before he ruts into you. Animalistic, choked cries erupt from deep in his diaphragm when he reaches his orgasm. He already had no composure left to speak of, but it’s as though he's finding it again by letting himself fall apart above you. Ropes of his seed coat your insides with warmth, and you think that this must be what he meant when he said "home" earlier in the car. There's nothing inside or outside of your bubble to fear when you're both so intertwined, so attached to one another in the most primal form.

You lay there together for a moment, evening the tempos of your heartbeats and pace of your breaths together. It's peace at its barest elements. The quiet of your mind feels as foreign as a new language, but Jake makes it easy to learn when he swims the uncharted waters with you.

But that's the trick with ghosts. They creep in the moment after a person believes they've bested them once and for all.

"I gotta ask you something," Jake whispers. He rubs his hands against the expanse of your back, but it's no longer soothing. The warmth you felt a mere ten minutes ago turns to ice, the calm waters transforming into a harsh current you're preparing to drown in. Jake senses the sudden rigidness of your body in the aftermath of his statement. He chuckles and pulls you in closer. "Relax, I'm not proposing to you."

You huff, quietly relieved. "Would've been an odd way to ask, anyway."

His chest rumbles with laughter. Your fear lowers to a manageable degree, but you remain on your toes. Possibilities flicker across your mind, the cryptic message capable of anything. Will he make another stink about you seeing one of his games? Does he want to risk you finally agreeing to attend one of the dumb house parties you've said no to a million times over, only for you to swat him on the arm and tell him to go to bed?

Your throat dries up in anticipation of the inevitable. After a moment, he says, "I want you to meet my parents."

You try silence to listen as Jake explains further, but you're running on half concentration and half inner turmoil. A few of his words play in a loop in your brain as you watch his lips move.

Jake's parents. Home from overseas. He wants to introduce you to them.

There were only a handful of rules established at the onset of whatever your relationship was. One of them was not to make the relationship itself intimately known amongst friends and family. Jake's teammates and your friends are aware you both are seeing each other, but that's the beginning and end of it. There's no showing off photos of each other, no bouts of PDA to make people envious or uncomfortable, and definitely no sharing of personal information.

You like it that way. It keeps the outside world from creeping in and expanding the doubts already adequately sized in your mind. You don't think you can take that reality, the one where everyone pulls their two cents together for the destruction of what little you've scrounged up with Jake, so you live in this one instead. You're at an arm's length from the entirety of him and his life, but he's still reachable. And you're still safe.

Only now, Jake is threatening that safety by wanting what's outside of your bounds, asking you to give parts of yourself you can't breach.

You pull away from him sharply, tasting alkaline metal in the back of your throat. In response, Jake's blush-painted cheeks go white. He presses both hands to either side of your face before you have time to move further away. His touch is so sweet, but it doesn't save you from getting lost in your head. "I know it's a lot, but they'd love you right away. And I—"

"What would we even say?" You interrupt him with bite, your teeth gnashing together in hard clamps. "'Hi, Mom, this is the girl from my organic chemistry class I've been fucking all semester. Dad, that's a nice tie'?"

"I wouldn't exactly put it like that," he jokes. He pushes some of your sweaty strands of hair from your face as he composes his next words. "And my dad doesn't wear ties, so we're good there."

"Jaeyun, you're missing my point!"

"I'm seeing it loud and clear, babe. I'm just saying there's nothing to worry about, especially my dad's fashion choices."

His teasing only makes your stomach sink deeper. How can you make him understand your perspective without cracking open months' worth of anxiety? You aren't officially dating, but it's been working just fine within the parameters of no labels. Why screw it up? "Yunnie, I can't. You know why."

He gulps and rubs one thumb along the apple of your cheek. He says nothing, but his brown irises and downturned lips hold all the questions in the world you can't answer. The biggest one of all nearly upends your willpower: Why can't you want more?

The problem is not that you don't. You do, so much so the desire for it could suffocate you. There's no woman on this planet who could sleep with Jake for this long and not grow fond of him. And that fondness has only grown stronger with time, time to be breathless with him by your side and time for your mind to race around thoughts of him when he wasn't there.

But you can't get lost in fantasy; you must be realistic. There will be a day he realizes you both are on two different planes of existence. You're perpendicular lines that, by some galaxy's grace, converged once and never will again.

He's Sim Jaeyun, lacrosse co-captain and statuesque head to toe. And you're you, the girl who your middle school bully nicknamed "Pudding" as she poked your stomach with a ruler. The teenager who delivered love notes to your friends from boys searching for less love handles and more sex appeal. The woman molded from pitiful pats to the chin and words of judgement caked with sugary understanding. "It's just baby fat, darling. We all get it, and it'll go away when you hit a growth spurt one day."

That day never came, and the extra tissue stayed. But, with time and effort, you grew callous to protect what remained soft inside of you.

Jake is the only person who seems to seep past the hard edges you've built without knowing any of your history, and it terrifies you. It makes you believe for a millisecond that he could make all the intrusive thoughts disappear if you'd let him.

But he can't, not when he asks for things that will never come, and definitely not when you're positive he won't care when he leaves you behind.

It doesn't make the pain on his face any easier to bear, though. It sags from defeat, and his lips turn in the pout you adore when he sees you don't want to hurt him any more than you already have by saying no. Before he can utter another word, or his expression can wound you deeper, you shut him up with something you'll regret later, a trade that feels like a death sentence. "The Hawk's Gala."

His eyes widen. "What?"

"The Hawk's Gala's this Sunday, right? After Saturday's game?" You swallow your fear like a dry pill. "I'll go with you."

Jake asked you weeks ago if you would attend the team's annual gala to celebrate the midway point of the season. One night, he mentioned it when you were too preoccupied with his cock in your mouth to give him a definitive answer. You expected him to not broach the topic again after you left him with no elaboration. But he had no room to complain after you swallowed every bit of his cum and mental energy. Unfortunately for you, he asked one more time after that, and you blew him again to make the invitation disappear from his mind.

Now, you’ve sprung the idea back on him to escape from the original conversation, but it only makes you feel worse as every pore on Jake's face lights up. "Really?"

He's like a kid sneaking a peek at his birthday present, tentative but ready to burst at the seams. You nod, not smiling but not frowning either, and the dam of his excitement breaks.

He squishes you back into bed, unaware of the terror in your eyes as he smatters kisses across your face and neck. His elation breaks your heart evenly down the middle, the hope seeping out of him souring instead of sweetening your mood. He's buzzing with the beginning of something more while you see the slow crawl to your end. The credits are rolling quickly past your eyes, the cackles and judgement ringing in your ears, and you can do nothing to stop it.

Working retail has to be one of the worst jobs you've ever had. It's monotonous to boot, the only upside being the extra money in your pocket for extra college expenses.

For all the glamour of the glitzy tops and convenience of the mall's constant markdowns, you have thought of quitting almost twice a day. Once customers see the name tag pinned to your shirt, you cease to be a person and become another goal post to the shopping bag they'll walk out of the store with.

The only bright spots have been your coworkers. Like Heeseung, who runs a tight ship as the store manager, and Sunwoo, your right-hand man when you need him to help with folding or handling rowdy teenagers.

Well, them, and the rare occurrence when Jake breaks your rules and stops by after classes to see you. It may only be ten to twenty minutes of time, most of those minutes being spent near the pretzel stand adjacent to the store, but it means more than you'd ever admit to anyone.

Today, you know it will be one of the hardest shifts of your life. Watching Wonyoung walk into the store with a random guy on Jake's team on her arm is like the knock of Death's fist on your door. You assume the poor kid is on the team from the Red Hawks letterman jacket he's wearing. The scoff that leaves your mouth is unavoidable. She couldn't be more transparent in her tactics to make her ex-boyfriend jealous when he's not even around.

Her presence makes a knot form in your throat as you finish rearranging the jeans on the display near the cash registers. What could she want in this store on this night when you're one of the few employees working the floor? Heeseung's on his half-hour lunch break while Sunwoo's been delegated to dressing room duty. You could use your walkie, call for backup and pretend the SOS is for a legitimate emergency, but then Heeseung would pry into it as your friend and superior. In short, there's no escaping the situation presented to you on a cruel, platinum-blonde platter.

When Wonyoung appears in front of you with a lacy dress in one hand and her boy candy's hand intertwined with the other, you stifle the bile crawling up your throat and paint on your best smile. "Welcome to Fatal Trouble Fabrics, what can I help you with?"

Wonyoung's own smile is more artificial than yours, saccharine yet glazed with venom. "Is XS the smallest size you guys have? I think it may be too roomy in the hips for me."

Your jaw ticks, and you tug the corner of your bottom lip between your teeth. "There's always alternative sizing options on our website. We go from XXXS to XXXL in almost all of the garments." You can hear the clinical objectivity in your voice, but it's the only way to get through the hell that is this conversation.

She's everything you're not in too many ways to tally up. She's half your weight soaking wet and effortlessly dolled up in the most natural makeup you've ever seen. Not to mention she has two years of experience with Jake to speak for that you'll never measure up to. He’s spoken about her in the rarest of times, only saying it ended badly during his second semester and he would never venture down that path with her again. His reassurance was a slight comfort, but not enough to quell the insecurities she springs out of you.

The second her eyebrow quirks up, your urge to vomit heightens. She can see she's getting to you; with the way her lips purse, she has to have some inkling. Knowing you’re going against a snake ready for the last strike against its defenseless prey, you steel yourself for whatever will come next.

She looks past you to the rack with tube tops in multiple colors. She lets go of Boy Candy's hand to rifle through the clothes, completely silent. Then, she pulls one bigger-sized article off the display before saying, "I'd love to buy this for my sister, but she's a bit chubbier than this. You know, your size."

Boy Candy can't fight the laughter that sputters past his lips. Your face twitches once, only once, but it makes your sight turn to the smallest capacity of tunnel vision you've ever known. She didn't have to go there, yet she did. You don’t have to feel the bruise of her insult, yet you do. It’s all over your posture now, and you can’t avoid it.

You grip another pair of jeans tighter in your hands. Turning to fold them, you say over your shoulder, "You should check out the website, then. It’ll have a lot more options for…easily accessible clothing, if you get what I mean."

Just as she's about to step closer to you, her plastic grin turning to a pissed-off pout, Jake saunters through the store and immediately wraps his hand around her upper arm. You know he's not hurting her, but it still makes your blood run cold seeing him in this protective mode. It's not one he's ever had to use for you, or maybe anyone, before. "Won, don't do this here. I mean it."

"Dude, you can't do that!" Boy Candy interjects with a high-pitched yell. He shrinks immediately when Jake turns in his direction, looking at the smaller and younger kid with rigid apathy.

"Kai, get lost before I tell Coach to bump you to second line just for pissing me off."

Kai raises his hands in defense and walks backwards to the store entrance, leaving Wonyoung to fend for herself. Jake goes back to staring down his ex-girlfriend, his expression on the cusp of explosion. “I’m asking you nicely to not cause a scene. Next time, I won’t.”

She huffs and yanks her arm from Jake's hold. "Whatever. Call me when you get tired of slumming it with food court trash." She looks back at you with a smirk before walking away towards Boy Candy.

You want to throw all the pairs of jeans at her until her smug face disappears from your mind. More importantly, you want to muffle the thoughts now overloading your headspace.

Please keep it together, you tell yourself when Jake puts his hand on your hip with reverence, a gesture that makes your heart swell but your breath quicken. Don't remind me I don't deserve him right now.

"Are you okay?" he asks patiently, moving his hand to run his thumb under your shirt. No coworkers or customers are around to see him be so secretly intimate with you, but you blush all the same.

You nod. "Yeah. I just wanna get through this shift,” You manage a smile, and he visibly relaxes when you affirm you’re fine. “You could've texted and said you were coming by."

"Well, it was a surprise." Jake moves away from you to take a box from his denim jacket. It's wrapped with a white bow, but he quickly unties it in order to open the packaging. "I know you said no gifts, but I wanted to give you this."

A gold necklace appears between his fingers. The rectangular pendant hanging from its center features a cutout of a bird, the negative space forming the shape of a hawk in flight.

You could cry if you weren’t awestruck by the gift’s beauty. Combing through your memory, you realize nobody has ever given you something so precious. It would be criminal to say no to it, although every basic instinct tells you not to fall for the false comfort it provides. But how could it be false when Jake looks at the jewelry like it's his own heart laid bare for you to take?

Without a word of protest, you turn and tuck your hair away from your shoulders so he can put the necklace on you. You can feel his smile without looking, and your knees buckle a touch.

Jake secures the clasp at the back of your neck. The pendant falls perfectly over your heart, shining against the store's halogen lights. His fingertips brush your nape as he moves away. He lights your skin on fire in every way, but the subsequent smile he gives you is what makes your belly ache with need. "I know you're going to look beautiful, but I couldn't have you going to this dinner without wearing something…symbolic."

"Symbolic, huh?" You smirk, feigning confidence, but you feel as vulnerable as he does when you ask it.

"Yeah, I think so." He runs his hand across your waist again, like he wants to pull you closer and harder against him. "If it wasn't unprofessional of you to make out with a customer, I'd have kissed you already."

You giggle, your smile beaming. "I don't think anyone's around to stop you, Sim."

He mumbles a "Fuck it" before attaching his mouth to yours, warming you to the bones slowly. You smile into his kiss and let it wash away the pain. For a moment, you think you might come out of the dinner in a few days without issue. As long as he never leaves your side, you think you can do it. Maybe.

Your fingers were tentative against the bruise marring Jake's shoulder blade. Tinted a shade deeper than his normal skintone but visibly lighter at the edges, the bruise will fade in another few days. You know this from asking him a few hours ago how it happened. "From practice, it's fine—just let me touch you, please," he had said in haste to pull you closer and take your clothes off.

Now, you tread across it gently as you sit shoulder-to-shoulder with him, covers pulled up to your chest to cover your naked skin.

"Broken blood vessels cause the bruise itself," he says. "It can take up to two weeks for the body to break down the buildup of blood, depending on the level of injury." He runs his bottom lip along your forehead, and you shiver against him, making him chuckle. "You could try listening, you know. I'm giving you important medical information here!"

You laugh into his neck, playing with the ends of his hair. "I am! Just didn't expect you to know so much about the anatomy of a bruise when your degree is for veterinary medicine."

He shrugs, suddenly bashful. For all the talk of Jake around campus as a beast on the field, he's incredibly intelligent. One class was enough for you to see how engaged he was with his studies, more than just some jock you knew by name only. He always asked questions, took diligent notes, and collaborated in discussions without dominating the conversation. In truth, it was a shock that he asked to exchange lecture notes with you over coffee two months ago.

"You're one of the only people who jots down everything Mr. Choi says!" You tried not to sound rude when responding to his proposition, but you were unsure what exactly he wanted from you in the first place. Especially when he was the equivalent of a movie starlet and you…well…

He just smiled and said, "Well, it was kinda hard to do that today when I spent half of his presentation staring at you."

You shake away your bout of reminiscing, coming back to Earth to hear Jake's breakdown of bruises for dummies. He rolls his eyes dramatically after you apologize for losing your train of focus. "Anyway, that's why bruises can be hot to the touch. It's also why they change color little by little as the blood is broken down.

"From black and blue…" Jake presses a kiss to the spot between your eyebrows. He drags his mouth across your face with every pause he takes between speaking. "…to brown…sometimes green and yellow…"

His lips on your neck make you tremble once again under his touch. Your body acts as though he didn't already spread it out for the taking a mere half hour ago.

"…and then back to its normal color," he murmurs before another tantalizing kiss lands on your lips. You stifle a moan, but a partial sound squeaks out anyway that turns your cheeks a rosy hue. "Good as new."

"Now who's losing focus, huh," you jest.

"I think I'm doing just fine in that department, pretty girl."

The edges of your mouth turn up before you press your mouth to his wounded skin. His body feels all kinds of warm against your lips. He groans unabashedly, his own gooseflesh perking up on his arms and neck from your attention. You giggle like a teenager, vulnerable in a way that isn't sounding off alarm bells in your brain.

He's the beginning, middle, and end of safety, every emotion stirred up in your heart cared for with his gentle hands.

"Who needs the body's healing process when you can just kiss it better?" he teases before pinning you between his body and his bedsheets.

You scoff playfully. "Do those lines work with all the girls?"

He pokes his tongue at you before booping your nose with his index finger. "Hopefully just one, the only one that matters."

You think Jake may be your own personal bruise, an unexpected force that's affected every inch of your body. But you don't want him to fade, not now and not ever.

You wake from your dream to the sound of your phone's text alert. Jake's contact photo lights up your phone, but what catches your attention the most is the time on your homescreen. "Fuck," you mutter before leaping from bed. Your hands make quick work of rifling through your closet as a million more curses leave your lips.

You thought a quick hour nap before getting ready would quell your anxieties about the gala in question finally coming around the corner. Unfortunately, your anxieties also made you forget to set a damn alarm, and thus left you with only an hour and a half to get ready.

And the brutality of your nerves smacks you in the face as you scroll through Jake's messages.

J 🤍 [04:15]: Hey, pretty girl. Just in case you forgot and want to coordinate, I'll be wearing red ;) J 🤍 [04:18]: Well, a red letterman jacket and a dress shirt. But red! J 🤍 [05:05]: Ok, a bit worried you haven't responded, but I don't want you freaking out about anything. You could walk in wearing a sack and you'd be gorgeous like you always are… J 🤍 [05:07]: I mean, don't come in a sack if you think that's too basic, but I'll love whatever you wear. Text me when you're on your way. J 🤍 [05:59]: Is everything okay?

"Damnit," you say before typing a quick response back to him that you're okay despite oversleeping. You end the text with a winking emoji and a heart that will ease his worries.

If only the little pixels could assuage yours.

The pit in your stomach from this morning was the size of a golf ball, manageable until you needed to sleep to take your mind off of its presence. Now, it's the size of a dinner plate pressing down on your ribcage with each and every dress you put on. They all fail to impress you, none of them doing the work of making your burdens disappear. One burgundy dress that falls to the middle of your thighs is passable, but you still want to punch a hole through the mirror hanging on your bathroom door when you see your reflection.

Even as you run heaps of makeup across your face and curl your hair, you feel like a clown that's missing the best parts of their costume. In the next second, you swipe too much lipstick on your upper lip and let out the wail of a wounded animal. It's ragged and spent, tattered from all sides.

At that moment, the first truth becomes an unmistakable blow to the stomach: every pretty garment and expensive cosmetic in the world won't keep you from embarrassing Jake. You will stick out like a sore thumb at that dinner, a stain over the picture-perfect moment he could have if you stay out of sight and mind.

In the next moment, the second truth appears: you won't be leaving your apartment tonight. You set the lipstick tube down on your desk and try not to dry heave, waddling back to your bed to disappear under the covers.

You'll break his heart for breaking your promise, but all you can do is hope he'll allow you to mend it. Maybe some part of him will understand there's a valid reason you missed it, one you cannot verbalize, but he recognizes under the layers of pretty words you'll use. That will be better than knowing the entirety of your excuse for blowing him off.

You don't bother wiping off the wreck you've made of your face or discarding the dress in the heap of clothes you've made on the floor. You toss and turn under the comforter, tears streaming down your face and hands clutching your necklace as the sun sets. Hearing the sounds of the outside world greeting dusk, you feel half your size but steel yourself to sleep with the knowledge it's better this way. It has to be.

Jake has tried to be patient.

He knows he could not have been more reasonable and nonjudgemental as he watches your chest rise and fall in your sleep. Your figure in the throes of your slumber is so beautiful, especially when your fingers remain wrapped around the pendant at your throat. He swears to himself he could fall in love with you all over again tonight if he wasn't so disappointed and pissed off. And with those emotions too present in his gut to avoid, he knows you've worn his patience down to the quick.

He waited for a half-hour outside of the restaurant for you to show, biting the skin around his nails as each minute passed by with your face nowhere in sight. Texts went unresponded to, calls unanswered, even video chat requests went through dead air. He had half a mind to run away from the venue to make sure you hadn't slipped in the shower or something far more dangerous kept you from meeting him.

Throughout the entire dinner, he brushed the concerned questions from his teammates off and said you fell too ill to make it. The guys said nothing and continued on with the engagement, but Jake remained rattled through the rest of the night. When he said his goodbyes, he felt a small semblance of relief, because that meant he could drive straight to you for the answers he desperately sought.

He didn't expect to find you passed out. You usually greet him at the door with eager arms and peckish lips, but you were too fatigued and lost in sleep to hear him unlocking your front door and stepping inside. He was also floored to find your apartment in ruins, the place akin to a bomb going off in all directions that gave no clues as to what happened to you. So, all he could do was sit at your bedside and watch you, your eyelids and body twitching as you dreamed.

Jake's been patient long enough, more than understanding for you, the girl he loves, but now he needs some sense of direction that only you can provide.

Jake runs his thumb over the lipstick smudge on your cupid's bow, and he curses himself when your eyes flutter open. You look peaceful for a moment as you wake up, but your irises immediately flood with fear at Jake's presence and the darkness surrounding you both. "What time is it?" you ask.

"One on the dot," he responds. "I used the spare key in the plant pot by your door."

You rub your face and rise, shame flooding every part of your body. You ran through the cycle of chastising yourself and swearing you were doing the right thing a thousand times over before you passed out, but facing Jake is a new breed of raw. His hurt is palpable, especially in the quiet cold of the night. It pierces you long and hard when he asks, "What happened?"

You mumble, "Nothing looked nice enough to go out in." You shrug, balling the fabric of your dress between your fists. "And I couldn't come out and meet everyone like this."

"I think this looks just fine," he says with an incredulous expression, still tainted with pain but newly inscribed with wholehearted empathy. "Better than that, actually."

Jake's hand comes to meet the side of your neck, brushing the gold necklace along your nape, and you bite down on your lip hard to fight the swell of emotion crawling up your throat. "I need you to talk to me," he whispers as you taste blood in your mouth.

You step away from him to grab your hamper, pawing at the heaps of clothing on your floor with trembling hands. If you can't control the conversation, the least you can do is make your house less of a war-zone. Anything is better than facing Jake head-on right now. "There's nothing to say besides that I didn't come and I'm sorry, I really am." You look at him directly in the eyes, forcing some confidence to rise to the surface. "Can we please just drop it?"

He scoffs at your question. "You stand me up, refuse to give me a valid explanation why, and think it's okay to ask me to drop it?" He makes you stop grabbing clothes from the floor by clutching both of your shoulders in his palms. "What is going on with you?"

You shake your head so fast it makes you dizzy. "I can't do this, Jaeyun. Please."

"Baby, I just need help understanding this, 'cause I'm so fucking confused right now." His arms run up your skin to rest on your face. "Is this about what happened the other day with Wonyoung?"

"Partly," you admit. You walk away from his touch again, but he follows behind you as you move around your small apartment. When you've done enough tidying up, you throw the hamper to one side by your bed, unbothered if the mess of clean clothes is now mixed with your dirty laundry. "How about I tell you how the night would have played out if I did show up? Your friends would've looked at me like a zoo attraction but tried to keep the peace by making small talk that means fuck-all to anyone. And no matter how polite or funny I was, they would've thought to themselves or said to their girlfriends by the end of the night that you're fucking insane for spending time with…"

The silence is impenetrable, charged with words you can't say but you hope Jake can make sense of without needing verbalization.

His face morphs in the quiet, seething.

"With what?" Jake invades your space, his quiet voice and stoic face chilling you to the bone. You lose all sense of courage to continue, but he quirks an eyebrow up as his eyes darken. "Finish the fucking sentence. With what?"

You swallow hard, terrified to say the words rattling around in your brain. You settle on something simple, but the two letters feel anything but. "Me."

The tears slide down your cheeks like knives, cutting you open for Jake to see. This is the moment that you've been dreading since the second he made a home in your heart. It won't go back to the way it was before, before every insecurity was laid bare.

"I'm fucking disgusting, Jake," you mutter with despair. "It's a miracle I've gotten past being terrified of you seeing me naked, but everyone in your life knowing that we're together would be too much because it's obvious that—" You choke on the words, the tears now coating your throat like poison. "I'm not meant for you, and you should be going out with someone like your ex, someone who's beautiful by every standard known to man." You laugh sadly. "Or maybe someone who meets even half of that criteria. But not—"

"Fuck you." He slams his letterman jacket down on the desk. A mixture of your makeup falls on the floor when the jacket meets the wood slab, but you barely hear the crack of your compacts or tubes of lipstick on the laminate tile. You're too focused on Jake's appalled and betrayed face to notice anything but him. "You have no right telling me who I'm supposed to be with, who I should want, who to love. That's nobody's business but mine. And you must think somewhat highly of yourself to think you can control that. Screw my friends' opinions or anyone else's."

"It should! They matter to you."

"You matter more, more than anyone!"

He inhales a sharp breath as his eyes water. You thought his pouts broke your heart before, but seeing him worn down like this is true heartbreak. He's broken from how broken you are, and you wish you had the power to stitch him back together. Clearly, you've made a bigger mess than you intended to, and now there's no going back.

Jake takes a few short, tear-stricken breaths before saying, "Fuck I—I love you, okay? I love you so much that all of the criticism in the world is background noise when I look at you. You're the one person, the only person I've ever known, who makes time stop for me and my problems matter less. And you're so gorgeous I can't think straight sometimes." A hollow laugh escapes him, but you can't react to it properly. Not when you're crying as hard as he is.

"I wish you could see yourself how I see you, so much it kills me, but I can't do that for you. You have to see that for yourself."

You're stunned into complete silence, your heart denying his confession as your brain computes he's walking closer to the door, prepared to leave before you can find an adequate response. You don't find one in time as he turns the knob and prepares to leave.

Before he can, he says with a somber lilt to his tone, "I hope whoever gets to see the version of you who loves herself as much as I do knows they're lucky. Because that girl will be invincible."

The slam of your door is a gunshot, piercing your chest and staining your dress a darker shade of burgundy. You manage to grip Jake's jacket between your hands and hold it close, the only thing keeping your shattered heart held together being his scent on the fabric. What could you have said to keep him, to make him stay? How could you tell him you love him too despite all the disdain you hold for yourself being what drove him away in the first place?

Your cries converge with piercing screams, rubbing your voice raw until there's nothing else to do but continue sobbing silently in a ball on the floor with his jacket as your lifeline.

The last week has been hell, to say the least.

You didn't try reaching out to Jake the next morning when you woke up. You were too hollow, too shaken. At the same time, the last words he said filled you with a sensitivity you could not find words for, and trying to pretend that didn't happen would be disrespectful to both of you.

And, to make it worse, there was no outreach on his end. He didn't show up to class on Monday or Wednesday, and there were no messages or calls from him to springboard off of. What else could you do besides leave him be? Why else would he walk away from you the way he did, spent and out of chances to give, if he didn't want to be left alone?

Hours rolled into days of silence, both parties unsure how to break the now insurmountable block of ice. You felt like a coward with every passing day, missing him desperately in spite of your lack of words. The newfound hole in your chest, inscribed with Jake's name, could only be filled by him, and it grew wider while you waited for the day he'd return or for you to find the strength to undo the pain you caused.

You sweep the store floor with your aching heart, eager to end your Sunday shift in an hour and sink into bed once again. Without Jake, your routine has been heading to work or school, running home to eat takeout, streaming a movie to cry to, and passing out. It's not that dissimilar from the habits you had before he came into your life, but it's even more soul-crushing knowing the before and after of his presence is starkly different.

Just as you walk over to the counter to grab your dustpan to collect the dust, Felix and Vernon appear like phantoms near the register.

"Jesus Christ!" You immediately stick your broom in the space between you and the two men, and their eyes widen at your defensive stance. "How the fuck did you get in the store? We closed ten minutes ago."

"We bribed some blonde kid to let us in," Vernon responds, rubbing the back of his shaved head with a sweaty palm. Although he still looks surprised you're using a cleaning tool as a weapon, his voice is deadpan.

"Fucking Sunwoo," you mutter under your breath. "Listen, you guys might be great with lacrosse sticks, but I'm even better with this broom." You waggle it to prove your point. "So, you should get the fuck out before I knock one of you on the head."

"Please, just hear us out," Felix starts. His deep voice, thicker than his counterpart or even Jake's, stuns you. "J is miserable without you."

"Yeah," Vernon confirms. "He had to sit out of the game yesterday."

You're surprised your heart can still beat after being so perfectly decimated a week ago, but it breaks once again hearing about Jake's disposition. "The feeling's mutual."

"Okay. Then talk to him and say you're sorry, simple." Felix gives you a close-lipped smile, but it seems more forced than friendly.

Your brows furrow as your hand raises up to clutch the pendant close to your heart. "He's the one that left me."

"After you stood him up," Vernon interjects, pointing a finger out. Your lack of a response makes Vernon huff out an exasperated breath of air. Before he can say anything else, Felix cuts him off.

"We shouldn't have come, this is clearly pointless."

"Oh really?" You clench your fist around the broom, the curved plastic biting into your skin.

Felix's lips mold into a deep frown, hurt rather than anger coating every feature on his face. "You made judgements about us before we even got a chance to meet you—"

"Yeah! That's pretty fucked up, by the way. We wouldn't fat-shame you. We like curvy girls!" Vernon defends himself, and Felix fights the urge to smack his older friend upside the head.

"Thanks," you respond. The word on your lips is more of a question than a statement, but you appreciate Vernon's sentiment.

"And yet you were worried we would look at you a certain way," Felix continues.

"Is that so surprising?" you justify, eyes on the verge of watering.

Felix nods before responding with, "Because the things you were so worried about were built up in your own head. It wasn't Jake's or anyone else's doing."

You bite your bottom lip, unable to deny his declarations, but offended. "Tell that to Wonyoung."

"Won's a bitch to almost everyone. She doesn't count," Vernon counters, and Felix can't help but laugh a little and nod.

Felix turns serious again. "Jake loves you no matter what you think others see when they look at you, and if that isn't apparent by now, you're not the person he told us so much about."

Felix walks towards the entrance, and Vernon leaves you with some ultimate words of advice before following his teammate out. "Just…talk to him, please."

You feel like a kid with a stomachache, scolded for eating too much candy and expecting a different result. In a way, your reactions have been admittedly childish, despite every good intention you had keeping Jake on the outskirts of your worst self-critical thoughts. But maybe he wouldn't have shied away from you that night if you had been honest from the beginning about the fears you had beginning a relationship with him. Maybe you would have survived it, perhaps even thrived despite all the monsters insisting you two weren't fit for each other.

But that was the past. Now was undetermined, and maybe it could still turn in your favor.

Sunwoo steps into view after the two guys exit the store. Your eyes burn with ire for your younger coworker, but he raises his hands immediately and says, "I need a new hard drive, and they gave me twenty bucks!"

You let go of the irritation directed at Sunwoo and finally make work of picking up the dust from the floor. If anything, it reminds you of all that still needs fixing, especially between you and the boy you can't forget.

But it's all down to you, and whether you can put in the effort to dispel your own demons once and for all.

You begin healing.

On Monday morning, twelve-ish hours after seeing Felix and Vernon at work, you skip class and head to the university's counseling center. It's two hours of intake forms and appointment setting, but it makes all the difference in the world walking out of that office a few pounds metaphorically lighter.

You talk to Jungwon and Sunwoo in a coffee shop off-campus and unload the fears that have plagued you your entire life, their voices of reassurance being the first ones you've ever heard that allow the tears to lessen and the reality of your situation to settle on your body like a warm blanket.

"You're a human with anxieties," Jungwon says as Sunwoo rubs your back in circles. "You need support like any other person. It's not right to go through it alone."

And you don't. You sit with them through lunch and dinner, drinking coffee and acknowledging your mindset needs to change.

When your head hits the pillow that night, you go to sleep with the comfort of knowing you're taking the first steps to a version of you that's better.

Wednesday, you prepare to talk to Jake. You have the words picked out perfectly in your head, recognition of your mistakes and willingness to change littered throughout. Only he never shows, and your heart sinks. He certainly can pass without a few days of attendance, but if he's putting this much effort into avoiding you, is it too late?

Was this your penance, having figured everything out after getting it so irrevocably wrong?

The answer to the question comes in the form of a sweaty Felix on the cusp of dusk. He grabs your shoulder just before you can get into your car, the day's fatigue and sadness weighing down your bones.

"J's meeting his parents tomorrow for dinner at the Italian place across from the field," Felix says through ragged breaths. "He better look like a dog with a bone when I see him on Friday at practice or I will kick your ass personally, girl or not."

You chuckle, tears lining your eye ducts. "Thank you. Really."

"Yeah. Thank me after you talk to him. He loves you but you know as well as I do that he's a stubborn fucker sometimes." He gives a last nod for good luck before running in the opposite direction.

You park in front of the restaurant with two bouquets in hand and your anxiety shot to hell. Nerves entrench your body from head to toe as you walk into the place, too busy with the flowers to bite your nails.

Before, you would pick out everyone else's clothes and physiques compared to yours like a ruthless guessing game, the only players being you and your harshest critics. Do I look as hideous as I feel? Can everyone tell? Now, that's the furthest thing from your mind. All you care to do now is fix what you've damaged.

"Welcome to Maggiano's," the perky hostess says as you walk closer to the podium. "How can I help you?"

"I'm meeting a party of three. S-Sim should be the last name on the reservation." You stutter over your words. You're unable to see Jake or his parents in the sea of crowded tables under dimmed chandelier lighting, and it throws your confidence off even more.

She directs you to their table, a corner booth off of the kitchen, and you will yourself to make the trek over to them with the last of your strength. Jake's gaze remains focused on his parents, and it's a small kindness that you don't need to face him just yet.

His parents notice you first, and they smile kindly at you. "Hello there," the woman you assume to be Jake's mother says, eyes crinkling with a smile that is all too familiar.

Jake turns to meet the subject of his mother's attention, and a million emotions flash across his eyes like shooting stars when he sees you, brief but telling. Only pain remains when the surprise wears off, and you wish his face held any other emotion but the one you know so personally.

You smile at his parents politely. "I'm Jake's girlfriend. I apologize for being late, but I was busy grabbing these." You hand one bouquet to his mother, her face lighting up at the peonies wrapped in pink tissue paper. You give Jake his own set of flowers, yellow marigolds. "For tomorrow's game. The florist said they represent good luck, not that you need it."

"Thank you," he whispers, his voice hoarse but cheeks immediately flushing pink. He turns to his parents, the couple still surprised and happy to see you. You can only wonder what Jake has told them about you, but Jake cuts your wondering short when says, "Can you guys give us a minute to talk?"

His hand in yours as he pulls you away feels too right, too easy to fall back into. A thousand memories cross your mind as you recognize this may be the last time his skin touches yours. Sleeping in and missing class as the sun rose high in the sky. Nights after practices where you couldn't remember your name unless Jake was saying it in sighs and curses. And the last ones where you were the source of his disappointment.

Can the good outweigh the bad at this point? You can only hope so.

When you're a respectful distance away from the table, Jake stands in front of you with his hands nestled in his pockets. You can see him fumbling with his thumbs under the cloth, a telltale sign of nerves he doesn't want to show. "What are you doing here?"

You swallow heavy air, your gut tightening. "I came to apologize. I should have told you from the beginning that there were these terrible opinions of myself and my body image. And keeping them from you didn't stop them from coming, but I should've given you more credit. You never made me feel like I was unworthy of being with you. That was all me."

He nods, sadness tugging the edges of his lips down. "I know."

"I'm actually turning things around, believe it or not." You laugh, the sound filled with promise rather than desolation. "And it helped me to realize now that living behind a wall I thought kept me safe did nothing but hurt you, the only person I've ever loved, and I'm so sorry."

His face perks up hearing the last few words on your lips. You clutch the pendant on your neck for strength, and his face softens at the realization you're still wearing it. You never stopped.

"I love you," you confess, "the guy who fidgets with everything at his desk when he's bored, and even when he's not. I love you because it's heart-stoppingly cute when you talk about the atomic makeup of random objects just for fun. Because you're an incredible friend, a beautiful person, and someone I want to keep getting the privilege of knowing. You saw and loved me, past all the reasons I found to hate myself." Your words fall apart by the end, voice fragmented from vulnerability, but you continue. "And you may not be in love with me anymore, but you deserve to know that you are loved by me still, and I'm thankful I had the chance to—"

You don't recognize Jake is kissing you until he places both his quivering hands on your face, the brush of his lips on yours being everything necessary to heal the hole in your heart. It's so unexpected, but essential for you to breathe again. Jake kisses you like he knows it too, like he feels the same ache inside of him that needs repairing with your help.

Tears run down your face until you taste saltwater on your tongue, but you don't care. You refuse to waste another second without him. Home is here with him, with all of your ghosts revealed.

Jake pulls away softly. "I missed that," you confess against his lips, water still trickling down your face.

"Me too," he affirms, his own wet lids reflecting in the lights of the chandeliers. "I love you."

You giggle, relief flooding your body. It's cool water over parched earth, saving a being close to the brink of ruin. "I love you more."

Jake laughs too, shaking his head like you've said the silliest words known to humankind. "Not possible." He tucks his hand under your chin before kissing you again, his lips the only salvation you'll ever need.

His dad whistles at the two of you, and Jake begrudgingly lets go of your face. "Lovebirds, we need to put in our order!" he yells from across the restaurant, and almost everyone in the room laughs. You can't fight it, laughing too into Jake's suit jacket as he holds you close.

Tonight, you don't mind the spotlight, especially with Jake nearby.

The ride back to your apartment is so long it feels like you're suffocating with every minute that remains of your ETA. You try abiding by the traffic laws and staying in your lane, but you may die if another stoplight keeps you from taking Jake home. "Patience," Jake murmurs with a smirk, rubbing small circles into your outer thigh.

"Coming from you, that's ironic." You squeeze your thighs together for friction, and Jake chuckles to himself. It's unsurprising the way your body reacts to him and his words, both charged with electric currents you've gone without for too long.

The way up to your apartment is tense, only for the fact you're trying to listen to his earlier warning of patience and not pounce on him the second you both walk through the doorway. He sets the marigolds on your kitchen counter with a shit-eating grin, one that makes it even harder to maintain composure. "Beautiful flowers from a beautiful girl. How did I get so lucky?" He pulls you in, the notes of lavender and sage from his cologne tickling you to the core.

"It helps that you're beautiful also." You hide your face in his broad chest, your necklace rustling against his dress shirt. "Thank you," you whisper into his clothes.

"For what?" He rubs your back soothingly, the responding words easy to release when he's holding you so delicately.

"Not giving up on me when you had every reason to."

"I could never," he admits. He pulls your face away from his shirt to run his fingers across your cheek, adoring you with the simplest touch. "Just wanted to make you squirm a little longer."

You mock offense with a hand to your chest. Jake chuckles and kisses the corner of your mouth. "So mean," you taunt.

"You haven't seen mean, pretty girl." Jake brushes your hair away to kiss the nape of your neck, making you shiver. Trailing his lips down to your shoulder blade, he bites down on the curve of it to elicit a yelp from you. He eagerly swallows the sound with his lips, tongue entering your mouth without protest from you.

Jake knows all the ways to make you acquiesce, to fall deeper into him without thinking of looking back up. He makes you want to live in his touch like a second skin, and it's clear he feels the same when he holds you tight against his body.

Jake's thigh rubs your core through the front of your dress, and you whimper against his lips. He moves you both to the bed, slowly undressing you with reverence and soft kisses to each piece of newly revealed skin.

Once you're naked, save for your underwear, he sits up on his knees to admire the view. You don't shy away or cover yourself, too restless to touch and be touched to feel timid. And there are still too many clothes on him.

You tsk. "Not fair," you mumble, but you make quirk work of unbuttoning his shirt and pants with keen hands. You kiss the pulse point at his neck, his chest, and the tuft of hair below his belly button. By the time you're done, his flush cock poking your thigh and your cunt pulsing with need, you're both shaking with desperation.

"Sit on my face, pretty girl," he whispers.

You giggle, breathless and dazed. "What?"

"You heard me. I've been without this pretty pussy for too long," he emphasizes his point by moving your panties to the side and running his finger through the wetness along your folds. You're already breaking, and he treasures that. "I want to show her how much I missed her."

You both get comfortable, you positioning your legs on either side of his head and Jake running his hands along the outside of your thighs. You hover above his lips, scared to truly suffocate him between your skin, but he immediately slams you down onto his chin and makes work of lapping at your cunt.

His whimpers and whines match yours, his nose bumping your clit with every drag of his tongue along your core. It's like he's never tasted it before, the way he's lapping so vigorously. A starved man waiting for his last meal, so desperate yet so giving. Jake runs his tongue around your hole before sinking it inside, his eyes rolling back at the essence gathering on his tongue.

"Fuck, so sweet," he gasps, "My beautiful girl's dripping down my chin. I love the way you taste, you know that? You're amazing."

You nod, moaning wantonly, without true acknowledgement of his words. He retracts his lips from your cunt, and you whimper at the loss. "Say it, beautiful. I want to hear you say how amazing you are."

Jake teases his tongue along your wet walls again, and you buckle down against his face, riding it harder. "I-I'm—oh shit mmph—I'm amazing."

He hums in pleased agreement. He goes faster, bumping your clit with every quick lick and suck. You thrash with the encroaching release your body ardently craves. It wraps around you with each press of his mouth and tongue, and you want to let him take you to the precipice. "I know you're close, beautiful," he whispers into your mound, drunk on the feeling of your body at his mercy. "Be my good girl and come all over my face."

You do as you're told, crying out as your orgasm takes over your senses, endorphins washing over you in expansive ripples. You ride it out until the waves calm to a steady sea, your body wholly and utterly boneless. "Ah, fuck," you breathe out once you come down.

Jake repositions you so you're resting in his lap, his aching cock leaking pre-cum at the sight of your essence soaking your thighs. He presses kisses all over your face, not bothered by the sweat coating your forehead and cheeks. "So beautiful."

You flush, glowing under his praise. Without warning, he sheathes himself fully inside of you, your wetness making the glide effortless. There is still some give, your walls clenching around him as he slides in like he's finally back where he belongs.

"Oh fuck. You're so tight, every time." His head bumps the headboard as your pelvic bones brush, his hips flush with yours when he sinks you further down his cock. "I've missed this—fuck, missed you—so much."

"Me too, Yunnie. So much." Your body bows, taking him in completely without complaint.

"Think I'd die if I didn't get to feel you wrapped around me again," he babbles, lost in the feeling of your velvety walls encasing him. They flutter around him as you begin riding him, your movements slow but calculated to induce tremors. And he feels it, every touch of your hips against his, your slick thighs against him with each time he bottoms out. It's hedonistic heaven, a serene oasis he wants to drown in.

He groans into your chest before sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. You keen, arching your back into him deeper as you slam your hips down onto him. "Bounce on me, baby," he says, releasing your nipple with a pop before teasing the other one with his tongue. "Show me how much you've missed me."

Under his spell, you cater to Jake's every whim, rocking against him harder and grinding faster to push him closer to his release. He bites down on your collarbones to muffle his cries, the pleasure overloading his senses to the point he needs to occupy his mouth and hands with something else. He kneads your breasts as he sucks and licks the skin of your upper chest with care when it blooms a dark color under his lips. "So perfect, and all mine," he mumbles, rutting underneath you, creating stars when you close your eyelids.

"Fuck, Jaeyun, I'm gonna come again," you mewl.

"Me too, pretty girl. Come with me."

You fall together in pieces, the beautiful parts of both of you intermeshing until you're one again. Jake groans as his semen fills you with warmth, ropes of cum spurting out until you feel both of your releases seeping down your legs in droplets.

It's happiness, a passion so pure shared between two people sheltered from the outside world with their intensity.

It's perfection, the way Jake loves you so well. All you can do now is pray he knows you love him just as much, if not more.

Jake wraps himself around you, encasing you tightly after you exit his lap. Your thighs burn, your skin is sweaty, but you feel lit up from within Jake's arms.

"You look happy," Jake says finally with a dopey grin, chest rising and falling.

Once upon a time, you would've brushed his words off with a quick kiss and witty comeback to hide your denial. Now, you don't deflect. You take him and his words with acceptance, knowing for the first time that his words go beyond the surface, their truth undeniable.

"I am."

This time, you step out of the car.

You nod at the respective girls waiting for their boyfriends as you rest against the passenger side door of your car. Your clothes aren't as revealing as theirs, but that's okay; someday you will be ready to be as confident as them, but the first step was exiting the driver's side. "Progress," as Felix would say with a teasing smirk and elbow to your side.

The girls all smile and acknowledge you, but Winter, Felix's girlfriend, waves back with a jovial energy that makes you wave back. Your heart swells thinking about how close you've gotten to Jake's friend group in only two months, even when you believed you would be shamed or outcasted for your appearance. Sometimes, you kick yourself for believing they would repeat the history of taunts and teases you know too well. Building armor was necessary years ago, but now, you can disarm without fear of judgement.

Sure, people like Wonyoung will continue to exist, and the doubts will always fester somewhere in your head like unpickable weeds. But you can dispel both with self-affirming words and kindness now, no longer weak to the worst skeletons in your closet. You're stronger, for both yourself and the boy you love.

There's not a lot of certainties in life, but one promise you can keep without fail is never coming so close to losing Jake again.

Like clockwork, Jake and your mutual friends walk off of the field with their gym bags in tow and sweat drenching them head to toe. Felix's newly dyed red hair is practically the same color as their practice gear, and you chuckle at the sight.

Hearing your voice, Jake's eyes lock on yours. He rifles the stray bangs from his eyes almost to confirm it's you waiting for him and not an apparition. His ensuing grin is so bright it can put the moon to shame, as usual.

"Whoa, guys," Jake says with a flourish, raising both of his arms to stop his friends from moving further across the parking lot to their significant others. You roll your eyes as you smile, shy for all the right reasons. "That's my girlfriend, right? Or am I seeing things?"

"Can you not be so down bad for her in front of us, Sim? It's gross," Felix teases, but he smiles in your direction when you wave to the guys surrounding your boyfriend.

"Whatever, cherry bomb. Tell Winter I said to go easy on the Splat next time." Jake slaps his friend on the shoulder before running towards you, his gym bag swinging in all directions while strapped to his shoulder. His teammates holler at their captain for his eagerness to be next to you, but neither of you care.

You both may be out of the shadows, but you still feel like the only two people in the world when you're with each other, onlookers and inner critics be damned.

"Hi." Jake says when he makes it to you, his body a few feet from yours. He drops his bag at his side before intertwining your fingers together, his hot and moist palms making a home in your cold ones. "You look beautiful."

"You look sweaty." Before Jake can compose a rebuttal, you slam your lips into his, teeth clashing as your tongues meet. Jake kisses you back earnestly, sounds of pleasure muffled against your mouth. He rests his hands on your hips as your fingers weave through his hair, scratching your nails along his scalp. His lips taste like salted caramel and fatigue and home, and it makes you fall in love for the thousandth time. "But I'm still into that," you say with a grin when you pull away.

"Oh, really?" His smirk reminds you of all of his kisses, his touches, and his love that has brought you here. And today, for the first time in a long while, there's no fear at all. No doubt creeping in to keep you on guard or tell you the happiness is temporary.

It's just peace.

"Always."

── .✦ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 (𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘):

@xylatox @tinycatharsis @filmnings @lovetaroandtaemin @gyubookeries @jaylaxies @innocygnet @anormieee @lollipop3 @fancypeacepersona @luvksnn @k1ttyjwon @hii01mii @nithxhoon @cutehoons02 @invsomnixa1 @lilyofthevalley6 @mossarine @blooqz @firstclassjaylee @seongiewon @rairaiblog @jakessrealwife @bbokaricentral

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manikas-whims · 3 days ago

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Spoilers Ahead!!!

Okay so i just finished watching Kpop Demon Hunters, which btw I've been very excited about since it's first trailer dropped.

But the movie felt quite underwhelming to me.

Not that it is entirely bad but some scenes felt very hollow..like there could've been more (i heard they removed an Idol Star Athletics scene between Huntrix and Saja Boys 😭)

The fact that all the members of the Saja Boys don't even have proper names annoyed me a bit! Okay, i get that Jinu had a bigger role compared to the other 4 but i really wish we'd gotten some official names, atleast for the sake of all fan content that i (and many other viewers) wanna create.

Secondly, they also gave very little to Mira and Zoey. I wish they had their own mini arcs and issues going on.

(thought this movie would focus more on the girl trio like Totally Spies or Powerpuff Girls, with Saja Boys having lesser but still significant screentime)

Another thing, which probably might not be a big deal to many, is the fact that Saja Boys were never redeemed. The small flame between Rumi and Jinu could barely spark for a faint moment before it got entirely extinguished 😭 My Rujinu heart can't take it! I wanted more of them. (Poor blue tiger and the 3-eyed crow, their children of divorce 😭)

The movie felt very predictable at some points but it's okay because overall it was well-executed, and the original soundtracks are amazing and very catchy.

Anyways we deserved more Saja Boys screentime!!!

(cuz the boys did have a good dynamic. They acted so goofy n boyish together like actual Bouygroups but the fact that none of them had any clue on Jinu's late night disappearances makes the characters feel hollow and under-developed.)

I WANTED MORE OF HUNTRIX X SAJA BOYS SHENANIGANS AT THE AWARDS, INTERVIEWS, FAN MEETS, VARIETY SHOWS, ETC..

just a mini rant..i still enjoyed the movie and might write some RuJinu fics soon ✌️

#kpop demon hunters #kdh #rumi #jinu #rumi x jinu #rujinu #saja boys #huntrix #mira #zoey #huntrix rumi #huntrix mira #huntrix zoey #saja boys mystery #saja boys baby #saja boys abby #saja boys romance #saja boys jinu

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meownotgood · 2 months ago

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steel kisses supernova. / machine herald!viktor x reader

A botched mission results in fixing the Machine Herald's mechanics, brushing your hands to wires, and indulging in the traces once left by emotion. tags: 18+, reader is gender neutral + fem bodied, reader uses they/them pronouns, wireplay, inappropriate use of hextech, bonding through near death experiences, divine machinery, reader has a prosthetic arm, repairing the machine herald, fluff + angst, praise kink, sexual tension, fingering + clit stim, size difference, protecting you with their own body trope, yearning, good lord you guys need to stop yearning, mix of arcane + league lore, vik's anatomy isn't mentioned. (terms used for reader: cunt, clit, no mentions of chest anatomy, dear, sweetheart, spark, love, adorable) word count: 49.5k note: hey!! please keep in mind, this fic is unfortunately too long for tumblr due to the word count + tumblr's post block limit... so you'll be able to read the first part of the fic here! the full fic is available in its entirety on ao3. apologies for the inconvenience, and happy (late) year of fucking robots... read on ao3

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The deepest fissures in the depths of Zaun are usually, thankfully quiet. Perfect to hide something you'd expect not to be found.

You breathe deep puffs of simulated air through your gas mask. Your ear presses to the cold steel door, sealing off the entrance to the Chem-Baron vault. There shouldn't be anyone present, not at this time. Enforcers know little of the darkest labyrinths of Zaun. It's too risky to even have guards stationed here. Predictably, you're met with total, resounding silence — save for the echoing beep and ping of Viktor's self-made sonar device.

Lowering onto your knees, leaving yourself eye-level with the door's intricate set of five locks, you cast one more glance towards him. Viktor — the Machine Herald — completely towers over you, especially from this position.

It makes the back of your neck prickle on impulse. The two of you hardly resemble partners. Creator and creation, more like. One another's opposite image. A bright purpose for sets of technical, controlled executions. A fragile, too-emotional human, and a composed, powerful machine.

As though his complex steel form, an expression of the limits of his work and technology, was made to be admired.

Some people do. They come to him when they need him; just as you once did, ages ago. They worship him like a deity. Perhaps you're starting to see why.

Viktor hardly resembles the man you remember. And yet, there's a certain thrum to him. Mechanical beats and impulses. Familiar gear and hardware that delightfully push the boundaries of science. Vibrant, intricate, self-built components that demand your curiosity.

The Machine Herald captivates you, just as strongly as Viktor once did.

Viktor's mask voids him of expression. His orange, glowing eyes are the only light to illuminate the room. Still, there's urgency to the way he moves, stepping closer. His cape billows in the chamber's low draft, his iron boots clank when they hit the ground. His thumb flicks a thick button on the side of the sonar device.

The third arm jutting out from his shoulders tremors, before it comes to life. It scans the door with a bright red sensor, then twitches, shuts off. The sonar reader chimes approvingly in response.

Viktor gives you a nod. His gaze runs hot and intense, enough to burn right through you.

"The Hextech crystals are here. The device is picking up several readings," He discerns, modulated voice rumbling evenly. "If we are fortunate, we might return all of them."

You pull your gas mask from your face. It hangs loosely from your neck. The vault's thick, partially-filtered air hits your lungs hard. One deep breath in feels like you've filled your chest with half clouds, half sawdust.

You're trying your best to focus, examining the locks with your eyes squinted, when a gentle, yet firm hand places onto your shoulder.

"Do not rush," Viktor instructs. "We have time. This should be handled as quietly and discreetly as possible."

Artificial heat bleeds from his touch. Sparks of warmth, like black holes and galaxies, expand and implode beneath your skin. There's a sense of loss, when he carefully pulls his hand away. Allowing the cold to seep back in.

Your jaw clenches. Finally, you turn towards your metal arm.

The edges are smooth and shiny, recently welded. It's second nature to test the flexing of your fingers, even though you can't feel them; the metal creaks, but holds, gears turning, rigid platings twisting. Intricate patterns, in deep shades of silver and amber, line the frame. Fused together with a powerful ray of heat. A clear sign of his handiwork.

Recalling Viktor's instructions, you find a small notch on the underside. Press here, then pull this panel open. A thin lockpicking tool emerges from your palm, easily held between your steel-jointed fingers. Fit with its own handy flashlight.

It helps illuminate your work as you start on the first lock.

"How long do you think it'll take before they notice?" You're asking. Swearing to yourself, when the lockpick meets some resistance.

Viktor fiddles with the sonar device. "They will eventually. The crystals are nothing more than a bargaining chip. In all probability, once they attempt to sell them back to Piltover- Well, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise."

"We're making enemies of top and bottom side, then."

Viktor answers, "As anticipated."

It certainly wouldn't be the first time. This is all deathly familiar — working beside the Machine Herald, stealing tech to help those in Zaun. Though, this mission has been easy, in comparison. Perhaps a bit too easy. Your first tango with Zaun's upper echelon should've posed more of a challenge. All the crystals are right here, in an unguarded vault. No strings attached.

Viktor's boot taps against the ground to an impatient rhythm. So, you aren't the only one on edge.

You try to make conversation. "Thought about what you're gonna say to Miss Glasc?"

Rummaging through a Chem-Baron's property is one thing, certainly a dance with danger. Messing with Renata Glasc would be like prancing underneath a guillotine. She's influential, cunning, her connections nearly as bountiful as the coin that lines her pockets — and she's Viktor's benefactor, most pressingly. An important supplier of sheet metal, hardware, and painkillers.

"Glasc possesses no knowledge of this place. It is beyond her territory. Nevertheless, our alliance is not so easily relinquished, considering the rate of mutual benefit."

You put on your best faux, overly fancy voice. "We're her most beloved pawns, after all."

Viktor expels an amused huff in agreement.

The first lock ticks. When you move on to the second, it pops open around your lockpick in one smooth, simple movement.

You scoff, clicking your tongue, "As rich as these people are, you'd think they'd have a better security system."

"Our work here is not yet complete," Viktor replies, firmly and mechanically. He closes the sonar device, and he kneels down to hand it off to you. With your hands full, you're reaching around awkwardly, breathing an annoyed huff as you stuff it back into your pocket. "We still need to wipe the security cameras, and dispose of the thermal detectors."

"We?" The third lock clicks. "Pretty sure that's just my job."

"It is."

You throw him a quick, indignant glance. The fourth lock clicks open harshly, as you hastily jam your lockpick past the threshold.

"Almost done," You're mumbling, mostly to yourself.

"Excellent work," Viktor practically purrs, praise reverberating through his voice filter. "The new lockpick functions for you naturally, I see. We will be finished here soon."

Your spine tingles, like there's a lightning storm underneath your skin. Your heart pounds. It threatens to throw your composure off-kilter. To be praised by the feared, indecipherable Machine Herald is a wonderful, thrilling, head-rushing thing.

But you've stopped working on the last lock. The end of your lockpick taps the door idly, to no rhythm in particular.

Viktor notices.

"I thought I would provide you with some motivation. But here you are. Pouting, as expected."

A steel palm glides up from the small of your back, leading to your shoulder as he stands upright.

"First," Viktor explains, "I will obtain the crystals. Then, you will head to the security room, and I will stand guard in the event we are ambushed. We already discussed our plan. Have you forgotten?"

Your eyes roll. He says it like a taunt — you should try to remember, because he doesn't plan on reminding you twice. Although, in truth, there's little force behind the words. There never is, not when it comes to you.

"Actually, I remember being promised a reward in my future." You glance up at him, gaze playful, star-like. The lockpick twirls around your metal fingers. "Y'know, for all my hard work. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about that, right?"

Viktor hardly falters. "Once we return to the lab, we can discuss."

"Hm." You stare blankly at the last lock. Dramatically squinting your eyes, tapping your index to your chin. "I think my lockpick is broken."

Viktor grumbles, "You are ridiculous."

Your shoulders shrug. "Just clarifying our terms."

It's rhythmic — the way you instantly return to your work, turning away to hide your shit-eating grin. Your partner falls silent, for long enough to let the tension build. Metal creaks and scrapes together when his fingers clench. Either way, you're going to get what you want. You're certain. The push and pull between you always ends in your favor. It has to, because there is one exception to his rule. One weakness, amongst his perfected layers of inhuman machinery. An unacknowledged line connecting you and the Machine Herald.

If it were anyone else, if Viktor was made of less flesh and more machine, he might've attempted to circumvent this, to remove the aspects he deemed distractions, but you —

Viktor sighs, hard enough to push steam out from the edges of his mask.

"When we return, anything you desire from the lab is yours. Or I will add another modification onto your arm, if you prefer." His steel hand returns to your shoulder, this time giving you an authoritative squeeze. "Now, focus. First, the Hextech crystals. Then, the security system must be dismantled. Deciding will come later."

Anything you want.

The smirk on your face must make you look stupid, but you're having a difficult time holding it back. Continue to play your cards right, and one of those crystals might be yours.

"Alright, V." A single turn of your lockpick clicks open the final lock. You rise to your feet, and the lockpicking module folds back into your arm with a simple button press. "I'll get it done, yeah?"

Viktor approaches the door. You swiftly step aside.

"Good."

The vault is small. The metal door opens with a loud, grating creak. A flickering overhead light turns on automatically, revealing walls decorated by various rudimentary weapons, and tables littered with blueprints. Canisters of shimmer are stacked neatly in a corner. Unfinished machinery parts collect in piles on the floor. Resting atop a table in the far-right corner, graciously reflecting the light, you spot your target — a glass case, with a set of Hex Crystals suspended inside.

You stride in. Viktor grabs his staff, still leant up against the wall, and he follows you into the vault.

Your hands clasp together and rest behind your head. You glance around, examining the entirety of the room. A large blueprint is pinned to the wall; stolen, most likely, as it's signed with various Piltover clan symbols. It seems to detail a process to make similar crystals artificially. There's no cameras on the ceiling, or in any of the four corners. You lightly kick one of the piled-up automatons with your foot. The springs in its center make a dull popping noise. A clear sign that they're entirely broken.

"Wish you'd be a little nicer, though," You're humming, musing idly. You kneel down, sifting through the pile of components on the ground. A chipped gear, a loose screw, a broken lever. Why would a Chem-Baron vault be filled with useless, rusty parts? "You said it's a psychological thing, right? When humans are influenced by their emotions. Positive reinforcement, I guess."

Beep, beep, beep.

You rise to your feet, and Viktor answers from behind you. Voice dangerously close to your ear. Low and stern enough to make you tense. "Don't move."

Unfortunately, you're not listening. You spin around to face him, arms crossed in front of you. Your fingertips toy with a loose wire on the panelling of your forearm. Viktor is twice as imposing when he's close; he towers over you, with your head barely coming up to his metal chest. Glowing eyes meet yours, and although it's usually impossible to determine what he's thinking, you can instantly tell something is wrong.

He glances to either side of the room. His fingers drum against his staff quickly, almost nervously.

Both arms fall loose at your sides. "I'm teasing, Viktor-"

"Do not speak," Viktor snaps, his tone controlled. He grabs your shoulder, hard enough to nearly make your weak legs stumble. "And don't move."

Beep, beep, beep.

Oh. Prevailing over the silence is an unmistakable noise, getting louder, getting faster —

Fuck. You're freezing up, as still as a fancy Piltovan statue. Your hands start to shake, and now you're chipping, threatening to crumble. Sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck, trickling down like sharp ice shards. You're both screwed.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

Valves fall open; a loud hissing sound cuts through the air like a blade, as the room quickly fills with billows of smoke and sharp gasoline. Burning your eyes, choking your lungs.

Viktor's staff hits the ground with a clatter. He grabs you, pulls you into his chest before the fear in your mind has caught up with your body. Your breath catches, your vision blurs, your ears ring — and all at once, the vault crumbles into destruction, blown to bits in the wake of a deafeningly loud explosion.

—

"Hold still. Is there one single instruction that is not immediately lost on you?"

"I'm trying, Vik. Geez."

Viktor presses an old cloth to a long scrape on your forehead, fabric ripped and dirty with oil stains. The disinfectant stings your skin lightly. You try your best not to flinch away. Your stool creaks when you awkwardly shuffle back and forth, digging your nails into your leg, and Viktor's scrapes the concrete ground when he shifts closer. A cold metal hand tilts up your chin, holds you firmly in place. He brushes the rag over your jaw, next. Meticulous, as he cleans the faint scrapes left by glass fragments, and so, so gentle. Your heart twists inside your chest, grinds and sings like a music box wound up too quickly.

You force your breathing to steady. Your eyes stare into where his would be. Soft and golden, honey-drenched suns. The light of his pupils burns when you look at them too long. The artificial glow behind his mask carries amber-hued traces of what you remember, but he's utterly unreadable. Would he be looking at you with annoyance? Disdain? Guilt?

Another corner of the rag is brought to your neck, and you roll your sore shoulders back. Trying to find a distraction, your gaze trails to the table behind him.

Stray parts are scattered about. There's scalpels, messy rolls of bandages. Tools are sorted into piles: various wrenches, different sizes of pliers. In tonight's chaos, a few screwdrivers have rolled onto the ground already.

And at the edge of the table rests a small glass case. The lid cracked, the surface charred. Each Hex Crystal remains suspended inside. Completely, tauntingly unharmed.

Emberflit Alley is quiet and secluded, especially once night has fallen. Viktor's lab hums to its own familiar, comforting rhythm. It allows you to finally breathe again.

Experiments you've been working on together litter every flat surface. Breathing devices, prosthetic outlines. A prototype hand takes up its own corner of his desk, parts separated neatly. There's a makeshift bed by the door, surrounded with discarded cans, left by the stray cat you both have been feeding. A couch rests in the room's corner, cracked leather showing its age. Stacks of your clothing pile up on the arm, neatly folded. You're sure you'd last left them in a heap on the floor.

The adjacent end table houses an ashtray, littered with your smokes. Coffee stains burned into the wood form halos around your chrome lighter.

(Viktor made it ages ago, to replace the ones you kept losing. It never leaves your pocket. Your thumb likes to trace over the jagged, uneven edges, welded from scrap material. You flick the sparking gear until there's a flame. Molten and warm, reminiscent of his heat — over and over again.)

Finally, Viktor leans back, satisfied. He turns in his stool, tossing the rag onto the table. He sifts through his tools for a moment, metal clanking together, before he turns back to you, wrench in hand.

"Your arm." Viktor instructs simply, holding out his gloved hand; and you're quick to extend it for him, allowing him to grasp and examine the broken gaps between your forearm's metal platings.

The memory of the evening's events flicker dimly through your mind. You both were lucky, all things considered.

You fucked up, must've tripped something. The vault shook, a bomb went off, and everything was a blur from there. A mix of hazy sensations. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Rubble pinning you into place. Thick fumes choking you, burning in your chest, making your eyes water. Suffocating the cramped vault and mixing with the heavy air of the fissures. Pressure assigns itself a stronger definition. Its force pushes between your ribs, as though it hopes to split them open.

Viktor's greys and oranges took on a watercolor swirl in your teary vision. He pressed your gas mask to your face until you were breathing again. He helped you to your feet, carried you when you were starting to fade in and out —

Right. Viktor shielded you. He purposefully pressed you beneath him with seconds to spare, to ensure most of the rubble would damage him, instead.

His chassis was mostly unscathed; the advantages of steel, you suppose.

Your arm is busted, undoing all of Viktor's recent enhancements. Your lungs still ache. Your body hurts. The sort of hurt that crests like a fully-encompassing wave, the form of hurt you can't name. Not a this is sore here, or a this is injured there.

It hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things.

If the explosion damaged the canisters and blew through the shimmer, if it reached the crystals and sparked a chain reaction, the decimation would have been unrecognizable, you're sure.

A dangerous chill laces up your spine. It taps you on the shoulder, reminds you of the risks. Viktor adjusts the crooked lockpick-panel on your palm. He holds your hand in place when your fingers start to twitch.

You're alright, though. Alive. The realization perplexes you. It makes your chest ache, the memory a tender blade, pressing deep.

Viktor saved you. And for the faint, blurry moments in between, it felt warm, to be held in his arms. It felt safe.

This feels safe, familiar — Viktor skillfully glides his gloved hand down your forearm, examining where the frame has buckled in on itself. Metal components have been warped by heat. The outer armor is digging into the steel skeleton, blocking several axles and hinges.

He reaches behind him, exchanging his wrench for pliers. You're watching him think as his fingertip taps your arm rhythmically. You can practically hear the vibrations of his memorized voice, echoing through your mind. The skeleton is unaffected, but the outer shell has been decimated. Most functions are rendered inoperable. Additional augments can be repaired in time. For now, returning function to the joints is the primary objective.

It is a simple adjustment. You are in good hands. As you always are.

Viktor has no problem with wordlessness. But matters between the two of you rarely get this silent.

He holds your arm in a tight, unmoving grip. Pliers in hand, he works on bending each plating back into place.

It reminds you of the past, pleasant and persistent. Viktor's been working to improve your prosthetic since you met. When the line between you sealed into a knot. When tension brought you together, two ships on stormy seas, and you decided to turn your sails and bond over the shared struggles you had to overcome — your arm, Viktor's leg. Piltover was less of a grave, and more of a home, then.

Weakness, experimentation, and danger followed Viktor as a second shadow. Ultimately, it only made sense to rush after him. No matter where he returned to, no matter what he was slated to become.

Without Viktor, you might find yourself flexing your handmade fingers, staring at the piece of him you're doomed to carry with you. A reminder of the half to your whole. Like the connection between gears. Like what the hammer is to the nail. Bright light to a systematic solar panel, crisp air to weak lungs. A hacksaw to fragile flesh. Inseparable.

Viktor finishes adjusting the armor on that very same arm, and he begins to reach for your shoulder. His glove brushes your skin. Gentle, but you swiftly realize it's meant to be a distraction, reassurance. Crooked screws dig into the separation between your shoulder and your arm; Viktor tightens them carefully, and you wince, tensing up.

Low and soft, Viktor's words crunch through his partially-damaged voice filter. "Tell me if I am hurting you."

"No, no," You're answering, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just a little sore."

You shut your eyes. Viktor tightens the last screw. Fuzzy stars blanket your eyelids once they flutter open.

His Hexclaw reaches behind him, handing him another tool. Ever-so careful, he examines a dainty set of wires leading through your forearm. He pushes them aside, attempting to reach a line of broken pistons set into your wrist.

Metal clinks against metal. The lab hums quietly, jars bubbling, vents thrumming.

"I cannot believe you waltzed right in."

Oh. Viktor shatters the silence — and your placidity, along with it.

"We're gonna start with this now?" You're huffing; the steel tip of your boot taps the floor anxiously.

Viktor stops. He tips his head up, glowing eyes with rings of circular, mechanical pupils glancing at you. Expectant, intimidating.

Your entire body weakens when you sigh, jostling your arm, making him hold you tighter to keep you still. The firm grip he has on your forearm's frame screams annoyed.

"How the hell was I supposed to know they had the place tripped?" You argue, "And weren't you supposed to detect it? With that device, like you did with the cameras?"

"Thermal cameras give off a unique heat signature, which the device was tailored to analyze," Viktor explains evenly. The end of his multi-tool extends to reveal small tweezers, which he uses to delicately remove specs of rubble from the joints in your wrist. "The Hextech crystals, as well. The energy they radiate is relatively equivalent. Failing to detect the tripwire indicates a clear error of design. It will be adjusted for our next mission. Now, your wrist. Test how it functions."

Viktor sits back, and you twist your wrist in either direction. The joints swivel smoothly, and the modified pistons hold firm when you clench your hand.

"Perfect. This will suffice," He concludes, with the familiar air of pride he always regards for his creations. Grasping your forearm once more, he returns to working on its inner mechanisms.

"We needed those crystals, Vik," You're continuing. Fiery gaze fixated on him, even though he's focused on his work. "Our current procedures aren't cutting it anymore, and you know that better than anyone. Hextech has the potential to save so many people. I'm not like you. I can't just… sit around and calculate every possible outcome before I make a move. We can never make progress without taking-"

"Risks only serve as obstacles when they threaten permanent consequences. Progress is not linear. It comes to those who are patient enough to know when they should further it."

Viktor compares a few different sized gears in his palm, eventually choosing the smallest one. It fits perfectly into the juncture of mechanics just below your wrist.

He glances up at you once. Then, he calmly returns to adjusting your arm. "Impulsivity will get us nowhere."

You groan, tossing your head back.

"They tripped a vault. With explosives." You're gazing at the ceiling, focused on the large, Machine Herald shaped shadow Viktor casts as he works. "Why even store the crystals there if you're just going to blow them up the moment someone nabs them? It doesn't make sense."

"This was not about the crystals. They are sending a message. The Chem-Barons will not hesitate to dispose of us, if we continue to cross them."

The pieces click into place, in hindsight. Voices flit through your memory. Takeda's shimmer-drunk drawl as he leans back in his leather seat and counts his coin. Make sure you tell your tin-can he still owes me. Veraza's cold tone as she crushes a purple petal between her fingers, the thick air of her greenhouse planting roots inside your lungs. Careful, now. The other Chem-Barons believe you are pulling at your leash much too tightly. Do not let them break your neck.

Ah, the crystals were bait. An expensive trade-off. And the vault simply housed the things they were trying to get rid of. Unauthorized weapons. Stolen shimmer. You, and the Machine Herald.

Physical pieces slot where they're supposed to, as well, when Viktor finishes adjusting the chain of gears that line your steel skeleton. This was the easy part. He rolls his shoulders back in frustration, as he attempts to adjust some warped, particularly stubborn strips of framework.

"But this discussion is about you," Viktor grits, as though the words are spoken between bared canines. "What in the world could you have possibly been thinking? Or were you failing to think at all?"

Your eyes roll. "You know what? I don't even want to get into it."

"We are not getting into anything. It is a simple conversation," Viktor swears under his breath. He pulls and pulls at the thin cylinder but the broken metal won't give. "And I believe you should contribute."

"I think it's best if we don't talk about it. We're both stressed, and just-"

"I disagree."

"I'm fucking tired, Vik," You're huffing, free arm rubbing the sore nape of your neck in emphasis. "My whole body hurts. Sorry if I'm not thrilled to sit here and listen to you scold me, because somehow, this is all my fault."

Viktor rebuttals, "You are missing the point."

"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly."

"I am merely asking you to consider your actions." Viktor pulls at the last broken strip hard. It snaps, and he tosses it onto the table behind him with an equal display of impatience. "From now on, precautions must be put into place. Especially in situations involving the Chem-Barons. And you must promise me, if we find ourselves in a comparable situation, for once, you will listen."

"Fine."

You're yanking your arm away the moment he finishes closing the platings. You examine it quickly, front and back, flexing your fingers. Some sections are still chipped, but it'll do. Clear, delicate care has been put into the intricate assembly of each division, each joint, to ensure movement is as comfortable and responsive as possible. Viktor's work is always articulate, but doubly so, when it comes to you.

His adjustments have already taken considerable weight off your shoulder. Surges of warmth kindle faint flames in your chest — but you're sighing, arms crossing, brows pinching.

"Next time, I'll stay here. Keep the place warm, since it's all I'm good at."

"I did not-" Viktor weakens in the wake of a sigh, as if the air is shuddering through his makeshift lungs. "I apologize, I should not have made it seem as if I was blaming you-"

"No," You interrupt. Teeth gritted. "I'm tired of feeling like all I do is get in your way."

You know you're being unreasonable, but you hardly care. The words simply tumble out, like they've been toppled from the knots in your mind. You glance down. Your fingertips fiddle with a line of screws embedded into your forearm.

Whatever rebuttal Viktor was planning dies as quickly as a blossom in a snowstorm. He drops forwards; his fingers lace, he rests his forehead against them. Tension buds in his body like you've never seen before. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair, and he sits up.

His voice fizzles with heavy, husky, insuppressible static.

"I could have lost you. That is what you do not understand."

Your spine tingles. As though it's laced in gold. You can feel the pull of guilt and tenderness — like gravity, in your heart, in your chest, in your flesh. The words must flicker differently through a mostly mechanical system, if they mean anything to him at all.

You stand slowly, kicking your stool away half-heartedly.

He's grabbing your wrist before you can get far. Your real wrist. He holds you there, hesitant. (The changing of seasons rarely reaches the depths of Zaun; you're gradually beginning to forget what they're like.) But Gods, Viktor's steel touch feels the same as the heat of summer, artificial warmth resembling basking in sun rays, dipping your wrist into candle wax. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the frigid chill of winter. Cool metal reminiscent of the sharpness of ice.

"Lay down," Viktor instructs, as though he plans to give you little choice in the matter. "It is late. You should rest."

Perhaps you truly do have a problem with listening.

Because even as Viktor is speaking, your gaze is travelling across him, eyes narrowing as they catch downwards. Your partner hates asking for assistance, but you're used to reciprocity — to completing something for him, in exchange for what he does for you. To further the cycle of fixing and repairing. Little losses and small victories, strung between the fate of you, and the Machine Herald.

Viktor's hand slips from your wrist. He follows your line of sight, and there's a look in your gaze he's long since come to recognize. Pure persistence.

Your palm reaches out to him, makes a grabbing motion. "Screwdriver."

Viktor drums his steel fingers against his iron thigh, making metal rhythmically clink against metal. Your stubborn nature is a stake, driving into him intimately. Like it never really left.

Leaning his elbow on the desk, he reaches behind him, to hand you the particular screwdriver he knows you'll need. Flat-tipped, handle weighty. A light smile paints satisfaction across your expression. He continues to keep his gaze on you as you're sliding down — your frame appears small, when compared to his, simply because you're only human; this state amplifies the difference between your mortal form, and his large, metal chassis. Eventually, you're settling on your knees in front of him.

The column of his leg is busted. It's functional, sure, but a few of the plates were crushed under rubble, the brace-like mechanism has springs loose and cogs twisted. Everything might crack, under the strain of continued usage.

For now, you can fix the platings. You've done it before. On his arms, a few times. On his back, once. You'll reinforce the gears and tighten the framework back into place, to keep it stable, until he has the time to make a full replacement.

You decide to start with his ankle, and work your way up. You're lifting his heavy leg, exhaling a weary breath as you place it close to your lap. The end of your screwdriver finds the seam on the back of his calf, screws crooked and stripped. Your jaw grits. You forcibly push the steel back into place, tightening each screw as far as it'll go.

(And you're aware this is stupidly reminiscent of a lifetime before, although Viktor is twice as metal, and half as human. Emotions and sentiment are among the many things he swore he discarded.) Yet, he's leaning back. Relaxing, almost. Giving in to you, to this.

Unable to sit still for long, Viktor twists. He finds the two broken halves of his staff, resting them in his lap, pressing them together. The Hexclaw twitches, before its laser hums. He begins to expertly weld both halves together.

After a while, you're breaking the silence. "Vik?"

Viktor doesn't look up. He examines the end of his staff, fiddles with a few wires and jacks. It's still out of power, predictably.

"Yes?"

"Back then, when the bomb went off." Your fingers trail his knee, admiring the smooth, solid structure. "You tried to protect me. Why?"

"I thought you did not want to talk about this."

You breathe a slight tch. "Just answer me."

You're glancing up at him, but Viktor is pointedly not looking at you. His Hexclaw curls behind him to set his staff on the table, and to grab another part. In tandem, he's reaching for his throat, pulling its front panel open.

He tilts his head back. Thumbs through the wires and exposed circuitry to yank a small part free, so hastily it seems like it'd hurt. He shoves the new voice box inside, until it clicks into place. Viktor rolls his neck once the panel is shut.

"The explosion was inclined to originate from the entrance, perhaps aiming to trap us inside," He explains, voice strikingly clear, this time. "As soon as it convened on the shimmer or the crystals, the entire room would be set ablaze. Fortunately, it did not. It was a poor plan. But, regardless of their failures, you are… not suited to withstand such conditions. The only option was to use my construction as a shield."

Your chest splits with an arrow-shot ache, because you know he's fucking right. If Viktor wasn't there, or if the fire had spread just a little more; if you weren't standing so close to him, or if your gas mask had broken, or if anything had changed —

You swallow hard enough to make your eardrums prickle, and you busy yourself with fixing the drilled-in brace, just above his knee.

"I guess that makes sense."

"And our mission was a success," Viktor reasons. "Was it not?"

"We got the crystals. But-" Your grip tightens on the screwdriver's handle. You breathe a long sigh, heavy enough to make your lungs hurt. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you, for acting like an idiot, for everything. I should've known it was a setup. The stupid vault was filled with junk. And I was standing so close to those shimmer canisters, I could've-"

Your head shakes; your breath does, too. "Nevermind."

Viktor's gloved hand grasps his gauntlet, where the power source feeds energy into his palm. You swear you catch his fingers trembling just slightly, as he deftly pulls the panelwork apart.

"My body will not take long to fix," He replies. Metal fingers clenching individually, while he prods deep into his own arm. "If that is your concern."

Your palm glides up his thigh slowly, exploring every dip and notch in the shape. Firm steel curves under your fingers. Beckoningly smooth. "I know. I want to make this up to you, is all."

A steel index finger drifts underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards, in his direction.

It's momentary. Viktor takes his hand away to grasp his gauntlet again, snapping the panel on his wrist shut. The molten light on the back of his hand glows brightly, indicating a newfound charge of energy.

"I need you to listen carefully."

"Mmm," You hum. You're warm, pliable, electricity traveling from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, like gliding gentle touches over tender bruises — "I'm listening."

"This was a minor setback, nothing more," Viktor continues. "Betrayal from the Chem-Barons was anticipated. Your safety is my only concern. On that subject, I believe I have made myself clear. There is no need to hold yourself responsible. You do not owe me anything."

Right. Just your life.

You take your time on the last screw in his upper leg. Rising to your feet, you toss the screwdriver onto the desk, causing it to roll all the way to the edge. You give him a swift once over.

The back of your hand taps against his chest. "Something's broken in here. The platings are all misaligned."

"Potentially."

Viktor grasps your hand. Squeezing, first, before he pushes it away. Gods, you know it's artificial and intentionally practiced — Does a machine's best attempt at replication still count as intimacy? — but it makes your head spin, all the same.

"I will handle it," He concludes, assured. Words thick and accented as they rumble through his filter.

Your head shakes. "No, it's- this isn't some kind of obligation. I want to fix this for you."

"Spark, you have done enough for me. You may rest, now."

The next breath you draw in aches to say his name.

So, you let it.

"Viktor," You murmur, although a hard, determined edge is returning to your voice, one that doesn't intend to take no for an answer, "Let me help you."

You can feel the vibrating thrum of machinery beneath your palm, with your hand pressed flat to his chest. You half-expect another argument to ensue. You're preparing for it, as you worry an impression into your bottom lip. Instead, Viktor shifts, sitting up fully.

He reaches down. Thumbs pressing a set of latching mechanisms, one on each of his sides. The armor around his entire midsection begins to hiss approvingly, releasing small puffs of pressurized steam.

"This," He starts, although he's already popping open the structure of his central system, "Would prove much more simple if I chose to complete it myself. But I will teach you. If you are willing."

Your smile shows your canines. "Of course."

The moment Viktor has his platings fully opened for you, armor swiveled to the side like doors on hinges, a thick blanket of smoke pours out, filling your lungs. You cough, batting it away. The sound of his machinery is so much louder: ticking gears, moving pistons, the hum of various pumps. Your eyes squint, and you place your hands on your knees, bending down to peer inside.

It reminds you of the automatons you've worked on together. The blueprints he followed for his own structure must have been similar, at least. But this won't be like operating on a person, nor an automaton. The little fixings you've done for the people of Zaun, fusing organic with inorganic, pale in comparison to the complicated system before you. Viktor's system.

Viktor's fingertips dance over the inner edges of his armor, pressing a few more latches into place. Locking functions, you're guessing. To keep the platings open.

"At odds with your expectations?" He questions, noticing your hesitation.

"Well, I suppose," You're answering, throat dry. "This wasn't what I was expecting, no."

"Ah. I will take it from here, then."

"No, just… give me a minute. Need to get my bearings."

A lull takes over. Viktor leans back slowly, he rests his elbows on the desk behind him; hands clenching, as he resists the reflexive tick to busy them. You allow yourself to kneel, still propped up enough to put your gaze eye-level with his mechanics.

It's… a lot.

You couldn't even begin to describe every individual intricacy. Different mechanisms all work in tandem, pushing out steam, clicking gears into place, powering various motors; and there's hundreds of wires, leading every which way like veins. They connect through a diverse array of parts, but they all inevitably curl into one central space — like the crest of a wave, like a Fibonacci spiral, an unintentional golden ratio. Bridging into a singular unit, runes carved on its edges. A small crystal suspended within.

You're reminded of Viktor's words from years prior, when his newfound form first perplexed you. When you steeled yourself and simply asked, because your gaze kept catching on the jarred organs surrounding his workspace, despite his declarations that he'd relinquished all of himself. Because you're watching him dig a scalpel into his forearm, skin dead and pallid like snow, obsidian-hued blood trickling into the gap between sizzling, split circuitry.

It was practical, this way. To replace imperfect organs with a consistent, mechanical system.

Actually, the configuration before you is anything but.

The mechanics show signs of Viktor's own handiwork. Welded edges, carefully constructed synapses. Bundles of wires have been grouped together messily. Displaying a clear motive: to focus on making a functional system, not a pristine one.

The central unit, housing the crystal, is surrounded by two large pipelines, interconnected by steel conduits. Their purpose is lost on you, but one is smaller, the pipe closest to the unit. Like the way one lung is smaller to give room for the heart.

Some of the parts are recognizable, albeit a bit rudimentary; they're prototypes you remember improving upon ages ago. Viktor must have deemed them still functional. Or perhaps, he hasn't had the time to replace them. It humanizes him, in a strange, opposite way. Viktor is so busy with the rest of his endeavors — evolving his plans for the Undercity, assisting others, including you — he hasn't been able to rebuild himself.

And there is something beautiful about it, about him. Something worth worshipping. Alluringly, divinely synthetic, self-made by his hands. Everything within him vibrates with electricity and life. Resembling a tangible, second soul.

(You're starting to understand those who pray for their flesh to be replaced with mechanics. Those who worship their image of the Machine Herald, despite not knowing he was once a man, just like them. Because still, every time you see them, knelt in reverence before a statue or a stained-glass depiction of the Grey Lady, you can't help but think of Viktor, and yourself.)

Your heart hammers wildly inside your chest, a perfect contrast to his steady, exposed system. Your breath echoes so sharply through the lab, you're sure with the proximity, he can hear it, too.

Maybe it's the circumstance — this is Viktor, after all. You're giving yourself a headache, trying to figure out how you should work on your own partner, how to understand the Machine Herald's stupidly ornate insides.

And it's exciting, interesting. You've never worked on anything so complex before. He's a puzzle you desperately want to learn to solve.

But, more than anything, this feels personal. Intimate. It's a thrilling, entirely new way to admire him, yet you're finding it difficult to stay relaxed. You think of the Viktor you once knew. Of how it would feel to be shown the softness of his guts. To be asked to dig through his sinews and his lungs and his innards, instead of wires and mechanics and gadgetry. Palms brushing a body made of fragile bones and pallid skin, not metal.

Fucking hell. You'd do it, either way. Without hesitation.

"Okay," You breathe, attempting to place yourself back on course. You rub the overwhelming tension from your temple, allowing your tired eyes to close for a fleeting second. Then, you're pulling up your stool, sitting across from him to continue your examinations.

Beneath his mask, Viktor's gaze stays magnetized to you. To the pinch in your brows, to your hands folded in your lap, moving with the bounce of your knee.

The curious, ambitious, lost-in-thought side to you is always impossibly enthralling.

"This is sort of familiar, actually," You reason, as though you're trying to convince yourself. "Kind of like Blitz, just… way, way more advanced."

You focus on locating the parts you recognize, as opposed to the ones you don't. The center unit is definitely a main power source. The pumps and fans surrounding it are likely for cooling. It amazes you, honestly. Viktor must know all of this like the back of his hand.

"I will explain the process to the best of my ability." Viktor replies.

"I'm, uh- a little nervous, V. It's your body, and I just- I don't want to mess anything up. When's the last time someone poked around in here? Is there anything I definitely shouldn't touch?"

Viktor clenches his hands idly. He leans back a bit further. "Comply with my instructions, for now. Once the major repairs are complete, and we have eliminated all present malfunctions, you will be free to tinker with each apparatus, as you see fit."

"Okay. I can do that."

"As for your additional question, it has been quite a while since I have improved upon my own design. This would make you the only one I have… shown this to, for lack of a more acceptable term."

"Oh." You shrink up, recoiling your hands before they can reach for him. Jaw set, as you bite down your own nerves. "Should I- are you sure this is okay, then?"

"Yes." Viktor's head tilts slightly, analyzing. "Go on. I trust you."

Your heart races at that. Running circles around itself, abiding by its own laws of chemistry to create unbridled, newfound energy in your chest.

Without another moment of hesitation, you shift closer, and you stick your hands inside.

Warmth radiates off of him, sparking from the countless movements of parts and mechanics. It warms your face, envelops your palms as if you've held them to a campfire. It's definitely too hot, all things considered.

"Looks like there's a problem with temperature," You're commenting, although it's certainly obvious. You run your fingertip over a line of fan blades, set into the top of his chassis. You turn them yourself, and pick out a few tiny pieces of rubble. "Yeah, fans are all stuck."

"The fans are an auxiliary measure," Viktor clarifies, tone smooth and systematic. "The central pump must not be pushing coolant. Check the thermoregulation cylinders. They lead into the manifold."

"Vik." Your gaze flickers up. "Whatever you just said, it sounded like total mechanical gibberish."

"Give me your hand."

With his metal palm already extended, you lean forward, and you gently brush your warm fingers to his.

Viktor guides you carefully, steel digits closed around yours; the entirety of your hand fits in his palm with ease, it's at least twice the size of your own. Your fingertips slip past wires and circuitry, to hover over an intricate array of cylindrical conduits.

"Do they feel hot? The cylinders," Viktor clarifies. "Touch them carefully. Do not let them burn you."

His grip on your hand loosens. You're wincing, as you hesitantly press your fingertips forwards — but the metal isn't hot. Far from it, in fact.

"No, they're… lukewarm, maybe."

"Hm." Viktor leans back once more, elbows propped on the desk behind him. "We will begin with the fans. This fix will be the least complex."

"They connect to a main unit, right?" You're asking, even though you've already started moving on your own. The automatons you remember working on carry similar cooling systems. "If that goes out, they all do."

"Correct."

You follow a fan's wiring with your hands. It loops several times, before it plugs into a small metal box: sides caved in, surface smashed.

"Ah. Found the problem." You tap the surface of the power supply with your nails. "It's busted."

"Do not touch it yet," Viktor instructs. "Its processes may still be running, in which case, it could overheat. Remove each connector and extract the unit. I will add it to my list of obligations, I suppose."

You quickly pull every wire from the fan power unit, and you reach over his shoulder to place it on the desk. Viktor leans his head back. A few valves in his chest expel large puffs of steam, somewhat akin to a sigh.

"The main cylinders," He continues, "Do you remember where they are located?"

"Mhmm." You find the cylinders with your fingertips. Metal smooth, cool to the touch.

Viktor stretches, rolling his shoulders back, armor slightly clinking together. He tips his head down to study you.

"Shift your hand to your right. You will find a main cooling manifold. Open it. Flip both notches paneled into the intake. Up, for precisely three seconds. Then, flip them down. It will overclock the thermocore, enabling a full reactivation."

You nod slowly. Right, you've got all that. Open, flip, down, close.

Your fingers brush along the cylinders until you find where they lead into. The manifold's panel opens easily — slowly, with all the delicacy of opening up a ribcage. Fingertips to the notches, you push them both up; like tending to a wound, like softly tracing scar tissue. With bated breath, you keep count in your head. One. Two. Three. Then, down.

You click the front panel back into place, and the entire assembly begins to whir.

"Now, they will resume function. The systems are… cooling down- very good, well done." Viktor affirms, tone ripe with relief. Within him, sets of valves and pistons gently heave.

His praise makes you shiver. Selfishly, you want to hear more. The cylinders are starting up. They're still slightly cool, as you drag your fingers across them; but Viktor's warm voice has the opposite effect. Guiding heat to coil and ignite in your gut, like you've swallowed phosphorus and matchsticks.

You remove your hands carefully, settling them in your lap, and you give Viktor time to catch his breath.

The manifold shudders. Briefly overloaded by the extra draw of power, perhaps. Viktor's machinery works synchronically to reign it in; his shoulders tense, he reaches into his stomach and messes with a few components, flipping switches, thumbing regulators. He leans back, and the large central cylinders strongly push out smoky air, reminiscent of lungs.

Strong is a good way to describe the Machine Herald's construction. Complicated, durable, and intentionally intimidating. There's power behind the grind of every mechanical process. Parts are entrailed together haphazardly, vitals cased in metal, strung between wires — clearly not meant to be toyed with, to be examined by someone who is foreign to them.

And yet, here you are.

Old, rusted mechanics take the place of scars. Tracing your fingertips along his steel skeleton might remind you of brushing them over a defined ribcage. Individual colored wires form auroras, purposefully tethered. Able to be memorized — like you once did for constellations on soft skin, dotted in freckles and moles.

Oh, how you long to reach out and touch.

(It wouldn't be the same — but how would it feel? Would some wires be cool, rough, while some are smooth, warm? Fit with their own small intricacies: frayed insides, different electric charges. You could be gentle with some, and rough, with others. His pressure points would buzz underneath your fingertips. Shudder like a body arching into warmth. Would Viktor stop you, or would he give in — a betrayal of what he was made for, to finally pull you closer?)

Hands still in your lap, you fiddle with your thumbs. Viktor's chest reverberates. Every mechanic convenes into his center, feeding into pumps and wire splitters, like arteries. Powered by a small, perplexing device with suspended panels. The metal is carved in rune-work. Protecting a gemstone, illuminated in hues of faint, blue light. It strikes you as Hextech inspired, though clearly more machine than magic.

"Viktor, this crystal," You're asking, "What is it?"

"That," Viktor's gaze stays trained on you. "Would be what functions as my heart."

Your eyes sparkle. "Can I-"

"Yes," Viktor interrupts, disgruntled. He knows that look, and he doesn't intend on fighting it. "Inspect it if you must. The gemstone is not my only power supply. Simply one of many."

As your curious fingers approach, reaching into his chest, the device appears to open without prompting — panels shifting, sides unfurling. Coaxing you in.

Your fingertips meet the gemstone, gently admiring; the surface is smooth like a petal, like gliding a pen over paper. It pulses with rhythmic energy, akin to a heartbeat. Viktor shifts, he breathes a cross between a gentle sigh and a mechanical hiss. When the stone drops into your palm, it is solid, warm. Energy-rich and beautiful. It reminds you of an oyster's pearl. Cosmic shades of purple and blue shift within its shape.

"Vik- Wow." You let go of a small, tensionless laugh in amazement — you're literally holding Viktor's heart in your hand; "This is incredible. You're incredible."

Viktor tenses. Energy thrums from the crystal, sparking hard against your skin. You choke in a sharp, pained breath, and you take your hand away quickly, leaving the gemstone to return to suspension.

Ah. Viktor's heart just shocked you.

You're barely able to reconvene; his Hexclaw grabs your face, tilting you gently yet forcefully, guiding you to meet an expressionless mask and glowing, motionless eyes.

"Enough," Viktor asserts. "I require your focus. The central systems have cooled. We may proceed."

Then, his Hexclaw releases you, reaches behind him, and hands you a wrench.

"I will pull the sternum platings open, beneath the oxygen valves. Reach inside, and secure the pistons that sit above the energy reservoir. Is this understandable?"

Back to work already, it seems. "Yeah," You nod. "I've got it."

It's a relatively simple fix. Viktor reaches deep into his circuitry, pushing wires aside to pull both platings apart; surely this would have been cumbersome, if he'd opted to do it alone. Both sections of his sternum need to be held open, or they'll try to snap shut. Your hands are much smaller than his, as well, so you have no trouble reaching into his structure, and swiftly re-tightening the pistons.

Viktor closes the panels as you're reaching behind him to set the wrench on the desk. His Hexclaw twitches. His gauntlet and the generator fixed into his shoulder flicker with light, like a dying lightbulb, before energy surges within them, bright and molten.

You glance up. "Good?"

Viktor's body hums quietly, amidst his usual mechanical noise.

"Perfect. You are an expert already, yes? The Death Ray is no longer fueled by reserve power." Viktor rolls his neck to the side, until it gives a satisfying, motorized pop. "Now, as we continue, you will need to use your hands."

"Alright. I can do that."

"Use your flesh hand," Viktor corrects. "And promise me you will be careful. I would prefer to keep each of your remaining fingers intact. Do not get them stuck."

You form a faint, light-filled smile. "I promise."

"To your left, there is a diode controller. Here." Viktor finds your hand, steel digits brushing over your knuckles, and he guides you, once more. "Tell me which lights are displayed on the module."

Your hand presses to a small steel box, nestled into his chest. "There's a red light. I think that's the power, but… it looks like that's it."

"The explosion jostled its position, as I suspected. Inlaid into the underside, there will be a set of wires."

Sure enough, although several curving filaments obstruct the crooked controller, you can spot a few tangled wires, plugged in loosely.

You gently push a few of his mechanics aside, trying to get a handle on what you're dealing with. "You're planning on doing a full cold boot, right? So pull them all out, wait for the controller to restart, and then plug them back in."

What Viktor lacks in expression, he makes up for in vibrato, because you can practically hear the smile hidden within his voice. Equally calm and weaponized; as soft as a caress, and as powerful as a knife held to your throat.

"Yes," He hums, mechanical filter thrumming around the thickly accented syllables. "Look at you. It is impressive- how efficiently you learn."

You aren't trying to prove him wrong, but what's truly impressive is how easily he knocks the focus right out of you. You're grasping at what remains of it, as you stretch to guide your hand to the wires. With the controller pinning them between itself and his metal skeleton, it's a relatively tight fit.

Breath in your throat, you manage to find the first wire — and you blindly tug. As it comes free, Viktor's chest tenses, gears grinding, valves sputtering. He grabs your forearm, holding you still. Shaky mechanical fingers attempting to establish control.

"Gentle," Viktor instructs. His body hisses, expelling warm air that fans over your skin. "The wires- they direct essential currents of power. If you are not careful, you will overload the voltage."

He releases you gradually, then leans back fully.

"Sorry. I'll go slow."

You grasp the next wire at the head. Instead of pulling, you shift it back and forth, over and over, until it eventually comes free. With each discharged wire, his mechanics grow hotter, louder. Warmth radiates over your palm as the controller chugs, giving off a faint, high-pitched noise. It reminds you of the whistles of trains in Piltover.

"Better?" You murmur, heavy gaze drifting across him, hand already blindly grasping for the fourth wire.

"Yes," Viktor coos, content. "Keep going."

"Does this- am I hurting you?"

"No, you are not." His tone grits at the edges, buzzing rigidly through his throat. "The controller is applying a simulated curve. It is… an excess of pressurized fuel. A maelstrom of diverging currents. It is impossible to summarize in sympathizable terms, as your body is very different from mine."

The Machine Herald tends to select words purposefully. He calculates discussions and formulates terms like every negotiation is a game of chess — and yet, this description is remarkably familiar.

In the early stages of your alliance, the two of you rarely got along. Every sentence between you spun a web of new arguments. Viktor was insistent when it came to his vision, and weakness wasn't welcome, not within his new mechanized heart. You were a distraction. An unexpected miscalculation. A maelstrom, as Viktor described it.

For our mutual benefit, you should relinquish the memories you have of the man I once was. We are no longer partners. If you can suppress this needless bickering, we can continue as allies, perhaps.

"I'm depriving you of energy." You trail your fingertip over the ridges in the final wire. "Your systems are working overtime, to try and adjust."

Viktor's body relaxes — warm and reverberant and trusting. He affirms, "Precisely."

The last wire comes free smoothly. You take a languid, intentionally-long breath, giving the controller time to refresh. The wires have fallen loose, they rest a little further down in his circuitry. Leaning far forward in your stool, you bundle all of them in your palm, to make sure you won't lose them.

"They're out." You line up the first wire's plug with the controller's first socket. "Gonna plug them back in now."

"Firmer, you can be firmer." Viktor never begs, but this, despite bordering on a command, is the closest to pleading you've seen him come to. "The central system is acclimated to the fluctuations in energy."

Your cracked bottom lip briefly catches between your teeth. Bringing the wire right against its socket, you shove it back in — and Viktor tremors, visible electricity sparkling from his chest like shooting stars in a lightning storm. With the second wire, his head rolls back. When you press the third in, he breathes a low, barely-audible groan, and the sound drives into you like a saw, a chisel, a stake.

(You're lost in color, in the orange glow of his gaze and the coppery-steel of his body, as they paint stupidly vivid pictures in your mind. Viktor reaching for you, holding onto you for leverage. Static blooming at your fingertips, innocent experiments turning into purposeful coaxings. Stalling until he pleads, overwhelming him with surge after surge of energy, electromagnetic impulses and solar sparks that have him hot and only half-functional.)

You really need to focus.

"Okay." As you push the last wire in, the module's lights begin to flash, blinking faintly in a bright hue of amber. "I'm done."

"Reach your hand further inside," Viktor is already explaining, words rich, perplexingly breathy. "You must guide it around the gears, to the back of the module. Beside the sets of copper filaments, you will find a red wire."

You tilt your head down to peer behind the controller.

"Fuck." You breathe a slight tch. "It must've come loose. It's all the way back there, Vik."

"You may need to come closer, then."

For a moment, you chew on the inside of your cheek. Palm buried inside him — you should be the one in control, but Viktor relaxes; his head tips, and he gazes at you as though he's got you under a microscope. Perfectly, wholly deciphered. Your weakness is predictable, not simply because you are human, but because it is you. There's no surprise within him when you rise from your stool, only an addictive array of certainty.

Viktor leans back a bit more, spreads his legs to allocate space. And you straddle his thigh, heels rested on the spidery base of the stool.

The hard, uneven edges of his armor dig into the pliable flesh of your legs. One large thigh is easily enough to accommodate you, but you need to shift closer, to properly reach behind the controller.

You're reaching in, in, feeling around for your target. An unsteady steel hand braces to your side; Viktor holds you in place. You sigh in frustration, your fingertips fumbling past cold filaments, trying to find the smooth, elusive wire.

Gears gently press into your forearm. A small, rigid generator bumps your elbow. Your body curls, you reach further inside him. And you find it, just as you're close enough to rest your forehead against his. Metal to flesh. Cool against warm. Your eyes — bright and fascinating, like stars, he thinks — become lost in the artificial glow of his.

Your breath fans over his steel mask. "Got it."

"Good." Viktor's voice is low, intense, and fucking sultry. "Plug it in."

hey, sorry for interrupting the fic! unfortunately, due to the long word count of the fic and tumblr's post block limit, it's impossible to fit the entire fic into one post... :( if you're enjoying the fic so far, you can continue reading on ao3!

thank you for understanding... <3

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane x reader #viktor smut #machine herald x reader #viktor arcane x reader

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hannie-dul-set · 1 month ago

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fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — FOUR.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this.

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is.

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 10k.

NOTE. whewwww so much happens in this. like a lot WAHAHAHAHAH. would love to hear your thoughts and comments, maybe even predictions HAHA. there’s a bit more violence in this than in the previous chapters, but y’all know what you’re getting into. anyhow, enjoy! CHAPTER FIVE.

THAT DAY WAS PERHAPS THE MOST EVENTUAL DAY YOU’VE HAD AT NALKEUTTA. It’s been two weeks since then, and in the past week you’ve been plagued by contract drafts and notarizing documents, meeting with the groups new clients (i.e. victims) to trap a few more poor souls into this burning death trap, and giving legal advice to Mark Lee whenever he calls and needs.

Honestly, if this was all that your job consisted of, you’d be a pretty happy camper, especially considering the zeroes your bank account is set to accrue. No more hearings every other day. No more angry clients trying to get a slap on the wrist for attempted assault or embezzling company funds or whatever shit. Your work at present is more peaceful than expected— that is, of course, if you exclude what’s been causing you to work overtime these past two weeks.

“I feel like I’ve been seeing you more often lately, attorney.”

Yeongdeungpo Police Station. Officer Jung tries to entertain you while waiting for Mark’s favorite mutt to get fished out of his cell. No shit, he’s been seeing you often. This is your third time this fucking week. “He didn’t get into any more trouble overnight, did he?”

“No, we made sure to put him in a single cell this time.” You sigh in relief. They should’ve done that the first fucking time. “Hey, attorney…this may be out of line, but—”

“Then stay in line, officer.”

Maybe your neuroticism is finally slipping through your stiff mask. Your eyes flash up at Officer Jung. He appears taken aback at first, but nods, smiling, and maintains a respectful distance. Sure, he’s hot and all, but you have no intention of hooking up with a cop just to put your career, life, and safety in jeopardy. Mark has eyes everywhere. You’re pretty sure he even has a handful of the officers here under his control.

“Damn. My guardian angel came early today,”

Enter the bane of your existence itself. He wears an annoying grin on his face while being escorted to you, free from handcuffs meaning he can with his hands whatever he pleases— which, unfortunately, is sticking a middle finger up in the air when the guy that he got into an altercation with passes by, and a second fight almost breaks out while you dumb ass of a, executive just cackles like a madman as the second guy gets held back by the officer escorting him.

You do nothing but yank on the sleeve of his arm, nails digging into fabric and the skin underneath. You’re not strong enough to dislocate him, but by god you wish you were. “Thank you, officer. We’re heading out now.”

Officer Jung smiles at you. “I’d say I hope to see you again, but I doubt you’d want to drive up here for the fourth time this week.”

“Haha.” It’s eight in the evening. You’re tired as fuck.

The moment you succeed in dragging him out of the station to avoid another count of misdemeanor, you wipe your hand on your blazer and quickly march to your car, not even checking if he’s following when you rip open the driver’s seat of your car and slam it back close. Unfortunately, he shoves himself into the front seat before you can lock it.

“Whew,” he says, buckling himself in. You look at him through the mirror. He’s leaned against the window and his torso is pointed towards you. “Want me to take over the wheel?”

The rev of the engine. You hear Na Jaemin scoff and turn his head away.

“Tough crowd.” He props up an elbow on the window ledge, cheek resting on closed knuckles as you continue to drive to the office when you’ve clocked out three hours ago. “You were pretty chummy with that cop earlier. If I remember, the fucker is the same prick who jumps out of station to wag his tail in front of you whenever you drop by.”

God, you don't have time for this. You block your ears. You continue driving. You just want to go home, but Na Jaemin isn’t done pissing you off yet.

“You’re pretty amazing aren’t’cha, attorney? That why it only takes a second for you to get us all out?”

Screeeeech!

“Whoa. You’re finally looking at me for once.”

That’s fucking it. You’re not dealing with his shit anymore.

“Get out.” With all this and that damned death threat letter you received, you haven’t exactly been in the most amicable mood. “Get out of my fucking car.”

Yet somehow, Na Jaemin just starts grinning wider in response to your death glare. “But the office is too far away, attorney.” You click your tongue, grip tightening on the steering wheel as you leer away. It’s the dead of night. You’ve pulled over next to a closed laundromat. Your body still refuses to look at the psycho next to you directly. One day, you swear you’re going to rip him apart.

“Do I look like I give a fuck?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.”

Your car lets out a loud honk when you slam your forehead into the car horn, breaking the peaceful quiet of the night. “Ugh.” You release a breath,the sound rasping against your throat. One day, you’re going to kill him. One day.

‎*‎

“Damn, attorney. You look like shit.”

The next morning, Lee Haechan interrupts your coffee break by being an asshole.

“There’s no one worth looking hot for in this dump.”

“Now, I think that’s what you call a hasty generali—”

“Haechan, I don’t want to fuck you.” His face is a stiff smile, just on the verge of cracking from a fatal injury. You step aside to give him space on the coffee machine, swallowing an almost scalding gulp of your drink. Come to think of it, Na Jaemin isn’t the only idiot you’ve fished out of the police station. “Hey. Hold on. I have a bone to pick with you, bitch.”

Haechan’s mug makes a rattling noise when he prematurely drops it onto the counter. You see a trail of sweat trickle down his neck. “What do you mean?”

“You nearly ran someone over the other day,” you start. “If I have to bail you out for another DUI, you’ll be seeing your car in a landfill.”

They’re so lucky that none of their victims chose to press charges. Thinly veiled threats usually allow you to settle with a compromise for the barest minimum amount for the damages they incur, but your words won’t always work. Still. It seems like Mark doesn’t mind pouring out whatever amount of money to save his valued lap dogs. These mutts are so god damned spoiled.

“Monster! Don’t you dare touch my Penelope!”

You wanna bully him for naming his porsche Penelope, but that’d make you a hypocrite. You don’t want to give up the remaining integrity you have left, so you choose to remain silent instead and finish up your coffee.

At the same time, you notice a third presence enter the breakroom, and you make the unfortunate decision of peering back, just in time to find Lee Jeno looming behind you. You nearly choke on your coffee. “‘Scuse me,” he says, voice low, and you waste no time scrambling to the side and coughing your lungs out.

Haechan talks to him while the latter pulls out a back container from the cupboards. “Hey, man. How’s the Daeghwang contract going?”

At that question, Jeno’s brows close together and you flinch when he replies with an annoyed grunt. “Bad.” He taps the open mouth of the container against the rim of a glass of water, white powder cascading out. “Cheongang is a pain in the ass.”

“That’s rough. Well, good luck. See you later."

He starts leaving with the glass and you can finally get back to breathing. Seriously. Na Jaemin may scare you and piss you off, but this guy is just intimidation incarnate.

“Hey, what was his fucking deal?” Your voice is both fear-stricken and appalled, pointing at the break room entryway the moment Lee Jeno’s shadow disappears from the floor. “Did I do something to him? He looked like he was gonna punch my teeth out for getting in the way of him and his creatine!”

Haechan has finally finished making his coffee. Instant coffee, which he brings up to his mouth to take a sip. What was the point of giving him way to the machine? “Oh, Jeno? That’s just his face. Don’t worry about it.”

“What?”

He shrugs. “He’s a nice guy, but Mark likes to bring him around when he’s out doing business. Adds to the aura.”

The fuck? Well. Now that you poke into your brain, you finally remember why Lee Jeno had seemed oddly familiar when you were introduced to him. That day you found out your (former) literati, over the bar crush was actually a fucking gang leader who’s actually kind of crazy. Jeno was the one with Mark carrying that big, suspicious duffel bag. That makes sense.

“He doesn’t look like it, but he’s actually very diligent and organized. He’s basically Mark’s secretary.”

This is very hard to wrap your head around, but maybe you’re just being too judgmental. Huh. If this is the case, then Mark has formed a pretty well rounded inner circle for him. Lee Jeno’s the one helping him make sure the oil keeps running, pretty much an all-rounder. Huang Renjun deals with Nalkeutta’s external partnerships. Now, all this makes you wonder—

“Then…what about Na Jaemin?”

There’s a flicker in Haechan’s eyes. He looks at you, eyes peeking above his coffee mug, and you don’t break your gaze. “Curious?” he hums, setting it down onto the counter behind him. “What about me? Don’t you wanna ask about what my role is?”

“I already know that you’re a desperate son of a bitch. What else do you do?”

“God damn, you never hold back.” You know he manages most of the internal affairs. Gratified HR, but you don’t want to grant him the satisfaction that you give a fourth of a shit. “Jaeminnie’s our clean-up dog. Mark knows how to put his maw to good use.”

Clean-up dog. Hah.

“If there’s anyone Mark needs to be beaten half to death, Jaemin’s the man for the job. The guy basically lives off of the adrenaline he gets from fighting. I think the money is just secondary to him, but who knows. Mark likes to keep him busy with chasing down debtors or else he’d take it out on the nearest Nalkeutta member within arms reach. He seems like a lazy prick, but he’s actually pretty competent and meticulous. Only when blood and bruises are involved, of course.”

Now, that makes you feel like absolute crap. Not for him, but for you— finding out that you and a psycho have been relegated to essentially the same demeaning position, one judicially and the other extrajudicially. That’s a dig into your pride. It leaves a sourly bitter taste on your tongue, and you don’t even have any coffee left to wash it down.

“Well. That is until someone pisses him off. Then things get pretty messy,” Haechan continues with a drawl, checking out his fingernails. Then his eyes flicker up, tipping his head back to flash you a grin. “Which has been more than often lately. He’s been getting into a lot of unrelated fights and trouble. Wonder why.”

Your mouth folds up into a sneer. “Talk about yourself, you serial drunk driver.”

“Let me take you out on a spin with my Porsche next time, attorney. It’ll be fun.”

“And fucking die? No thanks.”

“Aww, cmon! I promise you’ll get the rush of the century, babe, you won’t regret—”

Swoosh!

Thwack!

“Ow, hey, what the the fuck!”

You jump back, gaze darting down to check out the flying object that was punted into Haechan’s temple right. You snicker. It’s a vape pen. You’re about to thank the culprit until you actually find out who it is: lo and behold, Na Jaemin at the break room entrance, looking as smug as ever, and he successfully ruins your day at nine in the morning. “Whoops,” he says, sauntering up to you both, ducking down to swipe the vape pen off the floor before holding it back up. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at Haechan. “Hand slipped.”

Haechan’s expression gets twisted. “Oh, you wanna go?” The gap between them closes. Uh-oh. Time to find an opening to leave. “Been a while since our last fight, Jaems.”

“Yeah, you mean the day I used your fucking face as a windshied wiper? Was it fun? Wanna try it again, you little bitch?”

“If you idiots wanna paint the carpet red, let me leave first—”

“No, wait.”

Haechan grabs onto your arm. He beams.

“We need a referee.”

And that’s how you got held hostage for a dog fight at the parking lot of your company building. It’s not even noon yet. These fuckers need to get sedated.

You question your existence as Haechan and Jaemin warm up, a considerable amount of distance between each other. Why are you even here? “I’ll make sure to give you a show, attorney.” You stare dead forward at the empty space in between, face not looking particularly entertained. And then he shrugs off his jacket, revealing his tank-topped chest, and you choke on your spit. His face lights up at your coughing fit. “Keep your eyes on m—”

Thwack!

“Whoops.”

Oh, what the fuck, you blink and all of a sudden Haechan has lunged forward to sock him straight in the kisser.

“Hand slipped.” Haechan draws back his arm, grinning. Oh shit. You’re unable to see the entirety of Na Jaemin’s face. His head is turned, eyes covered up by his hair. You watch as he hacks up his throat to spit out a blotch of red on the concrete ground. For a second there, you think he’s pissed.

Then he lifts up his head, revealing the crooked, blood-stained grin on his teeth.

“You been practicing for me, Donghyuckie?”

This guy just got punched. He just got punched in the face and he’s smiling.

That’s when things start getting uglier and you’re forced to watch two grown men brawl as their favorite pastime. Wow, they’re just going at it. Haechan lands another hook into Jaemin’s jaw and he quickly jumps away before the former can grab onto him. From what you can tell, Haechan’s a very sneaky fighter, retreating after every strike— almost as if he’s buzzing around Na Jaemin and nipping at him like a mosquito

“Oi.” Na Jaemin’s jaw is tight. “There’s no fun in this. Get over here.”

“Whoa!” Haechan manages to dodge another one of Jaemin’s attempts to grab at him. “No thanks!”

Yeah. Now Na Jaemin is definitely getting pissed. You can almost see the vein popping out of his neck when Haechan fails to duck quick enough, allowing Jaemin to grab a fistful of his hair. Haechan lets out a pained grunt when Jaemin yanks his head down, allowing full access to his face— allowing you to witness the blood drain from Haechan’s face in real time, at the very moment.

“Quit running away, you fuckin’ rat.”

Jaemin winds his arm back. You squeeze your eyes shut. And then you hear the sound of a fist hitting bone.

“That’s more like it.”

Jesus, his voice is nothing but pure elation. That’s it. You’ve seen enough of this demon’s madness to conclude that Haechan had just lost. This is where they differ— Na Jaemin doesn’t like fighting. He likes watching the willpower drain from his opponents eyes after each blow until they’re back and blue and have lost the will to live. A textbook sadist. The moment Na Jaemin has you in his grasp, you’re as good as a dead man. And that much is obvious with how much Haechan is struggling to get out of his grip without ripping a chunk of his hair off.

He looks like he’s having the time of his life “Grit your teeth, buddy.”

Haechan responds with a nervous laugh, dangling half on the floor. “Hey, man, I thought we were just sparring for fun, yeah? Let’s take it easy, ok— oof!”

Aaaaand, that’s your cue to stop watching. If the roles were reversed, then maybe you’d be more interested. You’ve seen this show and multiple encores back in high school already. So while they’re busy killing each other, you quietly sneak off to your car just a few parking spots away to retouch your lipstick. Maybe grab a snack from the glove compartment. Anything other than this mess, for sure.

Anything. Yeah, nevermind. Maybe not anything because the moment you reach your car, you notice something stuck on your windshield wipers.

There’s a wrinkly slip of paper there.

When you fold it open, it’s revealed to be a mortuary pamphlet. There’s scrawl all over it. Red marker. Count your fucking days, attorney. Wow. Not very up for interpretation. Does this fucker think you’re fourteen?

“Hey.”

You flinch. You turn your head back. You’re not sure how long you’ve been standing here, but apparently long enough for Lee Haechan to gather a collection of blood and bruises as he tries and fails to wiggle out of Na Jaemin’s grip.

The latter isn’t even looking at him. He looks at you as he jerks Haechan back to his knees.

“What’s the matter?”

It’s only now that you notice your hands are shaking. You hiss out a swear and crumple the sheet in the tight lump and stuff it into your slack pockets. “Some bastard left their trash on my car,” you grunt, stomping away from your car and back up to them. “Anyway, are you two done playing? Unlike you two, I have a semi-normal job here and still have work to do.”

“Not until you declare the winner, attorney.”

Na Jaemin finally decides to let the poor guy go. Haechan gets dropped to the ground with a thump, groaning in obvious pain. You look down at him, sighing. “Why’d you even provoke him if you were gonna lose anyway?”

Yeah, you’re not giving Na Jaemin the satisfaction. Haechan lets out a breath and a laugh as he settles on the parking lot floor, propped up by his elbows. “I thought I’d stand a chance toda.” He cracks at you. “But it seems like my plan backfired. Too bad.”

Although you refused to declare Na Jaemin the winner, it seems like his fight with Haechan was enough to pacify him for a while.

Seems like the bastard had his fill. You didn’t get any phone calls from Mark or the station nor did you receive any more threatening death threats over the weekend. It’s great. You hit 10,000,000g in Stardew and will soon have the same amount in your bank account. Monday rolls around again though, and you have to spend the entire day out of office to join Mark and Jeno for the Daehgwang meeting.

It’s so peaceful. The thorns in your side have been so well behaved. Haechan’s porsche got seized by the government because he forgot to pay last month, meaning he no longer has a vehicle to drive under the influence with. Na Jaemin hasn’t even gotten into another altercation.

At least not for the past three days.

On Tuesday evening, you get another ring from the station.

“It was a 5v1,” Na Jaemin informs you, grinning with a new busted lip on top of his bruises from Haechan. “I won.”

This time, you drive off before he could even get into your car.

‎*‎

“I swear to god, Renjun, it’s like he gets off from getting handcuffed and ruining lives.”

Renjun is your favorite Nalkeutta member so far. Meaning, he’s the unfortunate soul that’s stuck with hearing your whines and complaints over a jenga game in his office. It didn’t take much to convince him into joining you to get paid for goofing around on company time— however, you didn’t exactly advertise having to be your unpaid therapist for the time being.

“Who are you talking about again?” he asks after pulling out a successful block from the tower.

“Na Jaemin.” You crane your neck, squinting at the remaining blocks for an opening. “Does he die if he can’t get into trouble with law enforcement once a week or some shit? God dammit, this tower is tight.”

You’ve always known he was a sadistic fuck since high school. But you thought that only extended to physical pain. Apparently he has a penchant for inflicting psychological pain as well. “Uh-uh, sure he got into messes before— try that one.” You prod on the block he points at until it becomes loose. “But he wasn’t always this bad.”

The block slides out. You put it back on top and sit straight. “Haechan said something like that too.” Your brows furrow. “What exactly do you guys mean by that?”

Renjun shrugs, poking around the block tower. “He’d usually get into fights outside the job like twice a month max.”

He pulls out the wrong block. The tower collapses on the coffee table.

“I think it was around the time you joined that he got worse.”

It clicks. You understand now.

“Hey, let’s play again, that was a— wait, where are you going?”

You storm out of his office and stomp into your own. Na Jaemin doesn’t get off from ruining lives in general— it seems like he gets a special kick out ruining yours in particular. Fuck’s sake. You thought he was just a lunatic for getting into bar fights thrice a week. Apparently being his high school alarm clock for two years wasn’t enough. He needs you to contract occupational depression too.

Inside your office now. You bang a hand into your desktop keyboard because the printer is taking too long to vomit out the shitty piece of paper. You rip it out from its mouth and march into Ganghak Division, heels clicking against the tile— a sound most have already attributed to your presence, but this time so, so loudly that heads turn at each hollow clack— and the sound halts the moment you see one of his employees that you’ve flagged as a pushover the moment he’d been admitted here.

“Park Sion.” You grab him by the shoulder. “Is your dickhole of a boss in?”

He flinches and blinks his wide open eyes at you, gulping. “Y—yes?”

You grunt and push past him, printout in hand. You spot the door that has a frosted glass window in the middle. You make a beeline and kick it open with a loud bang!

“What in the name of fuck—”

The words get cut out from Na Jaemin’s throat the moment you lock eyes, and the pissed off expression on his face gets replaced by the cold splash of surprise and something you don’t give a fuck to decipher.

“A—attorney.” He clears his throat and tries to scramble himself back together. “Wow. Came to give a little visit?”

There’s someone else in the room— another Ganghak high schooler, standing straight and firm and nervous before his desk with a deck of papers pressed to his chest. You click your tongue barrel forward, shoving yourself between them and slam the piece of paper on his desk, a huff escaping your nostrils as you stare him down with the animosity of a thousand suns. He’s still a little shell-shocked, brows uplifted and eyes blinking before he looks down and slides the paper up to him.

“I hate your fucking guts,” he reads out your message printed in Cambria 14. You smile when he looks up from the page to meet your stare. It hurts your cheeks. Then you spin your heels and may your merry way out of his office in the best mood you’ve ever been since getting here— and this change of demeanour is very much noticed by every single Nalkeutta member that you walk past, turning heads of both horror and concern as you hum back to Huang Renjun’s territory.

Renjun turns his head to the door when you knock and swing it open.

“Whew.” You fall back onto his office sofa, causing his newly built jenga tower to tumble down. “Shit, that was cathartic. I needed that.”

He stares at his fallen tower, a somber expression on his face. “Are you gonna share it with the class?”

You do, in fact, share it with the class alongside your hypothesis that Na Jaemin hates your particular guts to the point that he’s actively making your living hell. Renjun is attentive throughout your whole rant session— nodding along to your cries and swears while he rebuilds your tower, and he places the last block on top just in time for you to finally run out of steam. “I swear to god, he has it out for me, Renjun” you finish off with a huff, sinking deeper into his sofa.

That in itself is bad, but apparently it could get worse.

“He could be doing it because he hates you, sure,” he starts, prodding into the newly built tower. “But have you considered the opposite?”

Because Huang Renjun injects a truly horrifying idea inside your head.

“What?”

He hums, locking into the middle piece at the very bottom of the stack.

“I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but on the days you give Jaemin the slightest bit of tolerant attention he doesn’t act out.”

He, then, slides the piece out.

“And whenever you flat out ignore him for the entire day, I get a colorful text from you that Na Jaemin is in a holding cell again and you’re on the way driving to get him out.”

He takes it into his hand—

“Maybe he’s just doing it to get your attention.”

—and finally sets it on top of the tower to restart the game.

“Your turn.”

You’re frozen in your seat. You carefully think back to all the times you’ve been plagued to bail him out— the first time, which was the night of the recruitment bullshit, and you did talk to him then. Granted it was to insult his smoking habits, but that completely debunks Renjun’s theory right? How about the other times— like the day after the first incident and you were far too pissed to even give him the light of day— wait. Wait.

No fucking way. Did you see him the day you left with Mark and Jeno to deal with the Daeghwang contract? You did pass him by, but why the fuck would you have greeted him? Shit. Oh my god. This is the most depraved shit you’ve ever been cursed to consider and you’d once debated offing a man just to win a court case.

You don’t want to believe it. There’s no fucking way.

So, you put it to the test first thing in the morning to make sure that Huang Renjun is nothing but a delusional fuck who just wants you paranoid.

You walk out of Mark’s office with him after a quick discussion on how to strengthen their loan contracts. He asks if you’ve been getting enough sleep lately and the answer to the question is in the very same hallway that you’re passing through, walking the opposite direction as the both of you.

“Jaemin-ah, good morning,” Mark greets him. The guy only stifles a grunt in reply before turning his attention to you.

You look at him. Not at him, but on the silver chain hanging around his neck because you don’t feel very brave at the moment. “Good morning, Na Jaemin-ssi.” Then you immediately scuttle away, leaving a nonplussed yet still pleasant demeanored Mark behind to catch up with you and bounce for coffee.

That entire day, you wait for a phone call from the station to arrive.

Night comes. You’re about to go to bed. Your phone does not make a single buzz. Nothing.

You’re horrified. You’re really, truly horrified.

Listen, you’ve never been dense to a man’s advances. You’re not stupid. You know when someone has a crush on your because always a standard operating procedure, the cut and dry tactics of trying to take you out for a meal or a drink, calling you pretty, or whatever the fuck. No one fucking flirts by violating the law multiple times a week just so you’d pick him up from the police station. So, you can’t exactly be blamed when you never saw this coming.

This singular thought plagues you for the rest of the week. So much so, that you don’t exactly trust yourself driving almost an hour over the weekend to Gyeonggi to meet up with some friends from law school, so you take public transportation instead.

The problem is, you couldn’t even enjoy your fucking brunch because they kept asking why you quit JSS, so all you could think about is all the men that have plagued you to ruination— one bastard standing out in particular.

“Seriously, is he a fucking lunatic or something?”

“Who’s the fucking lunatic or something?”

You’d been waiting at the bus stop on the way back to Yeongdeungpo when a convertible you don’t recognize pulls over, but the person sitting in the driver’s seat definitely is. Your face sours. Then dread washes over.

“Heard from Mark that you needed a ride,” Haechan tips down his sunglasses, smiling. “Hop in. Let me take you out for a spin on my new baby, attorney. It’ll be fun.”

Oh no. Fuck. Your days of relative peace from the police are over. You need to hire someone to wreck this orange-painted nightmare before you’re forced to deal with an inevitable hit and run case. This thing is an accident waiting to happen. It needs to fucking go.

Not right now, though. You do need a ride.

“Mind stopping by a pharmacy first? I think I’m having fucking indigestion.”

You also need to know where he parks this thing. You take a few steps back and snap your phone camera at his license plate before hopping in the car. “Why? Shitty date?” he hums, starting up the engine. “I can do you one better, sweetheart.”

“Shut the fuck and drive or else I’ll be needing more than just antacids.”

“Gotchu.”

It’s not that being a stuck-up bitch is your default. It’s just that you know better than to get yourself entangled into Nalkeutta more than you already are especially when the one thing you’re looking for is an out. The both of you make a stop at the nearest pharmacy in Gyeonggi and you pick up your medicine. Outside the store, Haechan spots a small hotteok stand to bribe you to hang out with him a bit more before heading back to Yeongdeungpo.

Ugh. You don’t wanna get back in there. That’s where Na Jaemin is and lately he’s been mentally perturbing you more than pissing you off or scaring you. You take a bite into the warm snack and start talking with a semi-full mouth. “By the way. Renjun told me something interesting.”

“Yeah, what’s up?” he muffles out.

“That Na Jaemin deliberately gets into trouble to get my attention,” you flatly say, looking at the syrup you just wiped off your mouth before licking it off. “I need a dissenting opinion or else I might actually go clinically insane.”

“Oh, you just noticed?” he says, walking back to his car and you follow. “Everyone in the office knows he has a crush on you. It’s pretty obvious.”

Well. No dissenting opinion. Guess you’ll have to go insane.

“I thought bringing you to our fight the other day would distract his messed up brain. But apparently the sick fuck just got more excited knowing that you were watching. He got bored when you went back into the office. I really should’ve known better.”

“Wait, if you knew that your insane friend has a fuckied up crush on me, then why have you been trying to hit on me in front of his face?”

The both of you get back into the car. Haechan spares you a glance and a grin.

“It’s funny,” he cackles. The car starts moving. Slower than you expected. It’s surprising that this guy is actually receptive to feedback, but you appreciate it nonetheless. “I never get a reaction out of him otherwise. And, I gotta correct you about something, attorney. There are no friends in Nalkeutta.”

There’s a soft breeze brushing past your ears. You peer at him, a tug on your lips. “So, we’re not friends?”

You almost snort seeing the way his shoulders flinch. The first time you speak to him without an ounce of venom, this idiot folds.

“I thought we’d gotten closer recently, Haechan.”

There’s no missing the way his ears flare up despite keeping his eyes on the road. God, this is pretty funny. The reason why you’re not as creeped out by the idea that another one of your co-workers harbors a petty crush on you despite the fact that they’re both demented and violent is simply because one has singlehandedly turned your last two years of highschool into a traumatic hell while also not giving enough of a fuck to remember the trauma he caused, and the other has not.

Still, you’re not indulging Lee Haechan any more than this because you still have some self respect. You wanna continue dicking around with this newfound power a bit more, but your high is quickly shut down by a shiver down your spine.

You jolt in your seat. Your eyes flash to the rearview. There’s a taxi trailing behind.

“Haha, have—have we gotten closer…? I thought you were more friends with Renjun, and—”

“Haechan, turn right.”

“What? That’s not the route ba—”

“Just fucking do it.”

With a concerned yet suspicious furrow of his brow, Haechan obliges your abrupt request, and what do you know— the moment you guys make a turn, the vehicle behind you does the same. “Now, make another right.” Your narrowed eyes remain fixed on the back mirror. “Left. Keep going.”

Your companion isn’t dull. He notices the same thing as you do at the third nonsensical turn. You hear him click his tongue, feigning annoyance, but no form of play pretend could even attempt to hide the wicked grin sprawling on his face in excitement.

Ah, shit. You instinctively clutch onto the seat belt straps as if you’re holding onto your dear life. “Hey, attorney,” he starts, shifting pedals. “Hold on tight.”

What the hell does it look like you’re doing?

The blazing hiss of rubber screeching against asphalt. This might very well be the day you die.

‎*‎

“C’mon, it’s been two weeks! Are you still mad?”

Yes. It’s been two weeks since your latest near death experience and it wasn’t even at the hands of your stalker, whom you managed to shake off thanks to Haechan, but the fact that these very past two weeks was spent trying to settle with his fucking hit and run victim has clearly pulverized any semblance of gratefulness you felt towards him.

Right now, he’s trying to win your forgiveness over by dropping a box of macarons from the new bakery in the district onto your lovely desk Savannah. You flip the box open as aggressively as you can and rip apart the unfortunate pink cookie with your teeth while you stare at him dead in the eye. He flinches. He tries to form a smile but it’s all crooked and nervous. “Sooo…are we good now?”

You finish up the remnants of your first victim and pull open your drawer, and Haechan watches as you take out a few staples pieces of paper before handing it to him.

“What’s this?”

He opens his mouth first before reading. You marvel at the decline of man’s average intelligence.

“It’s a contract,” you hum. “Sign it, and I’ll hang out with you again.”

“Oh, sweet!” he enthuses and fishes out a pen from your variety assortment, setting the sheet down onto the polished mahogany surface. He’s already started the first stroke of his legally binding signature when he actually inquires into the nature of the contract. “You should’ve just given this to me days ago, damn I even went to— wait. What’s this about impounding my car?”

You quickly try to snatch the paper back, but Haechan may be dumber than you but he is stronger. He quickly flits back to the first page, squinting at the fine print very close to his face, and after a moment of realization, he jerks his arms down to release a horrified gasp.

“Evil! Evil woman!” He points an accusatory finger. “How could you attempt to do this to me and my Josephine?!”

His curses fall on deaf ears. You remove a bushel of lint from your blaze lapels and flick it off into a corner of your office. “I think it’s a fair agreement,” you languidly say. “We get to be friends for so long as you refrain from getting into another traffic accident. Otherwise, say goodbye to your dearest Josephine.”

“No!”

A knock on your door interrupts the tantrum you caused. It gets quiet. A head peeks in. It’s Mark.

“Are you two busy?” he asks, likely having heard your…conversation from outside. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Immediately, you shift your attention away from the high speeding demon and straighten your back towards your boss. “Not at all. What’s the matter?”

Haechan quietly greets him as well in a grumble, stepping aside in order to surrender his spot in front of your desk to Mark. “Oh, it’s not at all a source of worry,” he assures with a hum. “It’s just that, it’s been over a month since you’ve graced Nalkeutta with your expertise, but we haven’t even thrown you a welcome party yet. Things have indeed been hectic with our clients one top with our ongoing problem with Cheongang, yet these issues aren’t justifications to prevent your warm welcome.”

There’s a smile on Mark’s face. Oh no. You know where this is going and despair befalls over your face.

See, you’re not exactly against company dinners. Back in JSS, it was a regular opportunity to get your bosses and partners blackout drunk so they don’t remember you recording their not-very-proud moments. But right now, you’re not exactly keen on going home late considering your whole stalker death threat situation.

“I already booked a bar near the bridge. Let’s all take the evening off.”

Well. Now that there’s no way out of this, all you can do is hope that today isn’t your due date yet.

Evening comes, and you’re suffered to be in Na Jaemin’s presence again. He’s in the company car that Mark ushers you into, sitting in the front seat next to Jeno and you two make a split second of eye contact through the mirror before stumbling into the car seat with an annoyed grunt. God, you’ve been so busy these past two weeks that you weren’t even given the chance to stress about him. Now you’re trapped with him for the rest of the night with little to know chance to escape.

Throughout the drive, you contemplate faking sickness again but unfortunately you never got the opportunity to set it up, so you just come up with your roster of excuses in case the amount of men inside the lounge starts becoming noxious to you.

“Cheers!”

The moment drinks start rolling in, they’re cheering for your name and title—- under duress, maybe, because it was preceded by a late welcome speech from the big boss himself. Mark pours you a drink and you’re obligated to swallow it down, burning your throat. Ugh.

Obviously, not every Nalkeutta member is here right now. Aside from Mark and his four executives, two to three lower ranking members from each division have also been extended the invitation. You recognize Zhong Chenle from Hyeongshin and Na Jaemin’s favorite lackey, Park Jisung, held hostage by his boss in a torture chamber of shot after shot after shot.

“How are you holding up?”

Renjun settles into the velvet seat next to you— unoccupied for the last hour because Haechan is still throwing a tantrum after your attempted vehicular slaughter, Na Jaemin maybe, finally took the eloquently worded message that you delivered the other week to heart, and the rest of Nalkeutta’s members are too intimidated to sit near the in-house lawyer that regularly stomps around in a flurry of swears throughout the office and your heel clicks harbors fear.

“Fantastic,” you deadpan, bringing the god rush you ordered to your lips. “I’m tipsy and cold and want nothing more than to knock myself out via head injury right now. You think if I announce that my period just arrived, they’d be too uncomfortable to stop me from leaving?”

“You’d probably succeed, but I don’t exactly recommend you leaving by yourself.”

“This is Nalkeutta’s territory, what kind of fucking idiot would try to jump me?”

“Well, things are precarious with Cheongang right now, and—”

You’re interrupted by a meek “Ex—excuse me,” from a Daehyeon subordinate. Lee Jeno’s subordinate. You look up and raise a brow at him. The guy’s face is embarrassed and he’s holding out a jacket. “The…the boss told me to give you this.” Your eyes flit down to the article, hanging sleeves barely brushing against the bare skin of your thighs that your pencil skirt is failing to cover, and you look up across the room to see the said co-worker conversing with Jaemin, now in a compression shirt when you could’ve sworn he was more covered up earlier.

Again, you briefly meet eyes with Jaemin. You cough and look away, accepting the jacket with a thank you before the grunt scurries away. Then you recall Haechan’s words. He’s a nice guy. Man, if only you went to Daehyeon in high school, you’d probably be a lot saner today.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Renjun continues. “It’s a little dangerous right now and those guys are just across the bridge. They could be loitering around nearby.”

“Hey, I’ll be fine, I don’t go around unarmed you know.” You adjust the newly acquired cover on your lap. “Well. Maybe I do have something to worry about considering there’s a creepy stalker threatening to kill me.”

It’s like the entire room screeches into a tense halt.

“What?” Haechan finally decides to grow up and talk to you, marching up to your side of the lounge with a knitted look. “What do you mean stalker?”

The repetition of the word attracts everyone’s attention if your first utterance hadn’t already. Drinks stop pouring. You notice eyes on you— particularly from across the room, which you promptly brush off to entertain Haechan’s question. “Oh, you know the day you ran over that grocery owner? The one I had to beg just so he wouldn’t sue you?”

“Yeah, I fucking know, but what do you mean you’re being stalk—” It hits him. “Fuck. The taxi. I thought it was just another one of my enemies training me!”

“Attorney, is this true?” Mark finally enters the conversation, uncharacteristically concerned. “And did you say this person is threatening to kill you?”

You meant to say it as a self deprecating joke. You didn’t expect these guys to actually clock your words and take you seriously.

“Attorney?”

You don’t answer verbally. Instead you grab your purse and pull out the envelope that’s been cozying up in there since you first got it. You set its contents down on the table for everyone to see, followed by the mortuary pamphlet you retrieved from your windshield. “This one was attached to my car in the company parking lot, but I’m pretty sure it’s a personal vendetta and has nothing to do with Nalkeutta, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

It’s disappointing, but this is all you have. There are no texts or phone calls. You have nothing on this bastard but a letter and a note.

Mark’s holding up the letter. You notice the pamphlet wrinkle in between Haechan’s fingers. “When did you get this?”

“Uhhh, the day Na Jaemin beat the shit out of you?”

“God fucking dammit.” He tosses it back to the table and throws his hands in the air before stomping off in frustration. Renjun scolds him and gives the note back to you, and you promptly fold it to return to your purse, along with the letter Mark offers back to you.

“There’s security cameras there,” he says. “Have you checked them yet?”

“I did and he was masked and covered up. Same with the footage from my building. I checked in with my landlady the day after I received the note at my doorstep, and she wasn’t around when it happened.”

“He knows where you live?!”

“Jesus,” Renjun breathes out. “You’re practically buddies with the cops at the station, why didn’t you report it?”

You simply sigh in your seat and set your purse aside. Honestly, you’re getting annoyed. Do they think you’re fucking stupid? Do they think you’re just letting this freak run around because you want to? Fucking ridiculous. “There’s barely any evidence to identify him, much less to penalize him for anything more than a fine and a warning. I thought I’d wait until I have enough under my belt to ensure a final conviction.”

“And continue risking your life? Are you fucking stupid?”

It’s Na Jaemin who says that.

He’s still sitting in the same spot as earlier, unmoving from his seat across the lounge, staring at you with a weight that practically digs into flesh and bone. Your jaw clenches. You ignore his insult with a roll of your eyes and you down the remaining half of your cocktail.

“This isn’t something we can just take lightly, attorney,” Mark tells you as though he’s genuinely concerned, but you call bullshit. He just doesn’t like the idea of losing his safety net from the law. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Your brows twitch. You firmly set the glass down on the mess of a table. “It seemed personal,” you answer, pointedly. “I didn’t think it concerned the company. That’s all.”

There’s quiet. You don’t look up from your seat, pouring yourself another drink. There’s a ticking in your ear. You’re frustrated. A groan scratches out of your throat and you quickly try to wash it down with a lean glass of whiskey, but Renjun manages to snatch it out of your hands with a disappointed click of his tongue before you succeed with your attempt.

You snap your head at him. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Maybe you should call it a night,” says, taking out his phone. “What’s your address? I’ll book an Uber.”

“He’s right, but you shouldn’t go alone,” Mark interjects. You look at him like he’s vomiting out shit from his mouth. He ignores it and instead turns back— gaze directed to the set of seats across the room. “Jaemin, make sure she makes it back home safely.”

“What?” Your voice is a shriek. You jolt onto your feet. “I understand you’re trying to look out for your employee, but why does it have to be him?”

Na Jaemin is already pulling on a jacket. Your bite down your lip. You already have one crazy asshole knowing where you live. You don’t need another one.

“He’s the only one capable and hadn’t had anything to drink.”

“What about Renjun!”

The man in question looks the slightest bit sorry and embarrassed. “Listen, I don’t wish upon your death, attorney, but if that threat comes tonight, I can’t protect you. I already told you that I don’t fight.”

Fucking hell. You deflate like a balloon. Mark takes your lack of further complaints as surrender and nods at Jaemin, who promptly starts ushering you out of the reserved room. “I already know that you fucking hate my guts, attorney, but now’s not the time to be picky.”

“Just take your damned orders as is like a good dog and don’t fucking talk to me.”

Frankly, you’re heated right now. That entire situation was patronizing. You can’t stomach being treated like some goddamn helpless bitch who can’t handle her own dirty laundry when you’ve been cleaning up for them for most of your fucking career. You just need time. You just need enough cards and opportunities to fuck this stalker over. It’s not beyond your capabilities. It’s not something you need a dysfunctional circus gang to fix for you.

Thankfully, your guard dog doesn’t try to pick a fight throughout the uber ride home. He’s garnered enough tact this past week to figure out your sour mood.

It’s just as quiet when you finally arrive at your building. Na Jaemin follows you all the way to the entrance. The key remains slotted into the doorhole, unturned. “What are you doing?”

You hear him scoff from beside you. “Doing my fucking job like a good dog. Your stalker left the love letter on your doorstep. You think I’d stop here?”

“Ugh. Fine.”

Begrudgingly, you lead him up to your unit. The moment you reach the door, you spin your heels to look at him without exactly looking him in the eye. “Alright, we’re here and I’m alive and not dead. Now leave me al—”

You stop. You stop because just when you’re reaching out for your doorknob— almost relieved that you can finally rest and end the day with a shower and good night’s sleep— you notice dents on the metal that weren’t there before.

Na Jaemin notices the same thing. His brows are furrowed. He brushes your hand aside and the handle rattles with a twist. It’s unlocked. You didn’t leave it unlocked this morning.

You remain glued to the hallway floor as you watch Na Jaemin open the door.

The moment an opening cracks, he gets smashed on the head with your wooden counter stool and you let out a squeak and yell.

“Fucking hell!”

“W—wait, you’re not—!”

He hisses in pain but takes less than a second to recover, grabbing onto one of the chair legs to jerk the entire thing back and reach out for the extended arm of the person wielding it before he could let go. You hear a fit of fighting grunts from inside. The chair gets dropped to the ground. Na Jaemin disappears into your apartment with the thrashing culprit, exchanging threats and swears, and it takes you a moment to get back to your senses, the thumping in your ears becoming less and less deafening, and you take your few steps inside.

To say the least, your living room is a mess.

The couch is tipped over. Your rug is in tatters. This fucker was gracious enough to spare your T.V., and your wide eyes immediately dart over to the center of it all— the sight of Na Jaemin pressing the struggling culprit against your once clean floors.

“Fuck, let— go! Get the fuck off me! Agh—!”

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll break your fucking arms.” Na Jaemin nods his head up, not even budging. “Hey, attorney. You call the shots. What do you want me to do?”

You stare at the man underneath him— the man responsible for making the mess out of your apartment and everything that preceded this very moment. You look at his face, bunched up in rage and shame and frustration, and that’s when you recognize him: your last case at JSS. The sweet, sweet old lady you helped pen her will. The same will that disinherited her two prodigal sons. You met them before. Both of them, because your client wanted to break it to them personally even though she wasn’t legally obligated to, all because she’s such a kind person.

That same person gave birth to despicable trash like this one.

They weren’t happy to hear the news. And since their mother is still under the protection order you arranged, this guy decided that the next best thing to take his anger out on is the lawyer that helped his mother screw them over.

Na Jaemin is still waiting for your answer. The right thing to do would be to take him to the station, finally file the report so they could force an admission of guilt. There’s a CCTV camera in the hallway and even if he was covered up, there’s still clear evidence of breaking and entering on top of everything he’s done to torment you so far. That’s the right thing to do. The legal thing to do.

But right now, you’re simmering.

No, fuck it, your blood is boiling. You shrug off your blazer and toss it as a new addition to your messed up apartment floor. You roll back your right shoulder. You take a few more steps forward, staring him down on the ground. “Hold him up,” you tell Na Jaemin. It takes a second for him to register your instruction. But when it does, you couldn’t even miss the wild grin that stretches on his face— even if you wanted to.

“Since you asked nicely,” he says with a lace of amusement, ignoring the bouts of protest from the guy when he lugs him up to his feet like a ragdoll, locking him in place with two arms, and leaving him open and vulnerable.

The first thing you do is yank his chin up by the hair. It’s a sight to see— the sheer hatred and animosity someone is capable of mustering on their face, even when they’re at someone else’s mercy.

It’s funny. You sneer. Then you grab the other side of his head and slam his nose into your knee.

“Fuck!”

“Son of a bitch.” You jerk his head back up, watching the blood dribble down from his nostrils. “Did you have fun pulling your dumb ass tricks?”

He lets out a pained groan, but still has the strength to shoot you a glare. You let go of his scalp to grab him by the collar so you can have a better grip of slapping him in the face.

Smack!

“Shit—”

“May life is already a living hell dealing with these Nalkeutta fuckers every single day—”

Whack!

“And then your ugly ass rears in to make things all the more worse.”

Thwap!

“Your disinheritance is none of my fucking business.”

Slap!

“To think I was scared and paranoid for weeks and weeks and weeks because of some broke ass pathetic prick.”

Crack! Your bloodied fist draws back from his jaw. He sputters out a bubble of red. You’re practically holding him up by the stretched out collar of his shirt.

“Hey,” you say, giving him a rattle. “What gives you the right to do all of that to me, huh? Huh?”

When he doesn’t answer, you feel a tick in your temple. You go in for another smack to his face, but it doesn’t happen.

“That’s enough.”

You’ve always thought that if Na Jaemin were to grab you by the wrist, he’d immediately snap it into two.

“You’re gonna regret it tomorrow.”

The shock from the gentle fitness of his grip sends you back to reality, and you finally feel the dull throb on the knuckles of your right hand, the sharp tingle on the skin of your palms that seeps into muscle and flesh. You let go of him. You see splotches of red all over, and the eventual sores and bruises that’ll show up by the morning.

You call your landlady. Na Jaemin accompanies you to the station to turn your stalker in along with all the evidence you managed to acquire. Officer Jung questions the state of the perpetration, and when you chalk it up as self-defense, he doesn’t press further and simply wishes you a good rest.

The moment you walk out into the lobby and see Na Jaemin waiting, you’re hit with an uncomfortable whiplash at the unprompted role reversal. You don’t fight him or anything when he takes you back home. All you could do was muster a quiet, “Thanks,” when he tells you that he sent over some Ganghak members to clean up the mess of your apartment in the hour and a half that you spent at the precinct.

“Mark says you don’t have to come in tomorrow,” he tells you before you go on.

“Wasn’t planning to,” is what you say before finally closing the door on him.

‎*‎

Unfortunately, Na Jaemin was right.

“Ow! Shit! Fuck me!”

You are, indeed, regretting your whole fit of violence right now— over your bathroom counter with your med kit sprawled open. Your hands are a mess. You bandage yourself up before attempting to make breakfast. The attempt ends with you hissing in pain every time you try to hold something with your right hand, so you end up ordering something to eat instead.

While waiting, you plop down on your down fixed couch to answer the flood of messages that had been coming in since last night. Mostly from Haechan. One text from Renjun checking in on you. The last few from Mark telling you to take as much time off as you need— paid, he emphasizes. His fluency in your way of communicating is starting to scare you. You tell him you’d be clocking in back to work tomorrow.

A new notification comes in telling you that your order is almost here. You groan and peel yourself off the couch, grabbing a pair of slides from the entryway before twisting open your already unlocked door.

The moment you breathe the hallway air, you’re met with another commotion.

“Get out! Go away!”

“Ma’am, I’m telling you I know the resident here, I’m just— ow!”

Thunk!

“Don’t you lie to me, I know Miss Attorney doesn’t have any friends or a boyfriend! Get out!”

You stop by the doorframe, taking in the sight of your middle-aged landlady beating the high and mighty Na Jaemin with a convenience store bought frying pan. He looks so distraught shielding himself with his arms, before finally noticing you, and his expression shifts. “Hey! Tell this woman to stop, I’ve been—”

Thwack!

“Attorney!” your landlady greets you after landing another metal blow to Na Jaemin. “This weirdo has been loitering around your unit ever since I got here! Should we call the police?!”

Your eyes flit over to Jaemin. He looks annoyed and pissed and disgruntled, but apparently even someone like him won’t raise a hand against a woman old enough to be his mom. You stifle out a short sneer, then turn to your landlady with a smile. “Ahjumma, it’s alright, he’s my co-worker,” you assure. “He’s the one who helped me last night.”

You hear him scoff. “Oh,” your landlady gasps. “I’m so sorry, dear. You just looked awfully suspicious.” Then she quickly forgets about him to address you instead. “I already called a repairman to fix your broken door. They’ll be here before lunchtime.”

“Thank you. I’ll handle it from here!”

“Take care, dear. Have a lovely morning.”

When she goes off up the staircase, you look at the weirdo loitering around your unit. You cross your arms, brow raised. “What do you want?”

He stares you down, and you catch his mouth twitch when he lets out an incredulous huff. “Your damn landlady should get heating in the hallway. My back’s all sore and all I get in return is attitude,” he snarks. “Can’t believe you had a good night’s sleep even with your lock broken after the shit that went down. I don’t know if you’re brave or fucking stupid.”

You’re hit by a sudden pang against your chest. Oh. Oh. You notice he’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. You let his insult slide this time, telling him to follow you downstairs to pick up your food. It’s a good thing you ordered enough for two meals today. You don’t thank him. Instead, you invite him in for a doenjang-jjigae breakfast.

“Want coffee?”

“You gonna spit in it?” he chides from the dining table.

“Just say no, you prick,” you grunt, dragging out a pitcher of water from your fridge instead and slamming it down onto the table. You’re starting to second guess your act of gratitude. You should’ve just let your landlady beat him to death with the pan.

He pours water into the two empty glasses while you struggle to open the delivery bags and containers. You curse the plastic knot getting in the way of your doenjang-jjigae, hissing every time the plastic brushes against your still raw skin despite the bandages. Na Jaemin seems to notice your struggle because he clicks his tongue and snatches it from you to do it himself. Your face grows hot. Your pride is in tatters.

You two start eating in silence. God, this is so fucking awkward. “So, uh,” you try to crack it. “The food is…great…right…?”

“Cut the shit, attorney. Just spit it out.”

“Jeez, fine, alright,” you set your utensils down a little too aggressively, and you feel the sting deep within your palms. Your glare zeroes in on the spot on his head that you recall getting ambushed by your counter stool. “Is your head fine? It didn’t bleed or anything, right?”

He just shrugs and continues slurping down the soup. “I’ve had my head split open before. It’s no biggie.”

You stare at him. Was…was that supposed to be a brag? How many concussions has he had? Is that the reason why there’s a screw loose in there somewhere? He’s so fucking insane.

“You worried, or some shit?” He sets down his spoon to fish out a ply of tissue from the box on your table, dabbing away at the shit-eating smile on his face. “That’s cute. Does it mean you don’t hate my fucking guts anymore?”

The tofu you’re trying to eat stops midway into your throat. My god, you didn’t expect him to take that note so seriously.

You swallow it down with water. “I just wanted to know if I had to reimburse you for any hospital bills,” you explain, somewhat defensive. “I still hate your fucking guts.” His past transgressions aside because he can’t even fucking remember them. “You were the shittiest and most stressful client I’ve ever had and I will hold this grudge until I die. I would’ve dropped your case if Mark’s very existence wasn’t a threat to my life.” All he does is cackle in response. You leer at him. “Fuck off, you treated me like crap then. I don’t get why you’ve been changing your tune lately. It’s throwing me off. Why the hell did you even help me?”

The ideas that Renjun and Haechan injected into your poor brain start to surface. Maybe he’s just doing it to get your attention. Everyone in the office knows he has a crush on you. You hope that’s not the case. You really hope it’s not— and now’s the opportunity to finally get the real answer.

Your heart is thumping like crazy waiting for Na Jaemin to open his dumb mouth. “Ah. The visiting room,” he starts, eyes wandering up like he’s reminiscing a pleasant memory. You don’t share the same sentiment and your expression sours. “I thought you were a pushover at first and it annoyed the hell out of me. Not a big fan of spinelessness and cowardice.”

Wow. You’re speechless. He’s this close to getting kicked out.

“But then you pulled me into that room during recess in court.”

His eyes flicker over to you— forcing the eye contact that you’d always been running away from. The look on his face forces a lump in your throat. You gulp it down and feel a rattle in your bones. What is this? What’s his deal? Is he trying to fight? What in the name of—

“And then I realized just the kind of woman I was into.”

—fuck?

“Last night, too. But it would’ve been pretty inappropriate to tell you I was turned on considering the situation.”

You blink. You gape at him. You’re not sure if your face is steaming because of anger or embarrassment, so you chalk it up as both.

“Get out.”

This is it. This is enough. It’s time to call it a day.

“Get out of my house.”

“I’m not done eating ye—”

You grab his glass of water and douse it over half-eaten stew, some of which spills and splatters over him. “Yes, you are. Out. Now.”

Na Jaemin lifts his brows and raises his hands up in surrender as he gets up from his chair without protest, an infuriating simper playing on his face, and it just all the more pisses you off. He makes a comment about your broken door lock before you tell him to fuck off and shove him out into the hallway, his cackles finally get muted the moment you slam the door into his face.

You press your back against the wood. You suck in a deep breath before releasing it as you slide down to the floor.

“This is nuts.”

Seems like you might need another day off. You text Mark that you’ll be coming in on Thursday instead.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

#jaemin x reader #na jaemin x reader #jaemin x you #na jaemin x you #nct dream x reader #nct dream x you #nct x reader #nct x you #na jaemin fanfic #na jaemin scenarios #nct dream fanfic #nct fanfic #nct scenarios #na jaemin smut #jaemin smut #nct smut #nct dream smut

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darkmatilda · 3 months ago

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𝐠𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which one spencer finds you in a place that might be attacked and tries to save your life—only for you to end up saving his instead

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, reader is at a club, mention of consumed alcohol in the past (but not drinking in the fic) spencer gets (lightly) beaten up, reader kills (shoots) the unsub

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.8k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

There were many things Spencer Reid hated about clubs.

He had stepped into one just five minutes ago, and he had already checked off most of them. The purple and pink lights played a never-ending game of tag, intertwining, their intensity constantly shifting—one moment revealing the silhouettes around him in sharp clarity, the next melting them into a single, writhing, deafening mass. Completely cut off from their surroundings—bodies so absorbed in swaying to the pounding beat that they paid no mind to brushing against random strangers or accidentally shoving them aside.

He lost sight of Prentiss almost immediately. They had agreed to split up, sure but he would have preferred to at least know which direction she had gone. There were too many brunettes around to pick her out, and every time he tried to look around, he lost what little control he had over his path, colliding with someone's shoulder.

Eventually, he slowed his pace, nearly coming to a stop—one motionless pillar among the swaying crowd, set apart not just by his stillness but by the reason he was there in the first place.

Work felt like too trivial an excuse. Preventing a tragedy…maybe a bit too grandiose.

Another case, another unsub. This time, a more local one. Someone sneaking into clubs, specifically tampering with fog machines and replacing their contents with toxic gas. One moment, the crowd lost in dance. The next, gasping for breath and collapsing in convulsions on the floor, a pop song cruelly lingering above them as they took their last breath.

Well, not in every case—many had survived the attack. Thanks to their testimonies, they had built a profile of the unsub before they even identified him.

And once they had the profile, they were able to predict when and where he would strike next. Not exactly where. There were several clubs on his radar, forcing them to split into pairs. Time was against them, and they couldn’t afford the delay that bringing in a larger team would cause.

His gaze found the DJ booth. Deep down, he knew Prentiss was doing the exact same thing, wherever she was. Right next to it stod the fog machine—meant to enhance the sensory experience, he supposed, though he didn’t entirely understand the appeal.

In any case, they couldn’t just arrest the guy. Mostly because this guy wasn’t him. They had determined that the unsub had to sneak in to execute his plan, likely disguised as a maintenance worker—someone unremarkable, someone no one would question. Equipment needed servicing from time to time, after all.

That left them with one option. Observation. Waiting for the right moment. Literally waiting to catch the unsub in the act.

He knew he had to get even closer.

That wasn’t exactly easy, given that it was a Saturday night and the club was packed wall to wall. Spencer took a deep breath—air thick with heat of the bodies—and fixed his gaze straight ahead, hoping that focusing would at least minimize how often he bumped into people.

The tactic itself, in theory, sounded like something that had a chance of success. He couldn’t control the movements of the people around him, but he could control his own—could force his awkward body to maximize its barely existing coordination, slipping through the crowd with as much grace as he could manage.

In practice, however, he froze mid-step the moment his eyes locked onto a single, specific point just ahead of him.

At first, he thought he was imagining things. The play of lights was deceptive—he could have easily been mistaken.

The thing was, when it came to her mistaking her for someone else was nearly impossible. And Spencer had long suspected that it wasn’t just about physical attractiveness.

At that moment, she was surrounded by women—women who had dressed in whatever made them feel their most confident for a night out, women who, as a result, looked undeniably striking. And yet, none of them had caught his eye as quickly or as completely as she had.

Maybe it was simply because he knew her, and the human brain was wired to pick out familiar shapes. Or maybe it was that obscure thought that had once crept into his mind—that there was something almost siren-like about her. In the way her hips moved so fluidly, in how people instinctively seemed to make space for her, in the way every gaze that landed on her lingered just a second too long, caught in quiet admiration.

And that was the ironic part.

Despite all the glances she effortlessly drew—glances she had long since grown used to, had learned to take in stride—she still somehow managed to feel his.

Spencer, still frozen in place, registered the exact moment her eyebrows lifted—first in surprise, then in amusement. He also registered how, almost without hesitation, she started moving toward him.

She didn’t need to elbow her way through the crowd. She never did.

Watching her fluid, measured steps slowly closing the space between them, he finally grasped one crucial fact.

She was in the same club as him. At the same time as him.

But he wasn’t there for fun.

He was there to prevent a mass poisoning. And it wasn’t until she stood right in front of him, head tilted slightly, lips curved in that playful way of hers, that it hit him.

She had no idea what was potentially about to happen.

None of the other people there did.

"Spencer Reid," she said slowly, deliberately, as if tasting his name for the first time.

He heard her perfectly despite the pounding music, but apparently, she decided he hadn’t—because she took another step closer. A step that cut through most of the already minimal space between them.

He had to tilt his head down just to keep his gaze on her.

"In a club. Alone. The world must be ending, because I’m not nearly drunk enough to be imagining you."

He felt his body take in a breath without his permission. His gaze flicked above her, back to the DJ booth. The same DJ as before—he recognized him by the neon pink shirt. No one had taken his place. No one was near him. Yet.

Their eyes met again.

His throat simply refused to work. He had no idea what to say, and not because someone had just bumped into his back, pushing him even closer. He had to steady himself with a light grip on her shoulder to avoid crashing into her entirely.

He glanced at his own hand on her skin, bathed in the pink and violet glow of the club lights. It looked almost forein, as if it didn’t belong to him.

Spencer didn’t know what to say—not because she was there, but because she was there. In this place, in this moment, where so many things could go wrong.

Sure, they worked together. But she wasn’t here on a case. Tonight, she was just another unaware, innocent civilian—one of the many people it was his job to protect.

Protect, but not warn. A warning would cause chaos among everyone present, sending them rushing toward the exit, ruining their chance to catch the unsub just when they knew the location he planned to strike.

Her hand waved in front of his eyes, making sure he was still present. Spencer swallowed, forcing himself to say something—anything—while he figured out what he really should say.

"Do you often imagine me when you're drunk?" he asked.

The very first thing that came to his mind. Surprisingly, it didn’t turn out to be such a terrible choice.

The woman pursed her lips in a thin line, as if genuinely considering it.

“It’s happened a few times,” she admitted without a hint of embarrassment, in the most casual tone possible. She let out a quiet chuckle, as if recalling something. “Last time, I was flirting with some guy, also in a club. I was convinced it was you, but the longer we talked, the more something felt off. Some element. I just didn’t know if it was the flirting or the fact that you were in a club at all…”

He let her speak while his eyes once again scanned the surroundings. He reminded himself that they weren’t alone. The people around them—people just as unaware of the potential danger as she was.

Of course, he assumed they’d manage to prevent it. But he wouldn’t be himself if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind what if…

Then he’d be guilty of not telling her. Of not simply ordering her to leave immediately. She probably wouldn’t have listened—knowing her—but he would’ve found a way to make her.

He chalked it up to a natural instinct. They didn’t have to be particularly close for him to not want anything to happen to her. They didn’t even have to particularly like or tolerate each other.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about all the other oblivious people in the club. But it was definitely harder to distance himself from her—when it was her face he saw nearly every day.

"Are you here alone?" Spencer asked suddenly

He must have interrupted her—her lips remained slightly parted.

"With a few friends," she stated, pausing as she studied him analytically. "Why? Asking if you can join us?"

He sighed at her response. A few friends. If he told her, she’d probably want to warn them too—which wasn’t surprising or wrong—but there was a chance that those friends also had friends here. And in the blink of an eye, it could trigger mass panic. Chaos.

He shut his eyes for a moment, hesitating.

"Spencer, what is wrong with you?" Her voice reached his ears, and he felt her hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.

When he looked at her again, her expression had completely changed.

Full of realization.

"Wait, I think I know what you’re doing here."

He had hesitated long enough for her to figure it out on her own. But at least that forced him to make a decision faster.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaned in toward her—something that, logically, made no sense. Their conversation was already happening within such a small space, close enough that he could see the way the light above them shifted in her eyes. There was no need to lower his voice conspiratorially. And yet, for some reason, he did.

He leaned in near her shoulder, speaking close to her ear.

Her hand remained on his shoulder, waiting for whatever he was about to say.

"Go home," he said simply.

She didn’t move, though he felt her fingers press slightly deeper against his skin, as when he confirmed her own suspicions.

"Take your friends if you have to. Just leave, okay?"

He waited for a moment, certain he could feel her taking a deep breath, steadying herself, keeping calm. When he straightened just enough to meet her gaze again, she was composed.

She didn’t know what exactly was happening—she had every right to be panicked—but she wasn’t.

"Is it really that serious?" she asked.

He glanced toward the DJ booth, scanning the situation. He considered her question. Honestly? No. Not that serious. They didn’t even have confirmation that their unsub was targeting this particular club.And yet, he gave her a small, confirming nod.At worst, she’d lose one night of fun with her friends for nothing. Better that than losing her life.

She answered him with a nod of her own.

Spencer watched the movement, exhaling slowly, but as his gaze dropped once more to the space just beyond her shoulder, he noticed something strange.

He straightened fully, and her hand slipped from his shoulder, falling away.

She turned, following his line of sight, but she didn’t know what to look for. A moment later, she turned back to him, confused. But he knew. And he had just seen it.

Reid stepped past her.

Oddly enough, pushing through the crowd no longer felt like an issue. He looked over his shoulder—almost reflexively—meeting her eyes for one brief second. Go home tried to tell her again, with no words.

Some might find it strange how quickly he recognized the unsub in the crowd. While some would call it a hunch or instinct, he would simply call it experience. So many solved cases, so many profiles written, so many criminals interrogated. He had simply managed to pick him out.

What he hadn’t anticipated was that the unsub would recognize him.

Not personally, but he would sense that something was off the moment their eyes met by chance.

He might have been aware that the FBI was on his tail.

Either way, as soon as he realized Spencer was heading toward him, he abruptly changed direction, picking up his pace. He was no longer moving toward the smoke machine—now, he was weaving blindly through the crowd.

Still, Reid couldn’t just let him slip away, of course.

He stayed on his heels, hoping that Prentiss was somewhere out there and had also recognized the man as their unsub. That she had even noticed him at all. He didn’t know whether the unsub was armed, but either way, he couldn’t reach for his weapon while still surrounded by people. His breathing quickened from the pace he was keeping, but he couldn’t afford to slow down—not if he wanted to keep him in sight.

Where was the unsub going?

He found out soon enough when he saw him slip through the emergency exit—somehow left unguarded—into a dark, empty alleyway.

Spencer realized he had made a huge mistake after just the first two steps. He had looked around too slowly, focusing too much on the left side when something hit him in the face from the right. The force was too much for a bare fist. He suspected brass knuckles. Mostly because it knocked him off his feet, sending him sprawling onto the hard pavement. As he shielded his head from the fall, the weapon slipped from his hand. Instinctively, he reached for it, a reflex, considering how badly the world was spinning in front of his eyes.

Before he could even brush it with his fingers, the hard sole of a boot landed on his toes, not breaking them, but definitely pulling more than just a pained hiss from his lips. The sound of dragging—the weapon kicked far out of his reach. He cursed under his breath, and possibly out loud. Not only because he had been so easily disarmed and neutralized, but because the realization hit him quickly. When a criminal doesn't bend down to retrieve a dropped weapon, it usually means one simple thing. They have their own.

And well, for the first time, he didn’t feel satisfied by being right. When he managed to prop himself up on his elbow with controlled movement, still feeling the pulse in his temples, the first thing he saw was the gleam of a barrel aimed directly at him. A long moment where their eyes locked. Spencer was about to say something. A lot of words pressed at his lips—there had to be a way to stop him from pulling the trigger. He knew the entire profile, and he could manipulate him.

But before any sound could escape his mouth, the shot rang out.

The stab in his chest was so intense that he thought—he was absolutely certain—the shot had hit him. His heart—there was no point in even pressing his hand to it to check. It would have been covered in blood in an instant, and he wouldn’t even have time to look at it before he collapsed back to the ground, this time dead. But that didn’t happen, although something did fall.

The tall figure right in front of him collapsed to the ground, revealing who had been a few steps behind him.

The hand gripping the weapon so confidently that for a moment, he thought it was Prentiss.

That would have been the most logical option. After all, they had been sent there together, and it was her he expected to see. Not someone who had come to spend the evening with friends. Someone who, despite his warning, had followed him for some reason and, at the right moment, had lifted the weapon that had been knocked away by the unsub Spencer’s weapon and aimed it.

Someone who now stood still, staring down at his fallen form, with one hand still extended in front of them until it fell stiffly to their side.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment that felt almost unreal.

Finally, Spencer forced himself to look away from her and, feeling like he was in some strange dream, clumsily managed to get to his feet. When he succeeded in standing upright, her figure appeared right next to him, her hand gripping his shoulder, as if ensuring he wouldn’t fall again. For the first time in a while, he breathed— the taste of the air after almost being shot was strange. He needed two more breaths like that before he could even begin to process what had just happened. Her face—not directly in front of him, but slightly to the side, so that he had to turn his head to look at her.

It might have sounded illogical, but he had the feeling that fear was only just beginning to appear on her face. When she shot the unsub right in the back of his head, her expression had shown nothing at all.

"I..." Spencer began, stopping as the pain pressed against his skull again. It was dull, but when he placed his hand on it, he didn't see any blood. He took that as a good sign. A sign that started to slowly clear things up. The unsub was dead. Okay, that happened. Sometimes, capturing him alive just wasn’t possible.

But he hadn’t been killed by him, as he perhaps should have been. He had been killed by her. How had she even ended up there?

"I told you to go home," he said sharply.

For a moment, she was silent, staring at him in disbelief, as if she couldn’t understand the meaning of his words. Meanwhile, Spencer felt a fleeting surge of anger. She had followed him, which was absolutely irresponsible. If the unsub hadn’t uncovered the weapon, or if he had decided to pick it up, she would have been completely defenseless because, as far as he knew, she hadn’t been carrying her own. And then she would have found herself in a dark alley with, quite simply, a murderer.

Her lips parted and closed again, as if trying to speak, but instead, she snorted. At least, she tried to. It wasn’t her usual, mocking snort, although she attempted it. It came out weak, barely audible, and then Spencer lowered his gaze, noticing that the hand holding his gun was trembling. She tightened her grip on the handle, trying to stop it.

“And some thank you?” she asked. “For, hmm, let’s see, saving your life?”

He felt a bit stupid, to be honest. Especially when he noticed her taking a deep breath and turning her head toward the body lying on the ground.

“I didn’t aim for his head,” she admitted, more to herself than to him.

He looked at her profile with hesitation. He hadn’t thought about it before, but this was probably the first time she had ever killed someone. Most of her work in the FBI had been in the confines of the lab, and she was rarely in situations that would require something like this.

Yet, she had still done it. Shoot, at the right moment, without hesitation.

Seeing that she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the dead man, he gently reached up and touched her cheek, turning her face back toward him. She flinched at the gesture, her eyes momentarily widening, almost vulnerable, before she clenched them shut, tension rising in her temples.

“But it’s a good thing I did,” she said, opening her eyes again. She shook off the emotions that had briefly settled there, adopting her usual expression. Most people probably wouldn’t even notice anything had changed. “Otherwise, he probably would’ve killed you. So…”

She didn’t finish, shrugging stiffly.

Spencer felt an unpleasant sensation in his stomach, rising up to his throat. A sudden wave of guilt, knowing that it was his fault and his lack of field skills that had led to this situation. He had to swallow it down before he could speak again.

“He killed a lot of people,” he told her. She deserved to know that. “And he was planning to do the same today. Maybe even to you. Your friends, and…”

He didn’t know what else he wanted to add, or if his words were in any way helpful. He hoped they were. They both lingered in silence, and Spencer realized that, in fact, he hadn’t even thanked her for what she did. But, well, that was life, not a favor to be repaid with a simple thank you. He knew, though, that he would be able to return to the daily grind of things as if nothing had happened, without offering anything in return. His gaze fell once more on her hand, still gripping the gun. He gently took it from her.

“I shot him,” he suddenly said.

The woman gave him a confused look.

“If anyone asks,” he added, aware that she still didn’t quite understand what he meant. In fact, he was having trouble putting it into words himself. “I mean, technically, you shouldn’t even know about all of this. No one knows you were here, so...you can just...forget about it, if you want.”

It wasn’t that the killing would get her into trouble. Considering she saved his life, she wouldn’t face any real consequences. However, her name would have to be mentioned in the report. Not a big deal, but Spencer just had the feeling that the less it attached to her, the better.

She was silent for a long time, and Spencer thought maybe she didn’t like the idea. He even considered retracting his words, just dismissing it as nothing. But then he noticed and heard her take a deep breath, and for a brief moment, something resembling a grateful smile appeared on her face.

“Okay,” she agreed with a weak nod. She glanced thoughtfully toward the club before turning her gaze back to him. “I guess I should go then.”

She didn’t move, as if waiting for something else.

“Right,” he muttered. “Right...thanks, by the way. For, you know, saving my life.”

It seemed like she was on the verge of a quiet chuckle, and he felt a little better.

“You’ll make it up to me somehow,” she replied.

This time, she didn’t acknowledge his words with a nod. Instead, she stepped closer, looping one arm around his neck, resting her chin against his shoulder, and staying still in that position, letting out just a sigh. Spencer, for most of the moment, felt too frozen to respond. And when he finally managed to, when he placed his hand gently on her back, returning the embrace, it was only a second before she pulled away and walked off.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #diva reader ♱#spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x you

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gritandoengay · 26 days ago

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I only come on this app like once every two or three months to reblog fan art of whatever wlw ship I'm currently hyper fixating on and then dip. I'm Old TM by fandom standards and have spent way too much time in the trenches of fandom discourse to have the energy for that again, I've done my time. I'm not here to write a lengthy essay defending Caitlyn and/or CaitVi - no, I'm here simply to share an observation:

Many of you Caitlyn and CaitVi haters are super predictable.

Y'all have been regurgitating the same talking points since fucking 2014. Might not be the same people (god I hope it's not), but it's the same. thing. every. time. Doesn't matter the genre of the show or what happens between the characters, y'all will trot out the same reheated arguments.

"Caitlyn is a fascist dictator and you are a N*zi if you support her"

Is just reheated "Lexa is a fascist dictator" and "Catra is a fascist dictator" and "Edelgard is a fascist dictator." I would argue that Caitlyn is actually the least morally grey of that group, but anyway, it's "curious" how all these properties have equally (or even more) morally grey male characters that get rehabed by the fandom while the wlw are irredeemable fascists that only N*zis would like.

"CaitVi is a toxic relationship, Caitlyn is a domestic abuser that physically beats up Vi all the time and/or manipulates her"

None of these points are supported at all by the text imo, but anyway, it's the same language used to describe Clexa and Catradora and god knows how many other wlw ships in shows with popular non-wlw ships that have very similar dynamics. Even compared to other popular Arcane ships, this accusation is super hypocritical given how TimeBomb beat the shit out of each other in season 1 and Jayce literally blasts a hole in Viktor's chest for plot reasons. I would also like to point out that the super harmful stereotype of lesbians being domestic abusers was born out of wildly misinterpreted statistics of domestic abuse in real life.

"JayVik and/or Timebomb is actually more queer than CaitVi"

Is just badly reheated pasta made from the same ingredients as "Makorra is actually more queer than Korrasami" and "Bellarke is actually more queer than Clexa" and "Hordtrapta is actually more queer than Catradora" and "Dimileth is actually more queer than Edeleth" and "Huntlow is actually more queer than Lumity" , the arguments are always just as nonsensical because there's just flat out no such thing as a same sex ship being "less queer" than any other ship.

CaitVi literally fuck, on screen, in a sex scene that has literally won a god damn award and went on to become the most captured moment in all of godman Netflix. Regardless of your opinion on the ship, that visibility is important. The fact that a whole theater full of people started screaming as loudly as a jet engine with executives from Riot to hear it all is important.

The final scene of the show is literally them snuggling in front of the fire place and promising to always be together. That's gay as fuck. So, stop embarrassing yourself with this regurgitated "X canon wlw ship isn't as queer as -" nonsense, which btw, is just an extension of real life same sex relationships between women not being taken seriously because society overall still centers men in romance and can't fathom a romantic relationship not involving a man. Y'all know you can't even debate me on this in fandom spaces because all I have to do is point at the number of mlm and f/m fics on ao3 vs the crumbs that big fandoms give wlw ships.

Now on to the excuses and disclaimers that are trotted out.

"I can't be misogynistic I'm a woman-" Yes, yes you can. If you think that only conservative women can suffer from internalized misogyny, boy do I have years of working in leftist organizing spaces to dispel that notion. If you think that fandom spaces are somehow immune to misogyny- lol. Lmao. See the above point about mlm and f/m fics on ao3.

"I can't be lesbophobic/biphobic I'm literally queer -" Yes, yes you can. Both intersect with misogyny, and see the above point about misogyny. You can be a biphobic lesbian, you can be a lesbophobic bisexual, you can even be a biphobic bisexual and a lesbophobic lesbian. Wild, I know, thank the cis- heteropatriarchy.

"I can't be racist because I'm a POC -" Yes, yes you absolutely fucking can. I also have other news for you - despite how much some of you fuckers want to pretend Caitlyn isn't East Asian because of racist assumptions of what East Asians should look like and/or be depicted like in media, she is, and she's important rep, especially in a time when anti-East Asian (and Asian in general) bigotry has been rising in Western countries. No amount of "ACAB BLM Free Palestine" tags in your profile will make you immune from being racist. This leads me to a related point -

Y'all love to scream about wanting more rep with sapphic woc, but then when that rep comes, you tear it down or center other ships. Korrasami is toxic, CaitVi is toxic, Tanthamore is boring, Lumity is fine but I prefer Huntlow, etc.

Furthermore, the only, and I mean only time that black sapphic characters will be mentioned will be to prop them up as good rep vs whatever wlw you hate, but then when I go to those black sapphic character's/ship's Tumblr and ao3 tags, nothing! It's a ghost town! Those characters get paid dust by both wlw fandoms and the people using them as props to hate on other wlw characters! This is definitely a call out to wlw fandoms too btw, I have yet to see a ship with a black sapphic character explode in popularity, and that's on us too.

So, what is the purpose of this rant? Well, I know that most people that read it will dig in and further entrench themselves in their hatred of Caitlyn and CaitVi, but I'm hoping that at least one person genuinely re-examines that hatred and where it might be coming from. You don't have to like Caitlyn or CaitVi, you can criticize the ship and the characters. But if your criticisms and hatred are almost beat for beat the same accusations that have been thrown at wlw ships in even wildly different shows and contexts, and/or you excuse male characters and non-wlw ships with similar dynamics, then it's time to do some soul searching.

Anyway, this has already been long enough. I'm doing policy advocacy with local LGBTQ organizations and will go back to working on that. Whatever your opinions of Caitlyn and CaitVi are, there are fascists out there in the real world to fight.

#caitvi #caitlyn #vi #arcane #caitlyn kiramman #anti caitvi #anti caitlyn kiramman #arcane critical #arcane fandom critical

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bsdawgz · 10 months ago

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「 ✦ Perverted ✦ 」 Bungo Stray Dogs, Port Mafia: Osamu Dazai

... NOW PLAYING ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| Perverted by Elita ...

a/n: it has been so long i'm sorry for disappearing </3 I LOVE YOU ALL THANK U FOR CONTINUING TO SUPPORT ME, new and old followers ILY. SPECIAL THX TO @amo-bsd, @little-miss-chaoss, @starrs20 THEY R THE BEST. also idk if this fic is ur thing cuz its dark content so u dont have to read it but i tagged y'all bc everyone who comes across this post SHOULD FOLLOW U BC UR THE BEST

content: f! pm! reader. MDNI! dark content + nasty! knifeplay. knifeplay is consensual, BUT keep in mind that unequal power dynamics are still at play because dazai is an executive and f!reader is a subordinate. (aka if this were real life this is not consensual)

++ blowjob (incl. facefucking). degradation and name-calling ("slut"), praise and pet names (i actually used bella LOL). dazai is possessive. like he actually treats you like a possession KEEP THAT IN MIND B4 READING

Dazai has always been calculating and cruel. Perhaps it was one of the things that drew you to him the most, as twisted as it were, knowing that these bloodied hands could sometimes hold you so tenderly, and that you of all people were the one he chose to see him naked at the end of the night. You took some sort of pride in it, in the fact Port Mafia's youngest executive had chosen you as his personal plaything, out of all the women that could easily fall into his arms.

His room is dark, ceilings tall, his face shrouded by velvet curtains that cast a shadow over you like a gaping mouth. His desk is stacked with papers, neatly organized in a pile, but there are painkillers and used-up bandages sprawled across the floor beneath it. Dazai is in the corner, staring down disdainfully at the broken city that is Yokohama. He doesn't greet you when you enter. Rather, he looks down at you condescendingly. "You were reckless today. You're lucky Akutagawa was there to save you, or you would have been killed."

"I'm sorry," is all you can say. As his subordinate and, for lack of a better term, his lover, you never know which Dazai you're about to face. Your apology is well-received, a grin forming on his lips as you bow your head. You're always so quick to submit to him. He's used to it, being an executive and all, but it feels especially good coming from you.

"Yeah?" His voice is a low hum now, seductive and rogue. He comes closer, then you feel his thumb graze your chin, then he forces you to gaze into the empty void of his dark eyes. You stare, captured by the intense nothingness behind them that threatens to swallow you whole, gulping as you realize that in those moments of enchantment, those slender fingers of his have crawled along the sides of your neck. He leans in, and you can feel his lips tracing along your collarbone. "How are you gonna make it up to me?"

Your knees are weak; you're always falling right into his hands this way. He guides you to the dresser, hands on your hips, then presses his body against yours from behind, fingers toying with the hem of your blouse. "How about I kill you right here, myself?" you hear him whisper in your ear, breath warm against your skin. Then, you feel cold metal pressed against your neck. "Would you let me do that to you?"

You catch a glimpse of silver, gleaming with the reflection of the city lights as Dazai runs a blade along a vein.

Trusting a man like Dazai can be such a fatal flaw – ...

... but he must be using the dull edge for a reason... right?

"I would let you do anything to me," you reply. You hear him sigh, almost disappointed by your courteous response. He lets go of you immediately and scoffs, tucking the knife back into his pocket.

"You always know what to say," he mutters, as if irritated by your predictability – but you know that it means he's pleased. You’re loyal to him. You always have been.

Then, as if on cue, you turn to face him, getting on your knees in front of him.

"Oh," he muses, entertained. "So, you're gonna use your pretty mouth to make it up to me instead?"

– but of course.

You're eager to please him, hands fumbling for the zipper of his slacks. He grins at how desperate you seem to touch him, petting your head as you bury your face into his hardness. You trace him through his boxers, marvel at the way it grows with your touch. This is the way you command him – the way you bring to his knees while you're on yours. You feel him shudder as your lips caress him, feel wetness seep through his boxers against your cheek as you mold against him.

In this moment, the most dangerous man in Yokohama is yours and yours alone.

"Get on with it," he mumbles lazily, stroking your cheek gently. You're staring up at him admiringly, watching the way his breath catches in his throat as you tease him.

He's gorgeous when he’s weak for you, gazing back down at you with half-lidded eyes, waiting on you to make him feel something. He's the desperate one now, you think to yourself. It’s as if he’s begging,

'Give it to me.'

You'll give it to him – you'll give it to him over and over.

Maybe it's perverted, but it makes you feel good inside, knowing you're needed by him like this.

So, you strip him slowly, kissing along his firm abdomen and thighs as you peel the boxers down his legs. He's impatient, hands trembling as you reach for him and run your fingers slowly along his length. His reactions are all the praise you need – he sighs softly into your touch when you finally wet the tip with your tongue, then you feel him fade into you. You taste the salt that drips so bitterly on your lips, swirl the precum in your mouth and let it melt against your saliva. "You're good at that," he whispers, and you feel yourself grow wet between the legs at his words.

Then, you take him. Slowly, at first – stroking him with your pretty hands while you lick the vein that runs along the underside, then slide him down your throat. You feel his grip tighten on your hair, then hear him make a stifled sound. When you look up, he's staring down at you in amazement, lips parted so slightly as you do your best not to choke on him... If only he looked at you like this all the time, you can't help but think to yourself shamefully.

It's too cruel to continue these sort of thoughts, so you force yourself to take him deeper... You shove him into your mouth until your vision blurs, until you gag on him, until saliva dribbles down your chin. He matches your pace, burying himself into your throat until you choke on his length, until you're tearing up and your vision is blurred. Then, you hear him laugh condescendingly. "This why you were so reckless today?" he asks you roughly, eyes darkening as he peers down at you. His fingers ravage your hair, his nails digging into your scalp as he pushes your head down. "You like it just like this, don't you?"

And maybe he’s right – he has you throwing your life away in this wretched mafia… and for what? He has you following him around like a dog… and to what end?

When you're forced to look up at him with your mouth stuffed full of him, it's almost as if there's no trace of a humanity left in him. There’s nothing in those wild eyes, scornful and resenting. There's some twisted grin on his face, something sadistic and perverse you've only seen a few times before, in the moments before he’s stolen someone’s life. "You act so fucking innocent, but look at you taking me like a damn slut. Do you do this for the others? Tell me..."

You can hardly breathe now, cheeks swollen and red, jaw aching, but you know he expects a response, so you shake your head frantically. No, of course not, you'd never give it to anyone else but him. Never, ever – but he doesn't relent, looking down at you demeaningly with that same sick look on his face. "Yeah? I've seen the way you look at Chūya. You wanna fuck him too, don't you?"

This time, when you open your eyes, the knife is right against your throat – the sharp edge almost tracing along your skin. Would you bleed for this man? Would you die for this man? Wouldn’t he like to know…

You shake your head as if to say, 'Only you... only ever you.' Then, you claw at his legs, pushing him away to tell him enough...

– and he withdraws immediately, shoving you off of him and leaving you coughing and gasping for air on the cold, wooden floor. "I would have killed you if you said yes, you know," he says, point blank. "You're mine alone."

This time, you're not quite sure if he means what he says – or what he means as laughs mirthlessly as you pull yourself together. But in a playful tone, he adds, "But of course, I knew from the start that you'd say no."

Then, you feel it –

His embrace. Gentle. Endearing. Fond.

His soft, tangled bangs fall against your shoulder as he pulls you into his chest.

It’s like he’s become a different person again.

“Come here, my precious Bella," you hear him murmur into your shoulder, tracing a delicate finger along your back as he presses his lips to your spine, and your heart stills.

"Let me draw you a bath."

For a man so cold, his body feels surprisingly warm.

author ps: ANY BDSM should have CLEAR communicated boundaries (established beforehand) and during AND include AFTERCARE. the aftercare was not written (it would be the bath, basically). if you are new to BDSM or considering BSDM please be INFORMED and do not use fanfic and dark content as a basis for it

#BSDAWGZ #bsd dazai #bungou stray dogs dazai #dazai smut #pm! dazai #bungou stray dogs smut #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs smut #bungo stray dogs dazai #pm! dazai smut #bsd dazai smut #dazai x reader #bsd dazai x reader #dazai x you

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gpcwsl · 4 months ago

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“Oh, you think you’re so funny, aren’t you?”

May i request lia walti x walti!reader where the reader is wally's mischievous and chaotic younger sister who left home quietly to surprise her sister in London and when lia is not home she hides until lia comes back from her training to surprise her big sister who almost had the fright of her life. And it is here where the arsenal team is introduced to lia's chaotic sister who cannot be more different than her.

Thank you

Lia Wälti x Sister!Reader

You think you’re so funny?

WC: 582

MasterList

Warnings: short, maybe?

My first sister fic! You can request sister fictions, them I can do.

Song: If we have eachother - Alec Benjamin

You step out of the taxi, grinning as you take in the quiet London neighborhood. The sun is shining, and there’s a slight chill in the air, but you’re too excited to care.

You adjust the straps of your backpack, bouncing on your heels as you stare at the house in front of you. Lia’s house. Your big sister’s house.

She has no idea you’re here.

You hadn’t told her you were coming, and in true you fashion, you had snuck out of home without a word, booked a flight, and now stood at her doorstep, ready to execute the perfect surprise.

Lia was calm, responsible, and organized. You, on the other hand? The walking definition of chaos.

You press your ear to the door—silence. She must still be at training. Even better. That gives you time to set up. Fishing the spare key from your pocket (Lia really should know better than to trust you with this), you let yourself in.

The house is neat—of course, it is—so you make yourself at home in the only way you know how: dramatically. Shoes kicked off, backpack tossed onto the couch, and then you get to work.

Hiding.

The goal? Give your big sister the fright of her life.

You consider the classic jump out and scream method but decide it’s too predictable. Instead, you crawl under the dining table, perfectly hidden by the chairs and the tablecloth. Now, you wait.

After what feels like forever (and a slight nap on the floor), you hear voices approaching. The front door opens, and laughter fills the house.

Wait. That’s more than one voice.

“Come in, come in,” Lia says, sounding relaxed. “I’ll make tea.”

You peek out ever so slightly. Lia, still in her Arsenal training gear, is pulling off her jacket, chatting with—oh, wow, half her teammates?

You recognize a few of them. Kim Little, Leah Williamson, Katie McCabe… okay, so this is about to be an even bigger audience than expected.

Perfect.

As they move further inside, you stay hidden, holding back your laughter. The moment Lia steps past the table, you strike.

With a sudden burst of movement, you grab her ankle.

Lia lets out a scream so loud it could wake the dead. She jumps at least two feet in the air, arms flailing, nearly knocking over Kim in the process.

The room falls into stunned silence.

Then, slowly, you crawl out from your hiding spot, grinning up at your sister.

“Surprise.”

Lia’s hand is over her chest, her eyes wide as she gasps for air. “WHAT THE—?! You—?! What are you doing here?!”

“Visiting!” You beam, standing up and stretching. “Missed me?”

Her teammates, who had been frozen in shock, suddenly burst into laughter.

“Jesus Christ, Wally, you okay?” Leah wheezes, gripping the back of a chair for support.

“That’s your sister?” Katie says, wiping a tear from her eye. “You two are nothing alike!”

Lia groans, rubbing her temples. “No kidding.” Then, turning to you, she narrows her eyes. “Oh, you think you’re so funny, aren’t you?”

You shrug, still grinning. “Well, yeah. And clearly, so do your friends.” You gesture at her teammates, who are still cracking up.

Lia lets out a deep sigh, but you see the small smile tugging at her lips. Despite almost suffering a heart attack, she pulls you into a tight hug, mumbling something about you being impossible.

And just like that, your surprise mission?

A complete success.

#arsenal women #woso community #arsenal #woso fanfics #lia walti x reader #lia wälti x reader #lia walti #lia wälti #woso appreciation #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso one shot #woso soccer #woso #sister x sister #women’s football #fypツ

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gyuswhore · 1 year ago

Text

Never Shall We Die (3; final)

«« Nothing is too outlandish when it’s a life of liberty on the line. »»

PAIRING: kwon soonyoung x reader

PLAYLIST: right here!

pirate lingo glossary (pls refer!)

SYNOPSIS: Deadliest pirate on the high seas or a damn fool? The stupid King and his men have snatched Hoshi's precious pirate ship with their too clean, too soft hands; grounds to question his own vices. Except, when he and his crew land in the quarters of a navy ship, revenge on their roster, they stumble across a princess in its gallows. Hoshi wonders if he's just struck gold, or if you'd become the final tread to his downfall.

GENRES: pirate!au, enemies to lovers, slowburn, angst, fluff, smut [minor dni], some pirates of the carribean vibes but ? idk

WORD COUNT [full fic]: 48.1k

Part 1: 17.07k | Part 2: 15.2k | Part 3 [final] : 15.8k

@highvern's out of context comment box: new fear unlocked: hoshi with explosives, victorian ankle moment, HATE HIM (need him carnally), hoshi covered in soapy water would distract me enough, strip for me pirate mingyu [hes litrally taking off his jacket], your honor hes a bitch, freaks!, mingyu crushes hoshi's head like a grape, WONWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, massive dick, the way i literally gasped like an old scandalized woman

masterlist

WARNINGS: slowburn, plot heavy, happy ending bc no angsty endings in this household, being taken hostage, knives, bombs, and guns, mentions of blood, mentions of SA (does not happen and it is not explicitly mentioned), alcohol, mentions of death (patricide), hoshi is ✨selectively moral✨but kind of moral nonetheless, side character death, [pls lmk if im missing something its alot] smut tags: hoshi loves thighs, corruption kink to the mAX, clit stimulation, oral (f. receiving), breast play, p in v sex (unprotected, 1800s contraception will make you prefer it but pls dont do this irl), making out

[AN]: final part oh my god if youve read the other parts up till now, THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE YOU i hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as i loved writing it, im really proud of this fic and im so happy so many of you have enjoyed it so far. @highvern betaing as always ty for not giving up on me. AS ALWAYS, PLS TELL ME YOUR THOTS IN THE RBS OR THE REPLIES OR SEND ME AN ASK LITERALLY WTV MUAH MUAH HAPPY READING <3

THIS IS THE NICEST PRISON Hoshi has ever been in, which was saying something, because he had been in quite a lot of prisons.

But it was uncomfortable nonetheless, six grown men tied up and shoved into a crouching space to be done with as the men that prowled above pleased.

Hoshi would be lying if he said he hadn’t had to restrain from pushing some of those sorry soldiers into the ice waters beyond the glaciers. He had resisted, the crew had resisted, but just enough to convince them of their unwillingness.

Hoshi had realised early on that there was no possible way of getting aboard Tigress without somehow climbing aboard the King’s boat first. The king wasn’t about to simply hand Hoshi’s ship over, and there was no indication that they'd wait till after nightfall to depart.

Hoshi also knew that the King would refuse to have him die so easily in the waters of the Green Islands, his pride depended on it. He imagines the man drawing up the specifics of the most gruesome execution the Kingdom would ever see. Hoshi was counting on it.

The bounds could’ve been broken out of and the locks somehow picked, but Hoshi also knew that he had to wait. Wait for you to find him first.

“What’s taking her so long?” Jun asks. He’d been the most anxious out of all, the shaking feet and restless moving making it clear.

“The bomb won’t…go off still strapped to her, will it?” Minghao asks and Hoshi isn’t quite sure he wants to know the answer.

“It shouldn’t. Not until she pulls the tab. But…”

“But?” Hoshi whips around. “Why is there a but? You were supposed to make sure there was no but!”

“Big bomb, more boom, less predictable!”

“Are you sure we can’t break out and look for her ourselves?” Mingyu grumbles, the most compromised with his longer limbs folded in uncomfortable positions.

“The minute they know we’re loose they’ll swarm her. There won’t be a way to get to her, not without fighting off every last bastard on this ship. They’ve taken our stuff too, we don’t stand a chance.”

They did, actually, stand a chance. But that was only if they were to break away and head straight for Tigress that was empty and standing right beside this very ship. But they couldn’t. Hoshi couldn’t. Not without taking you with him.

Nobody dares to suggest the easier route, and he doubts it’s just because of what he wants.

But panic was beginning to trickle into Hoshi’s veins anyway, the closed off brig refusing to give him any indication of the time of day.

The sun was only beginning to set when they were taken to the ship, and he knew they were near done for if they didn’t finish what they started before nightfall. He can’t tell how long it’s been, and it eats away at his insides.

Please be okay.

And then he hears it, the sound of a body hitting the floors with a loud thud, a chortle of air before it’s knocked out. He finds himself sitting up straighter, pressing his hands to bars of the prison, trying to peer out the narrow walkway that leads to the doors.

And then you appear in the lamplight, haphazard and ruffled up beyond measure.

The knife in your hand drips with blood, your shirt torn at the arms, your hands bloodied and bruised.

When Hoshi sees your face he almost doesn’t recognise you.

There’s angry blooming marks of red and purple all across your neck and collarbone, your eyes bloodshot and red, watering like you’d been swimming in salt water.

“Who did this?” he asks before anything else, watching you drop to your knees in front of the prison, unanswering as you fumbled with a giant ring of keys in your hand.

You jam each key into the lock, twisting it to no avail. Your hands are shaking.

The crew finally twist out of their loose bonds, Minghao lurching forward immediately, swatting your hands away. He picks out a few skinny pins from his boot, picking the rusty lock. Despite the strange angle, the bars creak open within seconds.

“There’s…There’s ropes hooked onto the ship on the main deck.”

Your voice sounds like you’re speaking through sandpaper, talking while struggling to emerge with the bomb you had.

Hoshi doesn’t know what to do when he crawls out of the space.

He’d had it all figured out in his head, what would happen in every possible outcome. You getting hurt wasn’t in any of his universal conclusions; especially not on this ship. They’d kill his crew, they might even kill the King with themselves, but you were meant to remain unscathed.

“Why–why do you look like that? What happened?” Nothing registers in his head, not even when Jun is pushing him out into the hall.

“Get up to the deck and get out across the lines!” Jun gruffs in his ears. “That bomb’s gonna go off with us still on here.”

He sees the canister that lies in the same prison they had just exited, he sees your mouth moving without sound. All he can think of are the distinct fingerprints around your throat and how it looked like somebody tried to kill you before they tried to kill him.

“Soonyoung,” he hears you say in a broken voice and that’s all it takes for him to snap out of it.

His crew is looking at him expectantly. He looks back at the door and sees the crumpled bodies of the prison guards.

So much for leaving quietly.

The minute Hoshi is out the door of the brig, he finds a chest next to the collapsed, bleeding soldiers. Kicking it open, he can only scoff as he finds the entire crew’s weapons in such close vicinity.

He feels better with his dagger at his hip, along with the rest of his knives that he slips into the loops. Even more so with the rest of his crew armed and ready.

“We know where the deck is.” He swallows, eyeing his crew’s weapons in their ready hands. He knew they’d agreed to ensure the clean sinking of the ship, but the fallen bodies on the floor were an ode to a different route they’d have to take. “Don’t hesitate if someone gets in your way.”

Taking cautious steps to the upper decks, he finds more bodies collapsed onto the floor, bleeding and unconscious. He opts to ask you the details later, wondering how you were able to take down all these guards by yourself.

It isn’t until they reach the stairs that lead to the main deck that he comes across a guard.

Before the witness can raise any alarm, Hoshi’s slamming the butt of his dagger into the side of his head, knocking him clean unconscious as he falls off the side of the short railing.

Clambering up the steps as quietly as possible, he raises a hand behind him to signal his crew to halt, peering into the main deck first.

The sun is still out, but low in the sky as it dips in the sky. There’s a few people on the deck, pacing and moving about in preparation for departure. Angling his gaze, he finds ropes suspended over the edge of the railing, parallel to the water.

He can’t see Tigress, but he knows that’s what the ropes are hooked on to.

“Jun,” he beckons. “How long till the bomb on the other ship goes off?”

The bomb Jun had planted in the first ship they had arrived in should be going off any time now, and Hoshi finds himself needing it to go off now.

Jun barely opened his mouth to reply when the ship shuddered.

For a moment, Hoshi thinks the bomb in the brigs had gone off, but when he finds the clambering of boots to one side of the ship, opposite to where the ropes tied to Tigress, he realises their surrogate ship had given its last gift to the crew.

The rest of the ship would be bounding to the main deck to inspect the noise soon, so he shoots a quick, “Hurry!” behind him before stepping onto the main deck.

The entire deck is occupied with the ship that lies a ways away across the expanse of sea, the beginnings that would soon lead the entire ship to be engulfed in flames. It’s tilting at a dangerous angle.

Hoshi stands as he uses the crew straight towards the ropes that lead to Tigress. Glancing, he finds Mingyu and Chan already hanging on the suspended ropes, making their way towards the empty deck of their ship.

Hoshi keeps his eyes on the occupied men on board, still staring at the lightshow that was their old ship. It isn’t until one of them turns, eyes towards the stairs that lead to the lower decks, that his eyes dart to the unfamiliar men on the deck.

“Fuck,” Hoshi curses, before lunging, grabbing the man by the shoulders and covering his mouth, dragging him wordlessly to the edge before throwing him off the ship and into the icy waters below.

“Go!” he hears you rasp brom behind him, ushering him to the ropes.

The crew is gone, Jun making the last jump to land on the deck. They’re running around, pulling ropes and fastening the sails to push the ship off into open waters as soon as possible.

There’s two ropes that tie the two ships together, and Hoshi ushers you onto one of them, pushing you to suspend yourself before he follows.

“There’s not enough time, go to the other one!” you tell him, pushing him to hold onto the other tattered rope.

Soonyoung eyes your state, “Are you sure you can—”

“Yes! I promise I can, please, before they cut both the ropes.”

So he trusts you, eyes straight ahead to the railing of his ship, gripping the rough, frayed rope to push himself towards the deck. His hands burn, but he finds himself moving ever closer to his final destination.

His hand grabs hold of the wooden railing of his Tigress at long last, pulling himself onto the deck of his beloved ship. Immediately whipping his head to his right, he tries to find you reaching the ship with him. The crew is preoccupied in attempting to get the ship ready for departure, he finds your form nowhere.

When he looks back, the rope he had climbed was gone, leaving gaping space in its absence. He trails the second rope, from the hook that had dug into the railing of Tigress’s wood, trailing it to the naval ship’s deck.

What he sees puts his heart in his throat.

You stand on the deck of your father’s ship, swarmed by now alert guards and soldiers who swarm you, yelling profanities and orders as they watch their prisoners get away right in front of them.

Hoshi watches as you lift your dagger, and cut the last rope that ties you together, free to fall and hit against the hull of his ship.

He calls out your name in what could only be described as a guttural scream.

His crew halts whatever it was they were doing, taking the steps to realise what had just happened.

Hoshi’s boot meets the top of the railing, ready to take the plunge into the water. He’d climb back up the ship and get you out. He doesn’t know what you were thinking, what he was thinking when he left you there, but he’d get you out.

Arms pulling him, he’s yanked back and positively thrown onto the deck.

“What is wrong with you?” Minghao yells, pushing his captain back as he springs up.

“She—”

Your father emerges from the crowd of guards and soldiers that run rampant on the deck, approaching you at the railing of the main deck.

Hoshi sees the hand that remains on his shoulder, the blood that covers the still bleeding wound, the effort it takes him to simply walk.

The bruises on your neck, the wound at his shoulder that looks like it was slashed through by a knife.

And then it clicks in Hoshi’s head, what had truly happened in the hours that you were out of his sight. And all he sees is red.

WITH THE WAY THE words on the pages seem to double, you would’ve thought you were going mad.

You’re a child, barely grown into your own body as you sit in the dimly lit library of the palace, utterly exhausted, wishing to be anywhere but sitting at the wooden desk with your name on it. The moon barely shone through the window, your only source of light the fireplace that burned in the corner and your lamplight.

It was a time where you felt like you could prove yourself, that perhaps, the reason your father refused you his approval was because you were simply not working hard enough. And now, at an hour where you should be fast asleep in your four poster bed, you attempt to understand diplomatic structures and everything that made your country what it was.

It was late, and there was nothing you would’ve liked more than to put your head on the table and rest your eyes for a few tantalising seconds, which you do, right over the book you were reading.

You awoke in the same place, shaken awake by a panicked looking servant, the sun shining through the great windows of the palace library.

It seems your disappearance from your bedchambers had put the entire palace in disarray, not realising the princess was fast asleep behind the giant pile of books other servants had already skimmed past thrice.

Not only were you unable to recite the rankings of the constitutions with the vigour your father required, but you were unable to give him a reason as to why you were absent for both breakfast and morning lessons.

He made the servants kneel in the throne room for hours, and did not fail to tell you that it was all your fault.

And now, in the ice cold of the Green Islands, old and wise enough to know that your father simply needed a reason to despise his heir, you accept the hands around your throat as his final act of terror.

Red faced and arms shaking, your father does not speak to you as he presses down on your windpipe with all his might. Your vision is going dark and splotchy, and you decide, for a moment, to let him have this moment.

He’s too preoccupied in applying his pressure to realise that you’ve raised your right foot enough for your hands to fish out your knife from its place, taking positivity in the handle of your knife that fits in your hand.

Before you can lose consciousness, you raise your arm high, and plunge it directly into his neck.

Howling, he releases you from his hold, both of you dropping to the floor of the ship with a resonating thud. You cough, sputter and hack, cold hands finding your now warm neck.

Your father lays clutching his shoulder as he remains in agony on the floor, and you realise you missed the crucial plunge in your own disarray.

It was good enough, rendering the old man incapable of finding his bearings.

You watch as he writhes on the floor of the quarters that almost became your figurative deathbed, the same hands that wrapped around his own daughter’s throat now clutching the shallow wound that renders him useless.

Standing over him, throwing your own shadow on his body, you feel a surge of power, a rush of adrenaline that shoots straight to your head. Perhaps this was your circulation returning from the deprivation, but you let the feeling imprint in your soul, let your father’s broken figure bring you satisfaction.

You leave him there, writhing in pain, digging your knife under the lock of the quarters, pulling back to break it away from the door. The guards stationed outside do nothing as you leave, and it isn’t until you’ve taken to lower decks that you hear the distinct yell of, “Your Majesty!”

Two more guards, who don’t expect an altercation from their princess, simply buffer as you send your knife plunging into them both. You do it deep this time.

Nobody was innocent, you knew these people as your father’s closest men, and knew that all of them were to remain silent as their King murdered his daughter. And when the remorse doesn’t do that thing where it trickles in after doing a bad thing, you decide you weren’t part of the innocents either.

It’s easier than you would’ve expected to get to the crew in the brig, letting out a sigh of relief as you appreciate the familiarity of people on your side.

And when Hoshi took his place to guide everyone out and into the open space of the main deck, you let your racing mind rest and decide to trust the man in whatever decision he made to lead you all out. And he did, he led himself and his crew right into the ship that was theirs, safe and where they would have the upper hand.

Hoshi didn’t know it when he climbed onto the ropes that lead to his boat that he wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t stayed, hadn’t used your voice of authority to keep the soldiers from attempting to shoot at the escapees, cut the rope while Hoshi remained suspended from it, still only halfway there.

You didn’t look at him when you sliced both ropes before either party could pull back, didn’t register him screaming your name across the void, pretending it wasn’t taking everything out of your strength.

But you couldn’t jump into the water, not now when a dozen of the royal guards remained ready to take the plunge to save their princess as their duty. The same guards that would comply with their king when told the princess was dead for reasons they all knew but were to forget.

The bomb had to go off first, and you had to keep them away from hooking another line to the ship in the meantime. You were operating on a flawed plan and an overenthusiastic crowd of guards that were moments away from shooting a canon straight into the side of the disconnected pirate ship.

The distraction comes in the form of your father parting the crowd of soldiers like the red sea, swatting every soldier that attempts to help his bleeding form for anything it was worth. He approaches you at the railing, and for once, you don’t look at the ground in his presence.

“Bold,” he heaves, the effort in his voice apparent. “Bold of you to think you could slip away.”

“I haven’t tried to slip away, father,” you correct. “I’ve stayed right here, even after you failed to kill me. And I, you.”

“Nobody is going to listen to you, child. Give in. This is the easy way out,” he says.

As if on cue, Jun’s bomb goes off for the second time, but this time the ship shudders with more force. It has your father unbalance and fall, along with multiple other soldier’s stumbling. You grip the railing tight, counting on your father’s need to live.

Despite your horrid throat and the ache in your body, you announce as loud as you can. “The bomb is in the brig, this ship is sinking.”

The fallen king trembles in a rage you had never quite seen before. Any other time of your life, you would’ve wished for the ground to swallow you whole to be the subject of such anger.

Except, in the setting sun, a burning ship in the background, a pirate ship that awaits you, and the ground beneath your feet that was actively sinking into the freezing water; you smile at your doomed King.

“Get to the brig! Secure the lower decks, do not let this ship sink or so help me God!” His voice rings across the deck, spittle blowing from his mouth at the situation.

And just like that, your father gives you the final gift of clearing the main deck out for you, leaving but a few straggling soldiers that are too preoccupied with either the sinking ship or their bleeding sovereign.

Looking back, you find the crew of Tigress standing at the railing, you find Hoshi already half over the edge and send him a slow nod.

Turning back to your father that remains on the floor of the ship that would become his coffin, you utter your next words; for yourself, and the girl that was every second before this, all the way to her first ever memory of sad:

“You’ve taught me to be a ruler fit to be the best for our Kingdom. Consider your death my first act of service for the Crown.”

And then you jumped into the darkening void of the waters below.

THE COLD FEELS LIKE every nerve in your body ceased to work.

It was nothing at first, the temperature so intense it had your body numb in the face of shock. And then it grew, to a striking cold, and then a feeling that pricked every inch of your skin like a million needles plunging into your body. It was only getting worse with each passing second, before it was so painful it was hot, going from cold to searing and blistering like you’d plunged into the licks of flames.

Nowhere in your body did you find a rational sense of mind, something to tell you to kick, flail or float. The warped sky was an orange through the green, only more vibrant. Like there were two ships actively burning on the surface of this water.

Hoshi’s face appears behind your closing eyelids, like a mirage or a taunt. Like he was there with you when he wasn’t.

Would he come for you? Would he take the plunge for the girl he held in his arms, promising her something to fill the gap of a companion, right before she killed her own?

You’d given him what he wanted; your father, his worst enemy, dying as he sank slowly into the bottom of the ocean. You’d run your course of use, and if he was as smart as people claimed, he’d leave you to suffer the same fate as your father.

He could find his freedom elsewhere.

And you would find your freedom in the close of your eyes, and the sinking feeling of nothingness.

Except, you feel a hardness against your body, stronger even than the current of the waters. Moving impossibly upwards, you remember opening your eyes to find a leather cord suspended in the float of the water, before you remember nothing.

THE GREEN ISLANDS WERE on fire.

But as unnatural as it seemed, Hoshi had no inclination to register anything but the way the ship in front of him tilts so far out it's already half submerged in the waters. He’d assumed they might have to ready the cannons, but with the way debris and hollowed wood floats in the waters below, they would not need to.

The King was about to be introduced to Davy Jones’ Locker at the hands of his enemy and successor, but Hoshi could not care enough right now to relish in it.

Right now, he stares at the direct circumference of water your body had made contact with and disappeared into, like the world would explode if he lost his place.

“Should I jump as well?” Mingyu asks, already half taking his boots off. However, when the man turns to find his captain gone, he lurches over the railing to find his captain diving into the water through all the debris.

Hoshi lets the momentum of his dive take him as further down as possible, whipping his head around as soon as his eyes open into the abyss. The water ripples and erupts in showers of bubbles as broken pieces of ship come apart to fall into the water. It blurs his vision immensely, any ripple that could be you in the water coming out to be yet another piece of wasted wood.

The deeper he goes, the more the water presses into his ears. He was a good swimmer, good at holding his breath when needed, but even he had limits.

When he cannot see any sign of you, he begins to feel the churning of something skin to panic brew. Panic was never good, not this deep in the water.

Twisting and turning, flailing about in place, moving dangerously closer to the burning ship that continued to drop flaming bits of killing slabs, he finds no sign of you in the water.

Instead, he watches men in uniform sink deeper and deeper in their failed attempts to stay afloat.

All he can think about is if they were losing the battle for air, then so were you, somewhere deeper in the void than he was. He prays that he’s looking aimlessly, that you’ve already somehow made your way to the surface by yourself, and you were safe on the deck.

The beaded bracelet that remained on his wrist, but belonged to you.

“A reason for you to come out of this alive.”

Even without the encasing on his wrist, you had given him more than enough reason to want to come out of this alive, to want to live beyond just for himself and his duty to the crew he’d taken in.

He chose the life of a pirate because it was his only out, and every member of his crew that he recruited in succession, he acted as the hand he had needed so desperately in that awful brothel where his mother despised him and his father, a faceless man of Port Ash.

Amphitrite was not kind, it was a lesson he learned quickly in his first ventures out at sea. So he too, had to learn to be unkind, to survive in the horrid bellies of ships that weren’t his own. And when Tigress came into his life like a vessel of hope, he found a home in her merciful wood, in the ship that he could call his very own.

Hoshi lived as a free man on his ship, with his crew that had become his brothers in ways beyond what the thick of blood could offer. He did not care if he lived or died after that, as long as it was on his ship, in the waters that held no quarter for anyone, but gave him everything that nothing else could give him.

And so when you approached him with a proposal so bizarre yet so apt for a man like him, he could not refuse. It may have been the way he saw himself in you, terrified of the prospects but thirsting for an escape more than the fear that came with it.

Besides, the king was a nuisance that needed to go, and he found himself agreeing to play the hand too complicated for you.

What he did not expect was to end up here, in the depths of the ocean in the most uninhabitable part of the earth, trying to pull you out of the cold, unrelenting sea.

Hoshi realises in that moment that this might ruin him, the possibility of breaking the surface without you.

He decides that if the heavens do not let him find you, he would simply drown in the same waters that gave him purpose, and find peace with the idea that he would lay rest in the same waters as the person who might have given him something more.

Kwon Soonyoung, the deadliest pirate to cleave the seas, was in love with you. A princess, so undeserving of a man like him; a bastard, a rogue, a good for nothing criminal.

And when he spots the all too familiar build of your form, the linen shirt under the corset he had tied for you just hours ago, the dark brown trousers that signified the change he’d brought into your life, he swore to leave everything he’d ever known to thank the skies and seas for bringing him to you.

His burning lungs, screaming and searing for air, grabbing for your suspended arm that looked as defeated as your closed eyes. Tugging you towards him, he wraps his arm around you to press you to him as tight as he could.

Relief. And with the warm sting in his eyes that he doubted was from the salt in the water, he’s sure of everything he’s felt with the feeling of you in his arms.

With the bruising on your neck, the bleeding wound in your father’s shoulder, he finds it within his breaking body to begin kicking upwards.

Every limb, every cell, every hint of life in his body shrieked with its efforts to make him stop. There was no air in his lungs and he’d lost track of time in his search for you, he doesn’t know how long he has.

But if the blots of nothingness in his eyes were anything to go with, he doesn’t presume he has much. In a last ditch effort, he attempts to kick his boots off to weigh him down a little less, holding your dead weight tighter than anything.

He was so close, he could feel the warmth of the upper levels of the water change in its temperature on his skin. The glow was near blinding as the orange refracted on the disrupted surface of the ocean, so close yet so far.

Inch by inch, kick by kick, memory by memory, he does everything left in his drained power to touch the surface.

And he does, breaking out hand first into the burning air of the world above, taking the longest gasp of air he ever has in his life. Once he’s sure he knows where he is, he pushes you up further on his chest, your head resting against his collarbone, still unconscious.

“Stay with me, princess,” he pants into your ear, hoping you could hear. “I’ve got you.”

Chan and Mingyu are in the water beside him, pushing him towards the pulley that awaited them.

Mingyu makes an attempt to take your weight of his already struggling captain, but Hoshi finds himself holding on to you tighter, simply urging him to help him back on the deck.

The minute your head hits the wood of the deck, he’s checking your pulse. There’s no regard for the chaos that ensues around Tigress, both him and his crew too preoccupied with the way you were not breathing.

“I–I can’t feel anything,” he stutters his words as Seungkwan places a less panicked hand at your neck, under your nose.

“It’s weak, she’s taken in too much water.”

In an instant, he reaches for his knife at his hip, only to realise it was gone, lost somewhere in his rescue.

“Knife,” he rasps before repeating louder. “Someone give me a knife!”

The minute a hilt is in his hands, he’s pushing you over, to reach the back of your constricting corset, pushing his knife into the complicated sailing knot he’d tied it into before, breaking it free. With both hands, he takes hold of the top of the corset and rips it clean in half.

Turning you back over, he presses his hands over your clothed stomach, pushing into it with all his strength in an attempt to get the water out of your system. He keeps his eyes on your face, and when he sees no sign of you coming round, he feels another set of hands pushing him off.

Seungkwan takes over for his weakened captain, pushing into your stomach harder, attempting to get a break out of you.

“Why isn’t she coming around, what’s going on?” He throws the question aimlessly as he takes your unmoving face in his hands, trembling from everything.

Only a moment later, he hears the glorious sound of you sputtering like something was stuck in your throat, promptly spilling out an ungodly amount of water onto the deck as you retch loudly.

Sitting up from the force, your hands clamp onto the deck as you cough and heave, Hoshi’s hand coming behind you to thump your back hard, pushing you to throw up any remaining seawater from your body.

The sight of your back moving up and down, the audible sound of you taking in air; it was enough for Hoshi to simply lay on the deck and pass out.

You rear your head and look up at him, both of you still breathing heavily.

“You’re okay,” he assures, gulping. He takes your face in hands cupping it very gently as he speaks to you. “Go with Seungkwan, you’re okay, you’re safe.”

Nodding, you let yourself be helped up by the rest of the crew, watching as you’re led to the lower decks of the ship.

“Open your shirt, let me see the wound,” Mingyu says, and Hoshi doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Looking down, he sees his shirt soaked in red, sticking to a wound on the right side of his torso. He didn’t even know where he got it.

It looks like a shallow gash, but enough to leave a scar. He takes it better to have it tended to while he was still high on adrenaline and he couldn’t feel much of the pain.

By the time Mingyu and Minghao are done cleaning him up and Hoshi’s standing upright with wobbly legs, he finds the two burning ships beyond his own mere floating structures of wood that were in slow flame. There’s too much debris, too many bits of everything that bob in the large expanse of water to make out any bodies.

“There’s nobody,” Mingyu tells him. “Most of them were in lower decks when it all went down. Trapped themselves.”

“And…?” he asks in silence.

“He stayed on the deck until it sank,” Minghao informs. “Yelling about how he…about how he should’ve finished her when he had the chance.”

“Horrible king and somehow an even worse father,” Mingyu scoffs. “Made it better to watch him die.”

“He didn’t suffer enough,” Hoshi croaks as the marks on your throat dot his vision.

Just then, floating in the water, illuminated by the final streaks of setting light, Hoshi sees it. A darkened purple cloth right next to the hull.

“That,” he points out. “Get that out of the water.”

The late king’s purple cape laid on the deck of Tigress, darkened with water, but also with his blood.

To the Kingdom, this cape would be the last piece of their King that was gone too soon. But for every person on this ship, it would forever be their spoils of war.

Hoshi makes sure the cape will be dried and stored, ordering his crew to begin their slow journey out of the Green Islands, before he too crumples onto the deck unconscious.

IT WAS A SPECTACLE to see Hoshi in his element.

Something about how he seemed to beam, like this ship was charging him a different kind of energy. It was infectious, the rest of the ship decreasingly sour as they put on musical performances on the main deck while they cleaned the floors.

As relieved as you felt, the tight ball of anxiety refused to leave the pit of your stomach as you grew closer to the Kingdom. Nothing could prepare you for the shitstorm you’d have to deal with the moment you’d step onto the soil off a pirate ship of all things—let alone as Queen.

The first few days following the ship's exit from the Green Islands were difficult, if that was all you had to describe it. You took to your hammock for most of the day, curled up as you pretended to sleep, only waking up when one of the crew would come down to force feed you and to make sure you hadn’t died.

You knew they were doing all this to make you feel better, and somehow it was working. More than halfway through your journey, you began to feel more like yourself, emerging from your cave to visit the deck on times other than the nights.

Even now, as you sit on the floor of the deck with Seungkwan, who hands you an all too familiar stack of parchment, you feel nothing as you take them into your hands. As you read his handwriting scrawled in ink, you appreciate your past self for having the sense to keep them all.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better now,” he says to you. “Had us worried for a while there.”

“Sorry.” You smile weakly. “But thank you for…everything. I don’t think I could ever express how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. All of you.”

“I’d like to think we’ve gone past the status of mere business partners,” Seungkwan chuckles. “Lion befriends the bear? Whatever it is. But know we’d do it again.”

Blinking back the sting of tears and doing your very best to not let the warm feeling in your chest overwhelm you, you place the letters on the floor next to your folded legs. When you look up, Seungkwan's eyes are on your neck.

“They’re taking their time to fade, aren’t they?” you say.

Seungkwan has a hard look in his eye, “I guess you didn’t need your letters to remind you of anything after all.”

Your mind wanders, drifting past how easily this crew could have been forgotten in the unforgiving elements. Perhaps you would have let the man that wrapped his hands around your neck finish his job.

“Was getting captured part of your grand plan?” you ask Seungkwan.

“Hm?” It takes a moment to realise what you may be questioning him about, smiling slightly. “What makes you think we went in with a plan?”

“I thought I asked you to man the wheel?” Hoshi stands above the both of you.

“Not to batten down the hatches,” he side-eyed his captain. “Clear waters ahead, the wheel does not need manning.”

You zone out as they squabble over nothing, not finding the heart to be entertained by their back and forth. Seungkwan either loses or forfeits, because you feel him rise from next to you, only for his captain to take his place.

“What are you thinking about?” Hoshi asks.

“Everything,” you sigh.

“How come Seungkwan gets a thank you for your service and I don’t? Need I remind you who jumped for you and who didn’t?”

Rolling your eyes, you answer him, “Thank you, Captain Hoshi Kwon, I am forever indebted to your service.”

He chuckles in exaggeration, “Oh please, all in a day's work.”

“I mean it.”

“Hm?”

“I never did say thank you. But you did jump for me when you didn’t have to.”

“Who said I didn’t have to?”

“Our deal was done.”

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “Our deal was to get you out when you jumped. I merely honoured that promise!”

“Merely?” you raise a brow. “Was it all merely a matter of conscience?”

His gaze locks with yours. “Don’t ask questions you know the answers for. I would’ve jumped even if you asked me to rope myself to the mast.”

“Please. I have enough blood on my hands and I haven’t even sat on my throne yet.”

“Blood is only on your hands if you tell a soul of what you’ve done,” Hoshi utters. “You’re the only living soul who knows.”

“And you are…?”

“Pirate. Our word means nothing.” Hoshi smiles.

The thought hangs in the air as you take in the man in front of you. He’s changed an era’s worth, yet all the same. His hair is longer, going from his initial shorter crop to curling around his ears, shielding his eyes. It makes him look younger, like a boy with much to live for.

That, and the multitude of notable scars he’s added to his collection, many of which have somehow been because of you. The wound at his torso is doing better, but far to go in its quest to heal.

Hoshi senses something amiss even after his sermon. Breaking his gaze, he turns to look straight ahead at the raised bow of the ship instead.

“Do you know how I got my splendid reputation for being the filthiest pirate on the seas?”

You can only stare, “I have a few guesses.”

He chortles, “Other than my criminal status.”

“Tell me.”

“Unnamed sailors have the odds of a peanut facing its inevitable fate of being crushed under a straggling boot. Pirates don’t see the government as their enemy when they’re own supposed brothers are more likely to jam a cannon in their mouths.”

He lets out a heavy sigh before continuing, “My mistake wasn’t that I was on the losing side in my early days, but more about how I was leaving nothing behind when I was done.”

“How humble,” you hum.

“Dead men tell no tales. When it’s worth it, it might be better to leave a straggler or two to live to tell the tale. A routine stab in the jugular can turn you into somewhat of a myth.”

“Am I a survivor?” you question.

“You may be sovereign on land, but you’re also an unnamed pirate,” he responds, turning back to lock eyes with you. “And you’ve left nobody to tell the tale.”

No one listens to a pirate, and everyone listens to a Queen.

“This isn’t to say there won’t be a legend that follows you.” He quirks a brow as he speaks. “Shows up and claims her father and his entire ship and crew sank at sea, only to befriend his sworn enemies in the aftermath. And then it evolves; she sent a cannon through her fathers ship, he died at the end of his own daughter's sword, she cursed him to captain a crew of the undead for eternity.”

“Have I planted the seeds for yet another ghost story?” It’s difficult to not giggle at the thought, despite how morbid.

“You’ve given yourself substance,” he says, a little stronger than before. His eyes too, wander to your neck and the bruises that refuse to budge. “Beyond just a royal or even a pirate. You did it for your honour as a human being, and that may be braver than anything I have ever conquered.”

In your anxiety ridden, feeble mind, your thoughts had convinced your conscience that everything would be over the minute your father’s heart stopped beating. That it would bring you peace at last.

And it did, especially when it felt like you’d gotten rid of this constant monster under the bed that had followed you far into adulthood. But from the bleeding heart of the creature emerged yet another one of its brethren, and then another and then another.

Smaller albeit, but monsters nonetheless. Problems nonetheless.

Weeks of this, and in one short interaction, Hoshi seemed to have given you the key to turn this monster into a pet.

On instinct, you feel your hand reach up, brushing against the skin of his cheek. It’s an all too familiar setting, seated on the deck of a ship too close for anybody but yours’ comfort. But without the rum and resentment, of course. And how you doubt he’d pull away this time.

Very lightly, you brush your lips against his. It was nothing but to simply feel him again, to feel a semblance of familiarity.

You feel him take your hand that rests on his cheek to place a kiss on your palm, nuzzling his nose into the concave of your hand.

Everything that was to come seemed a little more possible in that very moment.

Even more so when his fingers found the sensitive areas of your coloured throat, when his lips closed against your jaw, only to trail lower and to press into the marks his fingers continue to trail tucked into your neck.

That night, when slipping into your hammock felt like the most unbearable prospect in your near future, it couldn’t possibly be worse than uttering your next question to the man that seems to fix it all.

“Will you stay with me?”

With nothing but the light snores of the rest of the crew and the creaking of the ship, both you and Soonyoung laid in a hammock most definitely not meant for two. Head on his chest, ear pressed against where his heart beats under his scar, it’s bliss.

The feeling of his warm body against yours and the scent of him settling in your lungs, you decide that this was enough. At least for now.

IT WAS DIFFICULT TO give yourself the full list for obvious reasons, but it does seem to help when you tick off all the possible reasons why your patience has run as thin as it has.

Sitting at the decorated seat at the convened court of old men appointed by your father, you briefly wonder if you should finish them off too amidst your flash of anger. The men continue to squabble and babble about the next course of action, slamming their wrinkled hands on the pristine table and sending their own daggers of threats to the other inhabitants of the table.

“If you’d like to send a search party for the King’s body, be my guest,” you finally speak, having had quite enough when the throb in your temple worsens. “But remind me what troops you’ll be sending to the North if your best men will be gone for months attempting to find a body they never will.”

The dispute in the North side of the Kingdom was taking up most of the conversation anyway, and you doubt they’d put customary burial rites over their own glory of victory the North would bring.

“Your Majesty—”

“I would happily jump on the next search ship for my father,” you lie through your teeth. “But I watched him drown in front of my own two eyes, and as the next sovereign I cannot let you waste our resources for something that will both risk our soldier’s lives and have them come back home empty handed.”

Perhaps you had come off slightly more heartless than you intended, so you quickly add, “Please, let my father rest in peace.”

That seems to end the conversation easier than you had expected, but they’re quick to jump to the next issue not long after.

“The court would also like to bring light upon the palace guests.”

Tightening your jaw, you slump against your seat slightly. “What about them?”

They remain silent as their mouthpiece attempts to form the right words for the following question, mostly because you’ve addressed this multiple times beforehand but they continue to sit restless.

“Allow me to help you, Lord Bridge,” you sit up straighter, intending to put this matter to rest. “My guests will remain here for as long as they do, and if you have any more arising issues towards my guests I will only take it as your collective issues towards me.”

In the moment of silence, you continue, “The Kingdom is in a place of instability as we are all well aware. I find it most appalling that you remain fixated on trivial matters of the palace’s domestic code of conduct than you do for the wellbeing of this country!”

Silence yet again as you wait for their forcibly rehearsed chorus of apologies.

“Our greatest apologies, your Majesty.”

The pain in your temples becomes near unbearable as you dismiss the table after that, screeching your chair as you push it back as loud as you possibly can to do nothing but spite the men.

Turning the corner out of the room, you catch the open gates that lead to the paved gardens outside, the sun seeping into the marble floors indoors. Taking an instinctive step towards the gardens, you find most of the crew sprawled onto the grass as they soak in the sun.

Chan and Seungkwan look like they’re wrestling, their laughter ringing throughout the open court while their captain snaps at them to cut it out, only to get roped under one of their headlocks all the same.

There’s a call of your name and a giant wave from Mingyu, who spots you from beyond the flower beds. Still leaning against the gates, you smile and wave back.

Years the halls of the palace had gone, never hearing laughter in its walls. And something about watching them let themselves ruin the petunias and laugh so loud it echoes, heals you just a bit.

Even that night, when you find yourself in your giant four poster bed you’ve slept in since you were a child, this time dozing under the arm of another, you feel the itch of a healing wound somewhere in your heart.

Soonyoung laid with you for every night on the ship since that night, and stayed even here where the space was big enough to host the ghosts of your worries if not distracted.

He had found you on that first night in the palace still awake, haunting the library fireplace with another stack of papers to keep you company.

“Can’t sleep?” he’d asked as he picked up some of your documents.

“Clearly not,” you huff. The papers were mere decorations as you attempted to find an excuse to leave your rooms.

“You realise you won’t be much of an effective monarch if you exhaust yourself to death?”

There was no answer to that, especially when you were absorbing nothing of your new duties. You’d expected to fall asleep on the armrest of the uncomfortable settee whenever it was that you exhausted your brain of thoughts, even then refusing to sleep in that large bed.

He’s awfully persuasive, because as he tucks you into those very sheets, about to leave but not before placing a kiss on your forehead You stop him.

“Stay. Please.”

True as he has always been, he does.

THE CROWN IS HEAVIER than you had expected, even more so when it remains on your head for longer than your previously practised sessions walking around the throne room. The crew was exceptionally good at giving you things to train with, including fraudulent rodent scares to ensure the crown would not topple from your own head the minute you rise from your coronation.

And now, as you finally remove the decorative piece from your head after your actual coronation to replace it with something lighter for the following ball, you find relief in the fact that you’d only ever have to wear the actual thing only a few times in your life.

Everything moves as smoothly as it could, the decorated pirates that saved their Queen from a horrid shipwreck taking up most of the attendees attention as they either question inquisitively or send snarky remarks to the men who are well versed in how to rebut in true informal manner.

The past months had taken up more of your time than you had anticipated, and during the latter half of the still twinkling party, you attempted to spot the person you’ve been trying to corner all night.

Soonyoung stands at the edges of the gathering, empty handed as you watch him reject yet another offer for a drink from the trays that float about. His attire is the most formal you had ever seen, his face scrubbed and hair pushed back for the glorious occasion.

Approaching him from the sidelines, you take hold of his wrists and pull him towards one of the many doors in the ballroom and into a hallway you knew for a fact was rarely ever frequented.

“I feel I haven’t seen you ages,” you say once you’re sure you’re alone.

“Probably best for you to keep busy,” he replies with the smallest smile.

“Have the wrappings on your wound come off?”

Looking at his covered torso, he runs an instinctive hand over where the wound was. “Just a smaller patch now, but it’s nearly there. Disappointed it won’t scar too much.”

“Disappointed?”

“These are my spoils of war, miss princess,” he adds with a smirk, before correcting himself. “Ah, miss queen?”

“Doesn’t have the same ring,” you comment.

“The crown suits you.” His voice is soft and sincere.

Scoffing a little, you answer, “I would hope it did.”

“Although, I do prefer you in trousers and a knife.”

Laughing, you can only agree. Especially in your heavier than yourself dress and jewels. “I think I prefer them too.”

At the mention of your new status, he asks, “Shouldn’t you be milling between your new subjects?”

Keeping your eyes on his face, you wait until he meets your gaze. “I have more important things to attend to.”

He breaks eye contact first, and you can feel the distance grow further. One reach and you could take his hand in yours.

But you don’t.

“I know I’ve been quite busy, but…” you trail off as you attempt to find the words. “Is something the matter? What’s going on?”

With a long sigh, he runs a hand through his kept hair, effectively tousling it a little. “I was going to wait until after the ball to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

He makes no moves to look at you when he utters his next words. “The crew and I will be leaving at dawn tomorrow. We’ve taken up enough of your space and it’s best if we don’t intrude any further.”

It’s like you’ve taken a blow to the chest, the air knocked out of your lungs as you register what he’s just said. “You’re….you’re leaving?”

“I would think we’ve both gotten what we wanted. We had a deal.”

Deal? Why was he mentioning that now?

“Are you going to abandon me too?”

His head snaps up to finally meet your eye, mouth opening closing as words betray him.

“What happened to what you said about gaining you? All of you?” There’s a blatant accusation in your words.

“And you have! We’ll visit. Assuming the state doesn’t want my head on a pike anymore,” he chuckles uncomfortably.

In a moment of desperation, you take his hand in both of yours; his scarred, gnarled hands that tell you even in the dark who’s warmth it is that you feel every night next to you.

“Stay. Stay with me, please,” you plead. “I can’t live in this place alone, I despised it when I was young and I’ll only despise it even more now.”

Soonyoung brings his other hand to clasp over both of your own, eyes closing as you hear him take a somewhat shaky breath. “I’m doing this for the both of us.”

“So am I! I can’t possibly rule a kingdom by myself.”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone—”

“I don’t want someone! I want you!”

He begins to whisper your name, moving his face away to blink rapidly.

“How do you feel about becoming a pirate king? I can never forbid you from the waters, that’s your home, and you will have it.”

He does not look at you, but you know he’s listening more intently than ever before.

“But I ask you as someone who loves you more than I have ever anything else, will you stay and marry me?”

Soonyoung falters as he absorbs the fact that you’ve just proposed to him.

“I—” he stutters. “The court—”

“The court wouldn’t dare to deny me the man that saved my life.”

You squeeze his hand tighter, moving impossibly closer.

“And even if they do, I'm ready to fight for the man who fought for me. So answer me as a man and not a pirate, Kwon Soonyoung, will you marry me?”

Soonyoungs mouth enclosing over your own is all the answer you need as you feel him break free of your hands to let them find your waist instead. Amidst the pile of fabric he pushes himself into you as close as possible, letting your hands guide his head to move against your mouth.

It’s everything, as you grip onto the back of his shoulder, pressing unforgettably into his open mouth. He takes in your bottom lip between his own, sucking before letting go, only to engulf your mouth once again.

“We’ll figure it out,” you whisper against his lips, feeling the nuzzle of his nose against the apple of your cheek, hot tears spilling from your eyes. “I promise, we’ll figure everything out.”

He shushes you when he feels you shudder in his hold, pulling away to rest his forehead against yours. “No need to torment your pretty head. Not right now.”

For once, you listen to your pirate captain without a fight, simply feeling the stretch of your lips as he moves down to capture them once more.

The pressure of his hands isn’t nearly as strong as it would’ve felt without the layers upon layers of fabric that cover your form, but standing in this desolate hallway, you swear his fingers might as well be caressing your bare skin underneath.

The thought sends your mind into a dazzling spin, letting go of his mouth with a gasp, suddenly needing to take a step back.

“I have to—I have to go back inside,” you breathe into his slick mouth. “Meet me outside my quarters at midnight.”

As scandalous as it was, you could not deny how alive it made you feel to be like this, meeting in darker corners in the dead of night. But for now, you allow him to fix the bits of your ensemble you could not see. With the bad of his thumb, he blends in the smudges of your rouge, swiping at your lips ever so delicately to ensure he leaves no trace of himself. Tucking the loose strands of hair back behind your ears, and finally, fixing the encrusted crown on your head, a flash of one of the diamond’s gleams reflecting onto his perfect face.

“You’re beautiful.” There’s a dazed look that graces him. “Beyond beautiful.”

With one last innocent press of your smiling mouth onto his, you promise him your midnight.

BY THE TIME IT was finally an appropriate hour for you to excuse yourself for the evening, you were near to exploding entirely.

Whispers of “Are you alright, your Majesty?” plaguing you through your already racing mind. It was beyond difficult to keep the constant shaking of your foot unobvious, however you could not simply up and leave whenever you wanted—at least not yet. The monarch would remain in an unstable authoritative position for quite some time after ascension, and with the unorthodox situation at hand, you assume you’d really have to push yourself if you were to be of any use as sovereign.

But when the time finally came and you were escorted out of the grand ballroom, only mere ticks away from the resounding bells of midnight, you were holding back from breaking into a sprint. Outside your quarters it was empty, but you remain steadfast in your refusal for your ladies in waiting tonight, promising you could dress yourself for bed on your own.

Standing at the double doors of your rooms, still the princess’ quarters as you refuse to move into the Queen’s rooms, you stand waiting. The two guards remain staring straight ahead, and you wait for the clicking of your ladies to go muffled before you ask.

“Has the Captain approached?”

“No, your Majesty.”

You try not to feel disappointed, despite knowing the midnight bells were yet to sound. “If he does, allow him in, please.”

Opening the double doors, you half wish you had let your ladies help you out of the god awful dress, tight and loose in all the wrong places. The jewels are thrown haphazardly on your vanity, needing the heavyweight of them off of your body.

Perhaps months of little to no bedazzling had rendered you incapable of wearing anything mildly less comfortable than linen and leather, but you suppose you’d slip back into the habit just as easily as you slipped out of it. Your nightgown feels like heaven on your tired, tired body, and the dimly lit interior of your bedchamber is only encouraging you to slip under your covers and fall deep into sleep.

That was one thing about the ship you doubt you’d ever miss.

Three rapt knocks outside of the heavy double doors have you sitting rapt at attention, hastily making your way to the door from your vanity. Pressing the front of your nightgown down, you open the door slightly and poke your head out.

Soonyoung stands at the door, nervous of all things, still clad in his full suit. You smile as you let him in, closing the door to turn the lock.

“Your guards mortify me.”

“Oh? So they’re doing their job right?” You walk up to him and grasp onto his lapels, pulling him down to meet the lips you’ve missed so much despite only being hours apart. “Why? Has this big bad pirate found his match in the palace guards of all places?”

“Hmm,” he’s humming against your lips. “I could take them both.”

Giggling like you were in love, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold him close.

“I hope you weren’t bothered too much,” you say. “The aristocracy seem to have being a pain in the ass written in their birthrights.”

“I think they were too scared to approach, probably thought I’d start swearing and snatching the pearls right off their necks. Some of them were bearable, asked me how long my sword was.”

It’s difficult to not laugh at that, “Well?”

He raises his brows unceremoniously, “Won’t you like to know?”

Taking the opportunity while you giggled uncontrollably at the situation, he goes back placing never ending kisses to your mouth. Sighing involuntarily, you melt into him once again, infinitely more relaxed than in the hallway.

Soonyoung’s eyelashes brush against yours in a whisper of their own, only reminding you how close you were to him in the moment. His kisses go from soft and fleeting to something with a little more vigour. The warmth of his mouth goes back to overtaking the lower half of your face, sucking and licking into your mouth like his life depended on it.

If your mind was reeling when his hands were merely ghosts of pressure over your heavy dress, the feeling of his palms and fingers so distinct over your nightgown, the only thing separating you two, is enough to have your knees begin to buckle.

From your waist, they move to your back, before caressing back to the sides of your waist, thumb running in circles. Gentle handfuls of your flesh, bunching and letting go of the material of your nightgown. Very soon, his mouth leaves yours and instead moves to your jaw, the air in the room letting you feel the wetness that he leaves behind as a passionate trail.

He soon reaches the junction of your jaw and neck, leaving a particularly long suck in the area that has a gasp leaving your mouth. Remaining in that area, you feel the pleasant graze of his tongue on your skin, only making you tilt your head farther out to let him carry out his loving.

Your mind wanders back to the hands that grope you in ways that would defame you, the unseemly palms that have you needing to feel him all the same.

With grazing hands, you slip your fingers underneath his jacket, pushing it off one shoulder. He understands the message, flicking it off of his frame before loosening his cravat and throwing it somewhere behind him.

Unlatching from your neck, he comes round to face you to find your face the epitome of disconnected and dazed.

“Can you wait for me on the bed, my love?”

“But—” The thought of him being even an inch away was most aggravating, but he cuts you off before you can refute.

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” Soonyoung rests his forehead against your own, taking your hands in his. “I’m right here. I just need to take this awful suit off.”

Your face must have been peculiar because he’s immediately jumping, panicked. “Uh—do you not want me to, we don’t have to, I just thought—”

��No!” you yelp, wide eyed. “I, um, I’ll wait. On the bed, I mean.”

He lets you walk over to the giant four poster bed, pushing the flow of your gown down when you realise how high it had ridden, cheeks burning scarlet at the thought of exposing so much.

Hearing ruffles from behind you, you cannot bring yourself to look back at him, already extremely lightheaded and afraid that the sight might make you faint altogether.

Perhaps you were experiencing a delayed case of sea legs, because it’s more difficult than usual to make yourself comfortable on the soft beddings. You make a futile attempt at slowing your breathing.

By the time Soonyoung is done, meeting you in the middle, you keep your eyes on his face as he’s immediately climbing over to kiss you softly. Hand on the back of your head, he guides you to lay flat, adjacent to the headboard so you’re laying on the breadth of the bed.

He handles you like you were made of glass, and it only makes the strange ache between your legs increasingly present and uncomfortable.

Noting a cool feeling on the base of your throat, you open your eyes and catch the leather cord that dangles from his neck, the letter opener charm that’s attached to the end of it connecting you two as your lips part. Just beyond, through the dip of his collarbones and the valley to his chest, you catch the scar that curls above his heart. Even lower, you find the smaller wrappings of his scarring wound.

You trace over the edges of the new addition, shaking hands as you try your best to not brush over the wound.

On the other side, Soonyoung has his hands on shin as his body hovers over you between your legs. Curling around, he caresses the skin of your bare calf, drifting to the back of your knees. He takes the opportunity to lift your leg, urging you to wrap it around his waist.

The action has gravity doing what it does best, the hem of your nightgown dropping to bunch over the junction of your leg, your entire thigh exposed for the air.

Soonyoung takes no time to let his hands wander higher, taking light handfuls of the flesh of thighs, dragging his grip further and further up.

“Nearly tipped the ship over when I saw you in those fucking trousers,” he says, eyes closed as he drags his mouth over the inner part of your thigh.

The sound that leaves your mouth is breathy, mind preoccupied with how quickly he was making his way towards the apex of your thighs. He’s using his mouth like he used it on your own lips, nipping at the flesh before biting down hard.

“Soonyoung!”

Tongue running over the patch, he sucks on the area to sooth the bite. It’s taking everything out of you to not twitch uncontrollably in his hold, the heat in your core reaching temperatures you’ve never experienced.

Unlatching himself from your thigh, Soonyoung rears his head slightly. The sight has your head rolling back, mind drifting to the face of the man who’d visited you in your dreams, the same man that had now made home between your legs.

Before you realise it, the bunched hem of your nightgown is flown upwards entirely, fluttering as the fabric lands on your stomach.

Your heat is bare underneath, evident with the way Soonyoung keeps his eyes on the now fully exposed part of you. Your chest continues to rise and fall as you lift your head to look at him, eyes half closed and mind muddled.

“What…What’re you doing?”

Soonyoung looks like you’ve disturbed him from a trance, snapping up to look at you as you ask him your question.

It hardly registers in his mind. What was he doing? Was it not obvious—

Ah.

If the mere sight of your bare thighs weren’t enough for him to release his load onto the sheets untouched, your unawareness might just end up doing it for him.

Of course you didn’t know why he was at eye level with your cunt; women from this world were not supposed to know.

The buzz in his mind renders him useless for a few moments as his vision blurs, the pain in his lower region unbearable. The thought of him being the first person to do this to you, to pleasure you like this; he wasn’t sure if he’d make it till the end of the night alive.

Screwing his eyes shut, his palms full of your thighs, he drops his head and counts to ten.

“Will you let me show you how a Queen is meant to be worshipped?”

Wet mouthed and unhinged eyes, your arousal was doing nothing but multiplying at the sight of him.

“Do you trust me?” he asks. “I promise I’ll make you feel good.”

It takes you less than a moment to nod your head, eyes locked with his.

Bringing a hand closer, he dips one finger into the beginnings of your hole. Bringing some of the glisten onto his fingers. Your lips are parted and he brings a second finger to gather your arousal, rubbing over your entrance ever so slowly.

The motion makes you let out a heavy exhale, gripping onto the bunched fabric at your stomach till your knuckles turn white.

With little warning, you feel his fingertips push and drag upwards, right over the sensitive bundle of nerves. Immediately, he’s rubbing your arousal all over the area, rubbing your clit in rhythmic circles with both fingers.

You can’t stop it when you throw your head back and let out a slight whimper, relishing in the feeling that overtakes every last sense and capability, anticipating the next surge of pleasure that courses through your entire body like you've been struck by a bolt of something.

Vision obscured, you loll your head to the side when you feel his fingers retract, confused.

All you catch is the outstretched nature of his tongue, and how it lands directly where his fingers were.

You let out the loudest moan yet, back arching off the bed as he licks a forceful drag up your cunt before moving back down your clit, circling your hole with the tip of his tongue, right before repeating. He flicks your nub right where he’s found you twitch the most, back and forth as your hips begin to fail at your suppressed stutters, his hands needing to pin you down onto the sheets to continue.

He becomes more generous, laying his tongue flat now as he massages your nub so good. Your thighs are closing around his ears and he does nothing to stop you, nearly suffocating between them. Hips going from their stutters to a grind, you find your hands flying to his hair, grip tighter than you thought you’d come down with. It doesn’t help that he’s now taken a finger to circle your entrance while his lips suck on your clit.

“Soonyoung.” It’s all you can say, throat incapable of forcing anything but his name, the burn behind your eyes only making it harder to not say it louder.

When he pushes the finger in, it has you letting out a moan, the foreign feeling against your walls only forcing them to clamp onto his digit. Gradually, you feel his pace quicken as he slides his finger in and out of your hole, his mouth still doing beautiful things to your cunt.

It doesn’t take long for him to shove in another finger, stretching your hole as you let out a constant string of noises through the pleasure, ever-building as every passing moment only scrambles your brain further.

And then you feel him groan, a vibration throbbing through your system.

It’s suddenly all too much, and before you can tell him what’s going on, you’re rendered incapable. You don’t know where your limbs fly, but all you feel is white hot and overwhelming to an unbelievable degree.

“Oh–ungh—” Your body is telling Soonyoung all he needs to know as he only pushes into your pussy even further, letting you ride out your high as you claw at him in every way possible.

Inevitably, the feeling subsides and you realise you’ve been reduced to sobs, tears streaking the sides of your face. Laying flat with your head still on the sheets, you stare at the ceiling of your four poster, trying to remember where you were.

Barely noticing the man that now hover above you, you hear him whisper. “Are you alright?”

Nodding weakly, you don’t even try to lift a finger in the remaining aftermath.

“I need words, my love.”

Swallowing thickly, you give him a breathy, “Yes.”

The lower half of his face glistens in the light like unorthodox diamonds, and all you can think about is how you need him closer to you.

You make an attempt with your nightgown, your trembling arms, still coursing with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Soonyoung decides to help, hands pushing your spine into an arch as he pulls the slip up and over your head, now entirely bare in front of him.

You watch as instead of throwing the fabric away, he brings it to his mouth to wipe the slick off, tainting the gown with your essence.

Mouth over yours in a salty kiss, you pull him into you as close as humanly possible, needing to feel his heat, his weight, his scent as close as possible. His mouth reaches your throat again, lips brushing over the expanse as he places open mouthed kisses over the nearly faded marks.

His hands are lingering once again as they ghost the sides of your breasts, thumbs coming close to your nipples before retracting in a caress. He takes them in handfuls as he goes back to busy your lips with his own, massaging the mounds with a pressure just enough to have you reeling.

Flicking your nipple lightly, he goes back to circle the bud with thumb again. Making himself further familiar, his fingers begin to pinch and pull at them, pressing down to get a noise out of you, one that you sound as you breathe into his mouth.

Trailing over your stomach, he pushes himself off of you. On his knees, he takes the distance as his chance to look at you in your entirety for the first time. Your fucked out expression and your lack of words is doing nothing but fueling him, your loud breaths somehow more sinful than anything he could ever do to you.

In one swift motion, he’s slipping his arms beneath you, pulling you up so he can lay you against the headboards and pillows. You barely register what’s happening, having given yourself up to him long before.

Grabbing one of the millions of cushions on the bed, he swings one over. Using no strength of your own, he lifts your hips and places it down beneath you, effectively propping you up.

And then he’s meeting you at eye level, hands cupping your face. “I need you to listen to me, darling.”

He waits for confirmation, of which you can only nod, still seeing mild stars. “Do you want to stop?”

It's a visceral reaction; the violent shaking of your head, the hand that flies to his bicep. “N–no!”

You pause as he grips onto your upper arms tight, right as you continue. “I just—a moment. Don’t stop, please.”

Leaning down, he places a long kiss on the corner of your mouth before moving his head to fit into the crook of your neck. He nuzzles his nose against the skin below your ear.

“I’m right here,” he whispers. “For as long as you want me.”

His kisses go from desperate to something with a little more intent, pressing his lips into your neck consistently. Oh so gently, it begins to feel like a draught. He turns into calm just as he could become chaos, bringing you down from the after effects of his own actions.

The hum that leaves you is unthinking, fingers remaining deep in the roots of his hair. Your own nose is pressed against his hair, his scent mixed with sweat infiltrating your nostrils. It fills your head with a pleasant buzz, one that you feel force a pull at the corners of your mouth.

“I meant it when I said it,” you murmur into his hair. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

Raising his head, he meets your eye, smiling slightly. “I believe you. Forgive me for making you believe I was trying to leave you.”

“You weren’t?”

He presses his lips into a line, exhaling as he drops his chin to his chest. “I’ve needed to be selfish my whole life just to survive. Leaving…I wasn’t sure how I would’ve gotten on that boat in the morning without taking you with me somehow.”

Moving back to look at you, you realise very quickly there’s more to the mere glassy look in his eye. “For once, I wished to be anything but a pirate, to be anywhere but near the sea. Not when you wouldn’t be there with me.”

Taking one of his beautifully decorated hands to your mouth, you kiss the soft of his palm. “You’ve done more than anyone ever has to protect me.”

You laugh against his hand, “This is my turf, captain. Let me protect you… protect us.”

Something injects you with a dose of bold, and you find yourself wrapping your arms around his raised shoulders. “But…I believe we were in the middle of something. I’d hate to ruin the mood.”

The smirk that graces his lips is immediate, pushing you back down onto the sheets as you let a laugh escape you.

And then you feel something warm graze your bottom lip, pointed in the way it pushes inwards. He’s brought the glinting letter opener charm up to your lips, the trinket pinched between his fingers as he continues to keep it on your mouth. He kisses you deep as the metal remains between you two, your hands run across the expanse of his back, feeling the muscles ripple as he props himself between you.

“I love you,” he cuts between the kiss to groan, the charm dropping from between your mouths to your chest.

“I love you, mmh—” His fingers have found your clit mid confession, rubbing quickly as he attempts to get you all hot and withered again.

Your legs raise on instinct, back arching as he rubs you mercilessly, the pressure building quicker than it had before.

“I–I think—” you start to tell him, and it seems it’s all he needs to remove his fingers entirely.

“Soonyoung!” you yelp, landing on the bed with a thud.

Looking down, you find his hands wrapped around the length between his own legs, and you realise this was your first time seeing it. Past the white-oozing slit, his tip is a painful looking red. If his hands weren’t already pumping and he hadn’t already lined himself up to your hole, you would’ve taken him into your own palms, done exactly with your mouth that he’d done with his own.

But you can’t find it within yourself to stop him when you feel the initial push of his bulbous tip against your hole, the stretch causing you to drop your mouth open.

“Fuck,” you hear him curse, and when you look up you find his own eyes screwed shut. His hands grip the plush of the pillow beside your head as tight as ever, face askew like he was holding himself back from combusting entirely.

Slowly, you feel the stretch turn into something akin to a burn, a sting in the back of your eyes. You let him push himself into you at his own pace, the never ending battle between your mind and your refrained hips ever present as you attempt to keep them at bay.

He keeps his pelvis flush against yours ince he’s sheathed himself inside you entirely. BOth of your pants fill the thick air of the room, the throb of your walls around his shaft leaving a tremble in his forearm despite your forsake.

Hand somewhere above your head, you feel Soonyoung pull out ever so slightly before pushing back in. Just like this, in shallow thrusts, he pumps himself in an out of your walls in a slow pattern.

It begins with a simmering tremble of pleasure that prolongs as he drags his cock in and out, and then in and out, and then—

Your eyes fly open when you feel his hips slam against yours with a resounding sound, fingers gripping his arm as he does it again, your moans penetrating the air. Before you know it, he’s hiked your legs up to wrap around his waist, ankles locking as he goes back to snapping his hips into you.

“Oh, Soonyoung.”

Your nails are digging into his bicep like it was the only thing tying you to this earth, the only thing keeping you from passing out entirely. He’s taken up a brutal pace, pistoning into your clamped walls with a vigour unmatched.

All Soonyoung can hear is the stretch of your moans and groans directly in his ear, the obscene squelch of both of your fluids mixing at your middles. Your hands have migrated to his back, clawing at the skin like you’ve been utterly possessed.

He can’t seem to mind, not when they’ll simply become reopening wounds every time he’ll have you like this, all to himself and no one else. He wonders vaguely if your guards outside can hear the way you’re losing yourself in him just as he is in you, wonders if it appalls them that a filthy pirate gets to have their Queen in his arms as her vindictive pleasure.

One hand rubbing over your slick clit, he pulls back to sit on his heels, the angle allowing him to keep ever part of you occupied, his spare hand coming up to toy with the pillow of your breast.

It’s all too much, for the both of you as your collective noises become increasingly frequent and high pitched.

And then he’s pushed you over the edge, the shake of your thighs electrifying as you nearly scream out in the bliss of your high. Hands moving every which way to find a grip as you let the feeling crash into you over and over again.

“Oh, that’s so good, so good, oh my goodness.”

You’re still in the middle of your climax when Soonyoung can’t take it anymore, letting himself release his load inside of you like a mark. It’s a mess of force and pleasure as the both of you lose sight of your strengths and weaknesses, the feeling of his hot cum shooting into your walls only prolonging your orgasm even further.

He continues to thrust, continues to play with your nub, continues to flick at your nipples despite the orgasm subsiding. It’s all suddenly too much all at once, the sharp jerk of your body and your voice asking him to stop.

“Soon—Soonyoung, it’s too much.”

Hands coming to a halt and his thrusts slowing, you feel him ease himself out of you.

It’s a sight Soonyoung doubts he could ever forget even if he tried, your still pulsating walls doing everything but keeping the milky white of his load inside you, globs of the liquid spilling out as you shudder near lifeless on the bed. His hands grope at the inside of your thighs, pulling your lips apart to take in the mess he’s made.

He can’t help himself when he pushes two fingers into your hole, feeding his cum back into your hole right where it belongs.

You’ve only barely started to come round when he meets you at eye level, plopping next to you on the bed.

“Hi,” he grins.

“Hi,” you breathe back, hands coming up to touch his face.

He lets you breathe for a few moments as he finds himself getting off the bed to find your tainted nightgown, moving back to you to spread your legs and wipe you clean as best as he could.

You find it within yourself to allow him to pull you into a sitting position, a cup of water from the nightstand pressing against your tired mouth.

“Come on, just one,” he urges as you slump against his chest.

You take a few sips as he coaxes you into drinking the full cup and half of the second helping.

He gives up as he holds you against his chest, brushing his fingers through your tangled hair to push past your face.

“Are you alright?” he asks you. Your eyes are closed when he leans down to place a peck on the apple of your cheek.

“Mhm,” you muffle. “Want to sleep.

“I’d let you, but…”

“Soonyoung, I can’t go again,” you whine.

He chuckles, “I meant to ask where we could find some sugar around here. You barely ate anything at the ball.”

“The kitchens?” you answer with a floating question mark.

Soonyoung can’t help it when he squeezes you so tight it has you complaining loudly, not being able to sustain the love just in the tiny expanse of his heart.

“Come on, let’s get you some cake before both our hearts give out.”

BUNDLED UP IN WARMER clothes, the only thing the palace walls hear is the tiny whispers and giggles of you and your lover as you make your way to the kitchens.

It’s empty at this time of night, the dying embers of the fireplace the only source of light. Soonyoung uses every last bit of his thievery to manage to find a basket of dough balls, the syrup more readily available at the table in the centre.

The tingling in your brain can’t seem to decipher the overwhelming happiness that floods you from the ends of your hair to the tips of your toes. Especially when you call out his name amidst his shuffling, your heart can’t take the grin on his face as he hurries to join on the floor in front of the fireplace.

Arm looped through his own and your head on his shoulder, you decide you’d be quite okay dying like this.

The dough balls are cold and the syrup is probably a little too sweet, but you can’t possibly complain when it warms you just the same.

“I’ve despised my name my entire life,” Soonyoung starts in the silence, picking at the insides of his treat. “Some old merchant sailor was giving his ship away in exchange that the taker would take care of it. He’d built his Tigress from the first board to the last sail, but the years had made their mark. It was practically falling apart when I took it off his hands.”

He pushes the remaining bit of the pastry into his mouth, muffled as he continues, “He had a strange name, said it was given to him by his crew when they realised he was born without a name. Hoshi. I liked it well enough so I kept it.”

“Soonyoung—”

“That one. I wanted to replace the name I loathed, the one my own mother gave me.” You watch as his throat bobs as he swallows. “Ash is my birthplace, my mother worked in the brothels where I was born only because she couldn’t get rid of me.”

Taking one of the hands that wrap around his arm, he brings your fingers to your mouth, kissing the tips of each one. “I despised that name, until I heard it from your lips.”

“Soonyoung.” It felt right on your tongue, like you were destined to say his name.

“Yes, my love?” He smiles softly.

“I love you.”

“I love you more,” he says as he kisses you again. “Thank you for keeping my name, thank you for giving it life.”

You take the opportunity to grab one of the syrup soaked dough balls from the basket and stuff them into his mouth. “Enough, don’t tell me all this luxury’s made you soft.”

It was a jab but a lighthearted one in any case, you loved to see this side of him and you doubt you would ever get enough of seeing him like this. Vulnerable with his softer smiles and squinted eyes.

Bringing one of your digits to your mouth, you suck the remaining syrup off your fingers.

Soonyoung is quick to take notice as he takes your hand and brings your fingers up to his mouth, running his tongue over the pads of your fingers to take in the remaining sugar left on your fingers.

He keeps his eyes locked onto yours as he sucks on the tips of your fingers, making sure every last hint of sweetness is gone.

And then he’s kissing you, tongue in your mouth as he moves against your lips slowly.

Breaking apart, you whisper, “As much as I’d love to, the bakers will be coming in any minute now.”

Soonyoung’s grin is dangerous, and you find out why the minute you feel his arms loop around your waist and under your thighs, lifting you clean off the floor of the kitchens.

You squeal before you can help it, his lips finding home in your neck as you laugh as loud as your chest would allow.

You could get used to this. And you will.

THE SERVANTS CARRYING THE giant stack of plates nearly topple over when you sprint past them, yelling a loud apology over your shoulder as you do nothing but hasten your pace.

The paper in your hands is clutched tight in your fists as you run to where your carriage awaits, near yelling at the driver to make it to the docks before the streets would be full of the early morning merchants and bakers, slowing the gallops of the decorated horses.

The town is waking as your carriage races past, the beginnings of the new day making itself known as the sun peers through the gaps of the houses. You’re incapable of sitting still, your heels tapping against the floors of your cabin incessantly as the docks grow nearer and nearer.

And then you see it, the rush of dock handlers that see the royal carriage slow to a stop in front of the boardwalk. You slam the door open before any of the tens could do it for you, breaking into a sprint as you find the distinct flag of the royal crest wave high on the other end of the docks.

You had already seen Soonyoung off in the dark of the night as he made his way to the ship that was near ready to depart as you slide to stop in front of the anchored ship.

There was nothing sane about what you were doing, the chortles and shocked noises of sailors and merchants deaf to ears as you finally spot him near the prow.

His eyes meet yours and he has to do a double take.

Panting and needing to hold onto your knees for support, you peer up as you watch him run towards the ramp that leads down to the docks to see you, to ask why you were here when he’d kissed you goodbye mere hours ago.

By the time he meets you at the wobbly boardwalk, you’ve somewhat recovered.

“Are you alright?” he asks you as soon as you’re within earshot, hands grasping onto your upper arms in evident concern.

“I had to tell you, this came in right after you left.” You brandish the paper clutched into your fist, smoothing it over as the light catches the red stamp at the bottom.

It takes him less than a minute to realise what it said, eyes blinking rapidly and mouth gaping like a fish. “They…They said yes?”

“They said yes,” you repeat, nodding furiously as you break into a smile. “We can get married, Soonyoung, they said yes.”

His arms are crushing you before you know it, wrapped around you so tight as he buries his face into your neck, repeating it like a mantra, “They said yes…”

By the time you part, he keeps his arms around you, still embracing you in front of the entire port. You take hold of his face bringing it closer to you.

“Three months, and then you come home,” you breathe. “And I get to marry you, in front of everyone.”

Soonyoung lets his lips meet your own in a chaste kiss as he corrects you, “I get to marry you in front of everyone.”

There’s a thud of something nearby, and you look up to find the crew of the Tigress hanging over the railings of the newly appointed naval ship that looked suspiciously like a pirate’s.

“He can’t come back home, if he doesn’t leave!” Seungkwan yells over cupped hands.

You’d like to send him an affectionate gesture involving your middle finger, but choose to save him in front of the crowded port.

“You’ll miss me, Seungkwan, just you wait,” you send him a pointed glare that he simply scoffs at.

He might miss you, but you’ll definitely miss the lot of them when you return to a significantly emptier palace.

“Don’t let the royal snobs walk over you, you’re a better sailor anyway,” you tell Soonyoung. “Not that I needed to tell you, anyway.”

“I promise on our future wedding to be a complete menace.” He grins at the declaration as you admire him in the morning light.

One last time, you memorise the dips and hills of his features, pressing your final kiss into his lips as the voices telling him to hurry it up grow louder.

He blows you a kiss from the railings as the anchor is hoisted, and you send him one right back.

As your carriage trudges its path back to the palace, at a pace more acceptable for both the stamina of the horses and the integrity of the structure, your eyes remain glued to the shrinking ship that fades into the distant horizon.

There’s a pang in your chest, one that brings a tear to your eyes. It’s all very dramatic, the way the melancholy makes a home in your heart. An inkling tells you how you’ll probably become quite used to the feeling, learn to greet it like a friend.

For now you enter the lighter palace, and take your place on the chair in your study and find solace in the ideas your mind brings.

That no matter how long Soonyoung will remain far from you, he will always come back home to you.

Always.

[AN]: ty for joining my babies on their journey, i cannot thank you all enough for reading all 48fuckingK words of this i love you guys truly!!! thank you for all the reblogs and comments on the other parts, it makes me genuinely so happy to see you guys enjoy this universe that i've built. I read every single comment and know i appreciate all of it so so much <3

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