#instinctual stackings

[fertilisedovumcell]

Enneagram Social Instinct (SO)

Summary of the Social Instinct:

Key words: connection, contribution, participation, adaptation, involvement, mirroring, attunement, cooperation, reciprocation, accommodation

(note: there's a common misconception about the social instinct being correlated to being extroverted or social. This is not the case, introverts (cognitively) can be a social subtype and even the most reserved or quiet individuals. The social instinct is simply the instinctual drive to connect, engage and contribute to others. In some cases, social subtypes can be most prone to social anxiety due to the heightened sensitivity of their position in the world)

Main concerns:

Maintaining the sense of value gained from participating in activities with others (be it group, family, community, friends, colleagues, etc)

to be part of something larger than themselves (social media is a great example of the social instinct, because we all innately are looking to satiate that need for contribution and involvement)

Main focuses:

to establish a social standing/position in society

building personal value, sense of accomplishment and security with others

to know what is going on in the world/community; can manifest as gossiping, world news, celebrities, events, politics, etc.

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Social subtypes are sensitive and attuned to the hierarchical social structure and group norms; emphasis on groups; 'out-groups', 'in-groups'

Have the capacity to form and sustain relationships over a long-period

comprehension of one's position and place (e.g 'am I a loner? Am I accepted? do I have value here?, I feel like an outcast, what do we have in common? Are we close? etc')

nuances of social environments, etiquette, cues, boundaries, status and power, behaviour, etc

being able to understand and sense impact of actions on others

What this can manifest as:

desire for acclaim/fame, attention, popularity, recognition, success, honour, leadership, appreciation, to have high social status, etc

How the Social instinct may manifest when unhealthy/distorted:

Antisocial behaviour, resentment over society and people, anxieties and self-defeating behaviours, overly preoccupied about self-image (to others), fear of exclusion or being devalued, avoidance of social endeavours, cynicism and distrustfulness, etc.

The Social instinct, however, is actually something much more fundamental. It is a powerful desire, found in all human beings, to be liked, approved of, and to feel safe with others. On our own, we are rather weak and vulnerable and can easily fall prey to a hostile environment. We lack the claws, fangs, and fur of other animals, and if we did not band together and cooperate with each other, it is unlikely that our species, or we as individuals, would be able to survive. Being able to adjust ourselves to others and be acceptable is a fundamental, survival based human instinct.

References:

https://www.reddit.com/r/Enneagram/comments/14bw32k/are_enneagrammers_instinct_example_thoughts/

https://thepracticalenneagram.com/instincts/social-instinct/

https://www.personalitycafe.com/threads/the-resource-thread-for-instinctual-variants-and-stackings.118168/page-2?nested_view=1&sortby=oldest#replies

https://www.reddit.com/r/Enneagram/comments/14cegz6/being_so_dom_actually_makes_you_less_social/

[keitashi-is-me]

Instinctual variants

Sp/So

Sp/Sx

So/Sp

So/Sx

Sx/Sp

Sx/So

[omgvalhalla]

Soc-blind

[m-v-tique]

{Work in Progress Announcement!!}

Based of my post back from late 2022, I have decided to continue my project!!

This is going to be a series about each instinctual variants I will finish drawing.

Inspired by @kerkikerk 's Enneagram artwork in Twitter, I'll be making its official avatars/looks. You may say it's strange but I might make a further explanation here on this/my Tumblr Blog.

Now see you soon!

{End of Announcement}

[bbyg4rl]

𝘑𝘑 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 “𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴”

JJ had a million names for you. Ranging from “Cupcake” to “Ketchup bottle”, “Trouble maker” to “Short stack.”

“Sunshine” when you grinned at him first thing in the morning.

“Darling” when he was trying to charm his way out of trouble.

But sweetness? Oh, that was his favorite.

It was effortless, instinctual even, like he didn’t need to think before saying it.

“Need a hand, sweetness?” when he saw you struggling to carry something.

“Watch your step, sweetness.” with a guiding hand on your lower back.

“Damn, sweetness, you’re killin’ me.” with a lazy smirk as he looked up at you from between your thighs.

JJ used sweetness like it was a habit, like it was second nature, stitched into his vocabulary just for you. Like it was the only name that ever really fit you. It rolled off his tongue so naturally, in every situation— casual, teasing, protective, affectionate.

And when you teased him about it, asking why that one stuck, he just grinned, bumping his nose against yours.

“Because you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever had,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

check out my othet works ! masterlist

[pellucid-constellations]

Against the World

Pairing: Azriel x Human!Reader

Summary: Azriel learns that loving a human means loving the uncoordinated and the injury-prone and the acceptance that he can't save you from it all.

Word count: 1k

Warnings: small injury, wistful as human x fae goes

a/n: Yay I hope this makes up for april fools :) Thank you to the anon who sent me this idea I love youuuu <3

More Az x human!reader and here as well :)

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

The first time Azriel witnessed the plight of your ever-present bruises, he hadn’t thought much of it. You had made too much space for him in the doorway of your home, squeezing extra tight against the frame to accommodate his wings. A breathy curse clued him into the pain you’d felt ramming your shoulder into the sturdy wood, and then the discolored skin blooming in its wake clued him into the fragility that was amplified by your accident-prone nature. 

Humans were not as lithe and agile as fae. Humans, unfortunately, also bruised and broke much easier than fae, a combination that led to the heightened hypervigilance Azriel adopted since falling in love with you. The more time he spent with you, slipping away from his family under pretenses, the more he bore witness to your slips and falls and general habit of misplacing items that would somehow then stub your toe. 

At first, the accidents drove him mad. He would turn around for one second and something would clatter in the distance. A rather sharp whip of his head would find you sheepishly staring down at whatever you had been holding, and Azriel would hold his breath as his eyes inspected every inch of your body. He would stand beside you in the kitchen, pressing his hip to yours to find closeness, and you would hiss out a quick breath, crimson sliding down to your wrist. 

Gods, Azriel hated knives around you. And he hated ladders, moderately tall stacks of items, broom cupboards; Azriel quickly became wary of anything that had caused an accident in his presence

He had let it consume him into madness—at first. Azriel turned into an unreasonable force in your life, whisking you up over small holes in the ground and banning window locks unless he was the one operating them. He’d press the blankets back from your neck as you slept because cauldron boil him he was sure you’d find a way to die on them, and you couldn’t even get him started on the gardening tools you kept in the yard. Your propensity for befriending wild animals had his shadows angrily hissing in his ears and he feared the day you’d finally attempt to hang the art in your closets when he wasn’t there. 

At the beginning of loving you, Azriel considered bringing you to Velaris so many times the idea became like a mantra in his head. But then—after witnessing the casual way you went about each action that sent his heart into his throat—Azriel began to calm. And adapt. Almost instinctually. 

Soon, it became second nature for him to place a hand at the back of your head each time you exited the depths of your kitchen cabinets. With time, Azirel learned to simply catch your waist each time your steps became unsteady instead of lifting you from the ground. He wouldn’t speak to you as you made dinner, content to watch your careful ministrations with the knife—concentrated, without pause. 

Azriel would allow you to stay bundled up in your blankets and bring you closer to his chest instead, using the subtle brush of your breath against his skin to calm him. He saw things falling before you even noticed them, catching them above your head, as they fell to your feet, closing the distance to jam your fingers; he was still vigilant, but some of the fear dissipated. 

It never got easier to see the repercussions. 

Even the slightest injury made Azriel’s chest twine uncomfortably, because they always stuck around far longer than they would on any fae. A cut on your hand, a bruise along your leg, or—the worst, in Azriel’s opinion—the busted lip you got from tripping in the forest when he was away. 

He had been angry when he first saw it, and then he had been afraid. Afraid to see how delicate you were. Afraid that he hadn’t been there to stop whatever had happened. 

But then you grinned at him, so happy he was there despite the reminder of your impermanence in this world glaring and angry and red on your face, and Azriel realized this was something he needed to accept. You being in his life would include tragedies and injuries and heartbreak, and he was okay with that—the visual representation of such a truth was found in his lips lightly pressing to the split skin. 

Azriel still cataloged each disruption of your skin. He still soothed aches and pains with balms you probably shouldn’t have access to but that Madja wouldn’t miss in her clinic. When tears escaped past your lashes—rare from physical pain alone—he still wiped them from your cheeks and prayed to the Mother that he could continue to do so until his last breath. A fruitless prayer, but one he still made at the salty scent of your emotion in the air. 

Sometimes you teased him about his lack of clumsiness. You’d poke fun at the graceful steps he made around your house and the silence that accompanied his movements. The jokes were usually at your expense, something Azriel did not love, but he’d crack a smile all the same. 

He’d started knocking his wings into things on the odd occasion—catch his foot on a rug or cram his finger into a drawer just so you’d look at him with that baffled expression that made him actually burst with laughter. He loved catching you off guard, but he loved making you feel with him even more. You weren't less than him because you were human. The uncoordinated movements that made you mortal weren’t something he looked down upon. Sure, he would do away with the pain that often followed, but Azriel loved everything about you. 

And that included the casual clumsiness that often made his heart stop.

[mariasont]

hi!!!!

I'm soooo in love your work. bimbo!assistantreader wil always have a special place in my heart!!!

Now i have this of idea that i think can work for either aaron or spencer, but basically bau!reader who kind of always wears the same type of outfit in the field that's always really modest. Buttttt when they kind of like "know" it's just going to be a paperwork day she likes to were skirts... short skirts and Aaron/Spencer are just feral for them...

Can either be fluff of smut... I trust you indefinitely xxx

Short Skirt, Long Day - A.H

a/n: hi hi hi hiiiiiii!!! ugh thank u sm i kinda took this an interesting route so let me know what you think!!!! im also heavily thinking about writing a smutty pt 2 for this but id love to hear everyone’s opinions

masterlist

pairings: perv!aaronhotchner x bau!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive content, aaron being a straight PERV!!! (im into idk man), aaron imagining scenarios he didn’t shouldn’t at work, idk this is quite different from my usual postings but i kinda fuck with it

wc: 1.4k

Aaron Hotchner loved paperwork day.

Days like these meant the ringing of phones and panicked conversations were replaced by the only the sound of air conditioning (when it worked) and the occasional sneeze or cough. It’s the kind of morning he appreciated — time to breathe, to recalibrate without the air of an active case breathing down his neck.

But that's not why his pulse is thrumming more than heavily beneath his skin.

Hotch glances at the clock on his desk. It's early, too early for most of the team to be here yet, save for a couple agents whose faces barely register in his peripheral vision. His focus is elsewhere, fixed on a singular thought. Or, rather, on a singular person.

You.

Hotch leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly as a shameful type of heat rises to his face. It's a little pathetic, he thinks, how predictable he's become, it's not the work that makes these mornings bearable anymore. It's the anticipation.

The knowledge that, any minute now, the elevator doors will part, and you'll step out, wearing something that will completely dismantle his carefully constructed composure.

Hotch had noticed a pattern (of course he did, that was his instinct honed to a razor's edge). In the field, your outfits are a study in practicality: slacks, fitted jackets, muted tones, professional to a T. Nothing flashy, nothing that would draw undue attention. He’d even go as far to say you dressed more modestly than most.

But in the office, when the cases are shelved, and the team is left to wade through stacks of paperwork... it's different.

And it drives him insane.

The image takes root before he can stop it: the curve of your thighs, tantalizingly framed by a skirt that seemed designed to test his limits. The way the fabric molds to you when you move, clinging in places that his eyes are all too quick to follow.

Hotch exhales sharply, clearing his throat as if that could somehow clear his mind. It's unprofessional, he knows this, knows better than to let his thoughts stray so far from where they belong but yet…

The ding of the elevator pulls his attention like a magnet, and there you are. His grip on the pen tightens instinctively, the knuckles blanching as his gaze locks on you.

You're wearing that skirt today — black, fitted, and infuriatingly short, hugging your hips in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination.

He tells himself to look away, and for a second, he manages it — his eyes dropping back to his desk, his breath coming out slow and measured. But that reprieve is fleeting. His gaze flicks back before he can stop it, drawn helplessly to the curve of your waist as you laugh at something one of the other agents say.

You're too good. Too sweet. Too damn oblivious to realize what you're doing to him.

And he knows it's wrong, knows he's toeing a line he has no business approaching. But the way his body reacts to you, the pull you have on him, is beyond reason. It's instinctual, raw, and completely out of his control.

He calls out your name. "Could you come in here for a moment?"

You turn, blinking at him with wide, curious eyes. "Yes, sir?"

"I need you to grab something for me," he replies, his voice level, though every syllable felt like a tightly coiled spring. He motions towards the cabinet near the corner of the room. "The Marcus file. Bottom shelf."

He was a terrible terrible man.

Without hesitation, you step toward the cabinet, crouching slightly as you begin to sift through the lower shelf. The moment your body lowers, his eyes start trailing down where the hem of your skirt lifts, just barely revealing the soft curve of where your thighs meet your ass. 

Then, as you bend further, shifting your weight slightly to reach deeper on the shelf, the fabric stretches taut, clinging to your ass in a way that sends a jolt straight through him.

Hotch's throat feels tight, his breathing shallow as he drinks in the sight before him. You're so close, just feet away, and the angle offers him an unobstructed view. The shape of you, the smooth expanse of skin that's always just out of reach in the field, is right there, so achingly close he feels like his chest might explode.

He knows if you dipped any further, your panties would be on display and he couldn’t help but wonder what color you had on.

You’ve always had a meticulous attention to detail, choices leaning towards deliberate but understated at the same time. In the field, you favored muted tones — greys, blacks, navies. But here in the relative safety of the office you allow a little more personality, more femininity.

His mind turns to your preferences, pink, maybe.

Hotch swallows hard, pulse roaring in his ears. The thought gnaws at him, insistent and unrelenting, he needs to know.

“Careful,” he says, feigning concern. “You might need to check further back on the shelf. Sometimes the files get pushed out of sight.”

You glance over your shoulder at him and he swears he could combust. “Further back?”

He nods, leaning back in his chair to appear casual, though his grip on the armrests were anything but. “Yes.”

You turn back to the cabinet, shifting your weight again as you crouch lower, leaning further to search the back of the shelf. The motion sends the bottom of your skirt riding higher, and for a brief, heart stopping moment, the lace of your panties is on full display.

It was a pink barely there strip of fabric.

His mind betrays him, conjuring images he knows he shouldn't entertain. He imagines his hands on you, running over the curve of his hips, gripping your thighs, sliding that damn skirt higher until there's nothing left to hide. The thought of you like this, pliant and completely unaware of the effect you're having on him, makes his pulse pound in his ears. He wonders what you would do if he were to push those panties to the side and slide a finger in you.

You shift again, leaning deeper into the cabinet as your voice drifts back to him, murmuring something about not seeing it. His jaw locks, teeth pressing together as he fights to maintain control. His fingers dig into the armrests of his chair, the leather creaking faintly beneath the strain. It's a futile effort, though. The pressure building in his chest, his body, is relentless.

The heat pools low in his abdomen, simmering and insistent, a sharp pulse of arousal tightening every muscle in his body. He's painfully hard now, the evidence uncomfortably against his slacks, but he doesn't dare move. His mind a blur of want, what he wants to do to you, what he knows he shouldn't do, and the precarious line he's treading just watching you like this.

The tension in his body seems unbearable, and for a fleeting second, he considers how easy it would be to walk over, to let his hand graze your hip, to tilt your chin up so you'd look at him and see the wreckage you've left in your wake. 

But he doesn't. He can't.

Instead, he forces himself to remain still, staying rooted, the self-restraint biting and bitter. 

"Are you sure it's under here? I still don't see it."

Hotch's lips twitch, the smallest shadow of a smirk threatening to break free on his face. He leans forward, feigning surprise as he picks up the file from the corner of his desk.

"Ah," he says, waving the file. "Looks like it's been right here the whole time."

You straighten abruptly, brushing your hands down your skirt and turning towards him with a soft laugh. "Hotch! So I was practically upside down in that cabinet for nothing!"

He shakes his head, giving a small chuckle to match yours. Not for nothing. The satisfaction still simmers low in his chest, a private indulgence he knows you'll never suspect, the movement was far from wasted.

"My mistake."

"Well, I guess we all have our moments. Let me know if there's anything else you need, okay?"

When the door finally closes behind you, he exhales shakily, the breath spilling out like a confession. Leaning back in his chair, he presses his fingers to his temples, his entire body tense with the effort of restraint. He feels unmoored, like a man balancing on the edge of a precipice, one misstep away from losing everything he’s worked so hard to keep under control.

But for now, he’ll settle for watching, for imagining, for wishing, knowing full well that nothing could ever come of it. And yet, as he glances at the door where you’d just been, a part of him wonders how much longer he can hold out.

It’s going to be an impossibly long day, but the most troubling part of all is how much he’s starting to enjoy the torment.

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[dreamsteddie]

Instinctual

Written for the @stmarchmm day 30 prompt “omega nests/alpha nests” | Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Eddie Munson, Omega Steve Harrington

Divider - @steddiecameraroll-graphics

Also posted on Ao3

Eddie doesn’t know what he’s doing or why it’s pissing him off so badly.

There’s been this itch under his skin for the last couple of weeks, and even if Eddie doesn’t like to conform to the expectations of his designation, he’s also never been one to ignore his instincts. When he’s mad, he’ll fill the place up with his scent. When he’s overwhelmed with love for his pack, he’ll force them all into a big, messy puppy pile. Wayne likes to say he’s just a big pup disguised as an alpha.

But none of that explains why he’s been madly redecorating his den. He can’t help it; his instincts are telling him that it isn’t right, even though his den has been diligently crafted and maintained since he moved in with Wayne and didn’t have to compete with his dad for space anymore. The light is hitting his face wrong in the morning, his sheets are the wrong texture, and for some god forsaken reason, the big tapestry blanket he was very proud to thrift needs to cover the far wall that connects to Wayne’s room instead of remaining on his bed.

Normally, Eddie is happy to follow his instincts, but he also usually knows why he’s doing something. Eddie would actually really like to not be doing this, but he doesn’t feel like there’s much of a choice, hence the irritation.

He’s in the middle of moving around the pile of blankets on his bed again — why his instincts want so many blankets is beyond him. Spring in Hawkins isn’t that cold — when he hears the door open. Wayne won’t be home for another six hours, so that means it must be Steve.

Despite the judgemental looks the old bitties in the trailer park give them, the omega has been coming over almost every day since the not-so-end-of-the-world. It started off as pack bonding, everyone cramming into the double-wide to be with Eddie and Max when they were both too injured to go far. Eventually, everyone settled. The kids, Nancy and Robin, all went back to school, but Steve stuck around. Eddie won’t try to say he discouraged it. He kind of loved having an omega in the house. Loved having Steve in the house.

All that is to say, Eddie doesn’t bother to go see who’s at the door, he lets Steve know he’s in the bedroom knowing the omega will meander his way in after he kicks off his shoes and grabs a glass of water the same way he always does. Eddie just keeps working, instinct screaming at him even louder now that someone is going to see his incomplete den. It has nothing to do with that person being Steve. He swears.

When Steve finds him, Eddie is mid-wrestle with a particularly ornery fitted sheet, which has decided to betray him and come undone. Steve pays him no mind, flopping down directly onto the mess of his bed after putting his glass down on the dresser.

On a normal day, Eddie would pay this no mind. Steve is good at making himself at home wherever he is, and with so much time spent with Eddie at his house, he doesn’t bother with asking permission for much anymore. Eddie's house is Steve’s house as far as either of them are concerned, but today is not a normal day.

Today, Eddie is wound up and trying to figure out what his instincts want from him. Today, Steve flops down on Eddie’s bed, in Eddie’s nest, and lets out that same happy groan he always does when he can finally get off his feet after a long day. Today, Eddie realises what exactly he’s been doing, and for whom.

He’s nesting.

He’s building a full-on nest in his room for Steve Harrington.

Eddie must make some kind of noise because Steve lifts his head from where it had been happily buried in a stack of pillows, tilting his head in that puppyish way that is far too cute for Eddie to handle at a moment like this.

“You alright, man?” Steve asks, all mind concern and genuine curiosity. Eddie knows from experience that if he says he’s not feeling well, Steve will invite him in for a friendly pack cuddle and trill at him in that sweet way that makes Eddie’s heart squeeze. He can not handle that right now.

“Yes. Yup. All good here, Harrington. Just trying to conquer this fitted sheet.” Cool, he’s totally being cool.

“If you say so…” Steve responds, clearly not buying it but willing to let it go for now. “I like what you’ve done with the room, by the way, very cozy.” The omega turns on his back, stretching big and long like a cat settling in for a nice nap. It makes his t-shirt ride up, exposing his soft, hairy belly. Eddie is going to die.

He makes himself look away, cheeks flaming in a way that is definitely not cool so he can finish forcing his sheet into submission and maybe even get a goddamn grip. Unfortunately, he’s so focused on getting a grip that he doesn’t even notice himself getting up to gather one more sheet for the bed. The entire thing is covered in blankets, but it needs a nice, smooth layer over it so it doesn’t get too hot on his omega’s skin.

It’s the errant thought of his omega, and the sudden realization that Steve hasn’t said a word in almost five minutes makes him snap back to reality. He doesn’t want to look up, but he knows not looking would be weirder, so he forced his eyes up and oh.

Steve knows.

He’s looking right at him with those big hazel eyes like he’s just had an epiphany, and he’s staring right at where Eddie’s just finished tucking in that last, incriminating sheet.

“Eddie?”

“Uh…this is not what it looks like.”

“Eddie.”

“Ok…” Eddie says, hands going up in the air as if he can pretend someone else made the nest if he moves his hands away fast enough. “Ok, it’s exactly what it looks like, but…but!” He’s scrambling, looking for any kind of way he can pass this up as a completely platonic nest, as if alphas ever make nests if it’s not for their mates. 

He’s just about to start spewing some bullshit about stress (constant but not more than usual) and mating season (junk science Eddie loathes) when he realised that Steve looks, well, he looks like he’s waiting to get his heart broken, like Eddie has that kind of power over him. Like Eddie denying what they both know is happening will hurt, but he’ll accept it.

And, well, Eddie promised himself that he wouldn’t be another thing, another person, who hurt Steve. After all the supernatural bullshit, after his old friends, his old alpha, and his parents, Eddie doesn’t want to be another thing Steve has to recover from. 

It’s time to be brave. Time to stop running.

“Fuck, ok yeah it’s exactly what it looks like,” Eddie says, running a nervous hand through his hair. “I’m uh, I’ve kind of been crazy in love with you for like, months. Maybe since the beginning of the whole Vecna thing, if I’m being honest.” Eddie can’t look at Steve when he says this, looking off into the middle distance, too caught up to try and parse out the individual notes in Steve’s scent. “I’ve been too chicken shit to ask you to court, but I guess my instincts decided enough was enough.”

“Can you look at me, Eddie?” He doesn’t want to, but if it’s Steve asking, he’ll do just about anything. But, really, Eddie should have known better than to be scared, the omega has never looked at him with anything but kindness, not in a long time. Steve is smiling at him, a sweet little thing that sets Eddie’s heart to fluttering. “It’s a real nice nest,” Steve says, and suddenly Eddie can’t breathe. Everything he’s ever wanted is staring him right in the face, asking him without asking to take the last step.

Maybe Eddie doesn’t subscribe to any of the stupid designation stereotypes that say alphas should be in charge and omegas should follow their lead, but he also thinks that Steve deserves to be asked. He deserves a moment he can recall fondly to his kids of the day his alpha asked him to court.

“Well,” he pauses, licks his lips and wishes he could grab that glass of water Steve left on the dresser because his throat is suddenly parched, “It’s all yours if you want it, Stevie. There’s no other omega I’d make a nest for. And, uh, I’d love to court you, if you’d give me the chance to prove myself.”

Steve is smiling at him like he put all the stars in the sky, scent blooming sugary, cinnamon happy. “Well, with such a nice nest, how could I say no, Alpha?” The omega simpers, the coy effect lost as he hauls Eddie up into the nest, their nest, by his shirt.

And then they’re far too busy to say much of anything, for a while.

---------

This is my last submission for March Mating Madness 2025! It's been so fun working on these and reading what everyone else has written.

[wolvietxt]

𝗅𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍 𝗑 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗇𝗌!

pairing : logan howlett x reader warnings : obviously short!reader, lighthearted mocking wc : ~800 a/n : i know it’s not comic accurate logan height, i had hugh in the wolverine in mind for this! 

logan will never let you live down the height difference! every time you need something from a high shelf, he’s right there, leaning casually against the counter, watching you struggle before lazily grabbing it for you… or worse, holding it just out of reach😖 he’ll wait until you get flustered before handing it over with that smug grin of his :3

logan loves how easy it is to pick you up!! whether he’s carrying you to bed or just moving you out of his way, he does it like it’s second nature. sometimes, he’ll toss you over his shoulder with no warning just to hear you yelp in surprise, a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest :3

he’s got a whole collection of nicknames for you, ranging from ‘half pint’ to ‘short stack.’ every time you roll your eyes or playfully swat at him, he just smirks, finding it cute how you react😭 it’s his way of showing affection, but he obviously never means any harm by it

logan’s always been the protective type, but with your smaller frame, he’s extra careful! he’ll stand just a little closer in crowded spaces, subtly guiding you with a hand on your lower back or wrapping an arm around your shoulders when he senses you’re uncomfortable. it’s instinctual for him to keep you safe, even if he doesn’t always say it outright💞

if you’re standing next to him, don’t be surprised if logan casually rests his arm on top of your head. he knows it annoys you, but he can’t help himself :3 whenever you pout or try to shake him off, he just grins down at you, knowing exactly how cute you look when you’re frustrated😖

logan’s clothes are already huge on you, and he finds it adorable whenever you steal his flannel or jacket! they practically swallow you, and every time you wear one of his shirts around the house, he can’t stop himself from wrapping you up in his arms, pulling you into his chest, and commenting on how ‘damn cute’ you look :3

with the height difference, logan loves pulling you close - whether it’s wrapping you in a hug where your face presses into his chest or scooping you up so you can rest your head on his shoulder💞 he’ll make sure you fit perfectly against him, and if you’re both sitting on the couch, expect him to guide you into his lap with both arms always wrapped around you

logan loves it when you give him sass about being taller, even if you can’t quite reach to flick his forehead or swat at his face :3 he’ll laugh and bend down slightly, just enough so you can pretend to be intimidating. it’s all in good fun, and he enjoys how feisty you are despite the height difference😭

it’s not just about the physical difference - logan is always looking out for you!! he’s got a soft spot for your small size and makes sure you’re comfortable wherever you go. whether that means giving you his jacket in the cold or making sure you’re not getting squished in a crowd, he’s always looking out for your well-being💞

his hands are so much larger than yours, and when he wraps his fingers around yours, it feels like he’s keeping you secure :3 he’ll give your hand a squeeze when you’re anxious or just because he enjoys feeling you close to him. when walking together, he’ll always slow his pace to match yours, never ever rushing you!!

when you try to reach up for a kiss, logan will sometimes tease you by leaning back slightly, making it harder for you to reach him. eventually, though, he’ll give in, picking you up by your waist and lifting you so you can kiss him properly. it’s one of his favourite things, especially when you cling to him after :3

when you stand on your tiptoes to try and close the height gap, logan always watches with a soft smile! even though you’re trying to reach him, he loves how determined you are, and he’ll sometimes lean down to meet you halfway, his lips brushing against yours with a chuckle before he kisses you💞

despite the teasing and the tough exterior, logan’s got a soft spot for your height. he’ll ruffle your hair, press kisses to the top of your head, and hold you close like you’re something precious😖 no matter how much he might tease, he’s always gentle with you, his large hands cradling you carefully as if afraid he’ll hurt you :(

logan’s fiercely protective of you, and your height just gives him more reason to look out for you. whether it’s getting into bar fights or making sure you’re not caught up in danger, he’s always ready to step in. but he never underestimates you - he knows how strong and capable you are, even if you’re smaller. he just wants to make sure you’re safe, always :3

[biolumien]

hello!! I loved your rooftop smoke fic so much oh my goodness could I ask for literally anything hoshina I would love to read more of your works... It would make my day if hoshina fell first/if he was the one hopelessly in love but anything that is easier to write for you I would love to read

ALSO PLS FEEL FREE TO IGNORE THIS IF ITS NOT EXACTLY IT FOR U!!! TYSM IN ADVANCE

notes: bwahhhh omg… thank you for liking my first work…  i havent written hoshina before… but uh. i hope this is good. same reader-insert from last time for this one too!

hoshina falls first (or tries not to, because to love is to be known)

soshiro hoshina x gn!reader i turned it into kind of a character study, forgive me word count: 1103

let’s get this right off the bat, to clear any misconceptions. hoshina’s not a romantic. he doesn’t fall for anyone first. he’s built up the demeanor of a sly, wily little fox not because he wanted to, but because he had to. tread lightly around others, and they will never know what lies in your heart, the insecurities that bubble and eat at you alive. never let them know how you feel, because as soon as your inherent, weak-willed intent is shown, you’ll be devoured alive.

well.

that’s what hoshina tells himself, anyway. 

it’s what he has to remind himself of constantly when he sees you.

you’re not allowed, he reminds himself, to get under his skin. not in any mean way, not in the way where you play up his insecurities–except you do, don’t you? you don’t mean to, but he gets the impression that if he were conventionally stronger, more impressive, that he’d deserve your attention, the small smile that crosses your lips and lights up your eyes when you see him, the faint exhale of breath when you see him–he’d deserve that if he were better. if he were just simply better, he’d deserve it. he’d feel worthy of it.

hoshina’s not a romantic.

he signed up for a line of very dangerous, practically suicidal work knowing it might mean the death of him.

all to prove that he was worth something.

he’s not the ashes you throw away, he’s a brilliant ball of fire, can’t you see–but he needed to prove that he could shine alone, under his own merit. he didn’t need anyone, except he needed mina to get him into the third division anyway. 

he didn’t need you, except he kept making excuses to get close to you, and not even in any particular suave way. hoshina practically pines for your affections and attention, but the key thing about it is that he refuses, in a way that’s either very cute or insanely frustrating, to make it seem like he’s making the first move. fleeting kisses he shared with you, he never properly initiated himself–he’d stand there, make a big show of leaving, and you’d pulled him by the collar to kiss him. 

but at the very least you seem to be accommodating about it, in any case. you sometimes end up preparing him a cup of tea when you go on break, as if instinctually expecting him.

hoshina wonders if he’s pavlov’s dog in this case–drawn by you, trained to behave around you.

he doesn’t know how he feels about it.

“you keep coming here,” you say to him one day in the lab. at your desk is a wide variety of papers–notes on chemical formulas for bullets, the blueprints for one of mina’s new absurdly-large guns shoved haphazardly under a stack of notebooks, a coffee cup clasped between your hands, and you blow some of the fresh steam off. “i’m starting to think the captain’s going to find you slacking off.”

there’s a sardonic smile on your lips, but hoshina’s gotten better at reading you. you’re happy to see him–he can see it in the tiny way you fidget a little bit when he takes the spare coffee mug from your desk, finding it full of coffee already. does he feel his face softening, his drawn-up shoulders relaxing? no, surely not. he’s better than that. he won’t be influenced by you–and yet. and yet. 

“you have a lock on your door if you don’t want to be disturbed,” hoshina says simply, taking a sip of the coffee. black with a single spoonful of sugar in it, because as much as it was impressive to drink your coffee purely black, hoshina quite frankly couldn’t take it. and he’d built as much a complex around that, too, as if a simple coffee preference might define how worthy he is of love. respect. the works. he watches you, sees dark under-eyes from days of restless work and the writer’s bump on your middle finger, and feels his heart squeeze.

god, he hates it. does he? does he hate it? is he insecure about that? does he hate that he doesn’t hate it? does he hate that by pining for you, by forcing his way into your life, that he’s created the rumblings of his own downfall? no. the worst part of it all is that he can’t hate you. can’t hate the way you watch him, and he wonders if you’re watching him the same way he observes you–like a prey animal, almost, twitchy and nervous, in an attempt to grasp at feeble understanding. 

“if you keep coming back here, i’m going to assume you’re in love with me,” you say.

and you have no idea what those words do to him, really. you don’t know, because hoshina has learned to obscure most of his emotions, at the very least. 

so why does his face feel so hot?

“hm.”

he can’t even come up with a proper retort. you’re staring at him expectantly, as if waiting for the classic hoshina quip–a cackle or giggle, a casual slap on the table with a you wish! attached to it. but it doesn’t come. hoshina stands there, gagged for a moment–and suddenly his grip on his coffee cup feels a little weak.

“hoshina.”

he wishes the smile on your lips didn’t trigger some gut instinct of delight in him.

he’s better than this, damn it. he’s better than this.

your smile quirks up the corners of your cheeks, and there’s something like a shy flush across your skin. and–

“i wish i could take a picture of your face right now,” you say. “you look like you’re coming down with something.”

hoshina scoffs, the sound a little more high-pitched than he’d like for it to be.

“you wish,” he says. 

“so are you?” you press. “in love with me?”

hoshina stares at you–there’s a sudden tightness in your shoulders that wasn’t there before–you’re worried about his answer. and despite it all–his bravado, his hatred of the mere idea that he might rely on someone else–that he would ever need someone to know his heart, that he might be cowed and tamed like a dog–

he loves you.

he doesn’t want you to be worried about the surety of his answer.

“yeah,” he says. “i love you.” and when that sudden tightness in your body language disappears, he finally finds the strength to quip, “just don’t faint over me, alright?” 

and when you reach out to hit his shoulder, he grasps you by the wrist and pulls you in to kiss you.

[omgvalhalla]

Sp is not sx

Mistaking sp for sx is a thing. One element of sp is the pleasure principle, ie hunting for physically and psychologically gratifying activities. 

There are people who mistake high octane living and things like alcohol, drugs, and risky behaviour as signs of sx. Except that you’re talking about physical and psychological stimulation, which is tied to sp. Mistyping as sx-dominant, sometimes additionally sp-blind because of a need for partying and engaging with people. Add to that stuff like extreme sports but that too is a way of engaging with sp through challenging the body. When taken to the extreme,  it’s a type of anti-sp: testing the sp-neurosis of survival and outlasting. 

Sx is a more ethereal orientation towards chemistry in the broadest sense of the word. Hang ups around your sexual attractiveness - moreso than sx-second or sx-last - and prioritising chemistry above all. Sp is not sx. 

[reeseykins]

Thoughts on Emmrich while Rook is trapped in the Fade

Kind of obsessed with thinking about Emmrich's deteriorating mental state while Rook was trapped in the Fade.

The first few days he's ultra focused on finding a way to get Rook back. He's a Fade expert -- this sort of problem was made for him to solve. He tells himself he WILL find a solution, because that's why he's here, right? He keeps telling himself that over and over, willing himself to solve this impossible problem.

He stays awake for 48 hours straight. Bellara and Neve are with him at first, each pouring over an arcane text he's brought with him from Nevarra, searching for the very few-and-far-between references of anyone who has physically walked in the Fade. Sometime after the sun rises, he realizes he's alone. He doesn't remember when the others left, presumably to rest.

Lucanis brings coffee. He squeezes the elder mage's shoulder and assures him -- "We'll get her back." Emmrich doesn't look up from the page. He knows that if the Crow could see his eyes, he'd see all the fear and guilt he's trying so desperately to pretend isn't slowly consuming him from within.

By day three he's coming undone. He hasn't shaved, hasn't bathed, has barely moved from his seat amongst an ever-growing stack of books, each carefully flagged or left open wherever he's found even a hint of a clue that could bring her back to him. He dozes off, face down on an open tome. Bellara sneaks in and drapes a blanket over his shoulders, careful not to wake him.

He loses his focus on the seventh day. It's been a week - an entire week - since she's been gone. He'll never see her again. He spent their last night together arguing with her. He lays down on his bed and presses the palm of his hand to the mattress where Rook had once curled beside him. It's cold; there is no scrap of her warmth left.

By day ten he's manic. His mind still replays the argument over and over and over, but the memory is quieter now, interspersed with a hundred other, brighter moments. The curve of her lips as she smiled just for him, the fall of a lock of hair across her face that he gently pushed behind her ear, the sweet sound of her sudden inhalation of breath as they made love. These memories should be a comfort, but instead they torment him with the knowledge of what he's lost. He paces back and forth along the walkway at the top of the spiral staircase in his room, praying that a solution will materialize out of the haze clouding his mind. This cannot be the end.

Darkness takes hold. He's losing himself, losing the very essence of what makes him who he is. There are whispers at the edge of his consciousness, and he knows instinctually that he's become a target of some demon or another - desire, or perhaps despair. He'll rip open the Fade, he thinks to himself. To hell with the Dread Wolf, he'll bring down the Veil if only to get her back. He'll drown the world in demons, in blood, lay waste to everything. His chest heaves, he's frantic now, running his hands through his hair and panting. There is no air in the room, in his lungs. But then he feels a familiar presence behind him. Manfred is there with tea. The madness fades, he regains himself and musters the will to banish those evil fantasies from his mind.

What good would it do to get Rook back if he destroys himself, possibly everyone and everything, in the process? He washes up, shaves for the first time in days, changes his clothes, and goes to find the rest of the team. He cannot be alone anymore with his thoughts.

And then, she is back. She doesn't see how dangerously close he came to succumbing to despair. She doesn't see him unkempt or disheveled. But she knows. He wraps his arms around her in bed that night, hooks his foot over her ankle, drawing her in tight like a choking vine, and she knows.

[shuastar]

ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ .5 (JWW)

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴋᴇ!ᴡᴏɴᴡᴏᴏ x ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴄʜᴇꜱꜱ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴡᴄ: 19k (holy shit im so sorry) warnings: cursing, angst (but also fluff!!), battle scene (blood and vomit and wounds) ᴀ/ɴ: when i tell you guys that i'm so sorry for the wait, i am SO SORRY for the wait. i think i had like thirteen different deadlines for myself for intertwined but i missed literally every single one how tf;; but it's finally out!!! consider this my very late christmas and new years present for you!! <3 anyways, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ᴘʟꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ <3

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ; ɴᴇxᴛ

Wonwoo 

Wonwoo’s Capital estate felt colder in the middle of the winter flurry that sprinkled and twirled white onto the dead grass. His study, usually emblazoned with a warm, crackling fire, though not in use for a while, felt colder under the hiding moon and howling winds outside. A scratchy record player hummed a soft classical piano into the room – his desperate attempt to fill the lonely, crushing silence of his estate. 

The study is deathly quiet, save for the faint crackle of the dying fireplace fire, struggling to warm the cold, expansive room. Wonwoo sits at his desk, head bowed and the heels of his palms digging into his eyes. His desk is perpendicular to the empty fireplace, the firewood only holding a couple of smouldering embers of a day-old flame. He stares listlessly at the black ink of the reports on his desk and suddenly, the stack of reports fixated on the edge of his desk seem much more towering than he remembered them to be before he left his estate for the palace. His fingers rest idly, blankly, on the edge of the thick report in front of him, unmoving, as if the words and the numbers on the paper would magically disappear if he rubbed on them hard enough. He sighs as the habitual late-night thoughts creep up and teeths in his brain, eager to divulge more of his darker secrets – more of his deepest desires. 

“Fuck,” he whispers into the dimly-lit room, dropping his head into his hands. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his hair sticks up from the hour he spent pulling at it not even minutes prior. He wishes he could do something, say something, transform into something other than Archduke Jeon. Will she accept him then? When he is free of duties he apparently instinctively places higher than the love of his life? Than the one person he is willing to give all of his heart to? Or maybe she would be willing to let him back into her life, into her heart, when he finally comes to terms with his instinctual hierarchy of values?

A sudden rap against the wood of his study door snaps him out of his dejected self-deprecation. 

“Who is it?” he croaks, head still buried in his palms. 

There is no response except for a drawn-out sigh and the creak of an opening door, followed by the pitter-patter of slippered footsteps. The familiar clang of metal on metal gave away the mystery person’s identity before Wonwoo even raised his head. 

“What do you want, Soonyoung?” he mumbles into his hands, eyes closing. He wishes he could fall asleep better. He wishes he could slip into any bed and fall asleep like a newborn baby – maybe wake up with no dreams, no cold sweat dripping down the back of his neck. Instead, he finds himself, increasingly, these days, being held back from sleep because of her. Because every time he closes his eyes, the only thing he can see is your bright smile and all he can hear is the repeat of your laughter that had charmed him and refused to let him go. 

He hears the long scrape of a chair against the cold wooden floor as Soonyoung pulls the chair in front of his desk back, slipping into the seat. There is a small slap against the wood as he plops a folder down onto Wonwoo’s desk. The sound borders on giving Wonwoo a blistering headache. Really, he couldn’t do any more reports or numbers or letters or words or anything but her. 

“I’ve been going over the training reports,” Soonyoung begins, opening the folder and sifting through the pile of papers haphazardly stacked against each other, “and, you know, I think if we get Seungcheol to double the training hours for Wednesday and Friday so that we can actually get the mana drills in…” 

Nothing registers for Wonwoo. It’s as if Soonyoung’s every word slips in through one ear and flows out the other – as if his words are like slippery butter or oil, flowing through his thin neural membrane, and lodging itself in absolutely nothing. 

“-And so, if we can-” 

Soonyoung suddenly stops mid-sentence, cutting himself off. His eyebrows furrow and he leans forward, head tilting in an amusing angle to stare directly up at Wonwoo’s bowed face. Wonwoo doesn’t even move, eyes just closing as Soonyoung pokes his head. 

“You’re unusually depressing tonight. You alright?” he asks. And although his words are laced with a soft sort of teasing, Wonwoo can pick out the concern weaved through Soonyoung’s tone. Soonyoung shuts the folder at Wonwoo’s lack of response. “I can tell you that you’ve looked better.” 

Wonwoo finally lets out a sigh – a long, deep, rib-trembling, bone-shaking sigh. He knows he’s looked better. Hell, he’s felt better. His hand traces a faint line on his desk’s polished surface, decorated with grooves of a frustrated youth trying to manage an abandoned estate after parents’ death. He lets out one slow breath – one that seems to carry a little more weight and hold a little more space than the room itself. It’s heavy as it escapes his mouth. 

“What do you want, Soonyoung?” His words leave harsher than he honestly wants them to. But it conveys his ignorance in full respect. 

Soonyoung frowns, crossing his arms. “What I want is to know why you look like you haven’t slept in four days.” 

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “Mind your own business,” he mutters under his breath, huffing. He knows Soonyoung won’t back down but he wishes he would. “Don’t you have training plans to detail?” 

Soonyoung shakes his head, gathering up the papers and the folder in one swift motion. Everything ends up on the floor by Wonwoo’s desk in the next second and Soonyoung leans forward, poking Wonwoo’s bicep, straining against his white shirt. 

“Training plans can wait,” Soonyoung hums. When he receives yet another silent response, Soonyoung leans back, gaze softening. “Come on. Stop acting like you’re fine when you very clearly aren’t, Wonwoo.” 

Wonwoo briefly looks up and he can feel the dryness in his eyes from the number of sleepless days. “I’m completely fine,” he retorts, but his words don’t hold enough power in them. Well, at least not as much as he would like. “Detail the plans, Soonyoung,” he orders, voice hoarse and thick with a lack of sleep. 

Soonyoung suddenly laughs, but it’s ironic and broken off. “You’re funny if you think I don’t know you better than that,” he clicks his tongue, “Come on, Wonwoo. Spill.” 

Wonwoo can’t help but crack a small ironic smile at how Soonyoung’s words feel more like an order than his. But, in all honesty, he doesn’t want to broach the topic – the topic that has his mind decrescendo into a flurry of disconnected thoughts. The topic that jams a thick round stone into the only opening of his throat and squeezes at the columns of his tear ducts to force out the salty tears from the corners of his eyes. 

Wonwoo speaks up, fingers tightly fisting on top of his desk, “I personally think we should get the cavalry-” 

“Shut the fuck up, man,” Soonyoung huffs, crossing his arms across his rippling chest. To anyone else, it would’ve seemed like a threat (to bash their heads in), but Wonwoo simply presses his lips together, opting to scribble his signature down onto one of the reports in front of him. 

“Wonwoo, come on. Don’t think that I haven’t realized you’ve been sulking for this entire weekend,” Soonyoung tuts, wagging his finger in Wonwoo’s tight face. “More than usual, too,” he adds as an afterthought. 

Wonwoo is quiet. He would tell Soonyoung everything if he knew how to phrase it better. Of course he would! Soonyoung is one of the closest friends he has ever had. Soonyoung has seen him hit himself with his own sword during a late-night knight training session and he’s seen him moon and fawn and coddle you when you were still “undisclosed” when attending the Academy. And now-

Shit, don’t fucking cry. 

And now, he guesses, Soonyoung was also about to see him cry, if he could correlate the exponential thickness of his throat and burning of his eyes to the oncoming onslaught of tears that he could predict. That and another depressingly self-deprecating monologue about how he fucked up. And it wasn’t even funny because it was true. Truly depressing. Truly, and perfectly, distressing, especially to him. Especially to his love for you. It was amusing, really, to realize that you’ve such an impact on him even after three years of forced distance. Distance brings fondness, at least for him. He wasn’t too sure of you, seeing as how you had yelled at him in the gardens a couple of days back. 

Soonyoung is still quiet, simply waiting for Wonwoo to speak up, which is a new development. Soonyoung maintaining his silence, of course, not Wonwoo speaking up. 

“I’ve ruined everything.” Wonwoo can feel his jaw tighten at his own words, hands stilling completely on top of the thick piece of parchment. He swallows hard, his already-too-tight throat constricting around the words that he had long-since become accustomed to. 

Soonyoung furrows his brows, tilting his head as his concern visibly deepens. “Everything? What do you mean?” 

Wonwoo finally fully looks up, and this time, his eyes sting not from his chronic insomnia but from the blockage of emotions that threaten to rise up and overflow over any opening of his face. Soonyoung almost jolts, as if the raw pain in Wonwoo’s eyes was too much to bear at once. 

“Everything,” Wonwoo breathes, as if he’s whispering a curse into the silent room. His eyes burn even more and he just knows that they are an inhuman shade of red. He doesn’t want to cry. Especially not in front of Soonyoung. “It’s gone. With her – Y/n, I mean,” he concludes hoarsely. By your name, he feels as though he is forcing every syllable out of his mouth with the effort it takes for something to push a horseless carriage uphill. 

“Wait,” Soonyoung rushes to interrupt, leaning forward, “I thought you talked to her? I thought-”

Wonwoo cuts him off with a bitter gasp of a laugh. “I did talk to her,” he admits, voice cracked and words heavy with an unfamiliar sort of defeat, “It doesn’t matter. I told her everything, Soonyoung. I laid my fucking heart in front of her because I thought she would- I felt that if she could just understand my part, my rationale, even, I could have even a sliver of a chance to win her back. But I don’t-” Wonwoo breaks off. He can’t bear to continue. Not when every word he utters feels like a self-inflicted blow of pain – a dig of a sharp, serrated knife that comes in the form of harshly-spoken, hastily-drawn words. “She doesn’t feel the same. Or couldn’t – can’t, I guess. I don’t even know.” His half-monologue ends with a rather anti-climactic flourish and every passing second of silence that treats his words as something to be examined, the more he wants to drink and drink and drink until he passes out. Metaphorically. 

Soonyoung is silent for a time (much help), until he finally uncrosses his legs and drums his fingers on his knee. “Are you sure, though?” he swallows at Wonwoo’s look, his arms flying up in defense. “I’m saying, she hasn’t exactly ever been the type to-” 

“-She looked at me,” Wonwoo cut Soonyoung off, voice tight as his vocal cords forced the words out of his larynx, “like I was the last thing she ever wanted to deal with. Like I had ruined her life by telling her how I felt. Like I was-” 

“-Wonwoo,” Soonyoung sighs, shaking his head as his fingers stilled on his knee. Wonwoo wants to snap at his friend, tell him how he doesn’t understand, how he would never fully understand the underlying torment of having to live with the knowledge that your-

“Wonwoo, what exactly did she say?” Soonyoung asks, eyebrows furrowed and now leaning against the desk.

Good question, Wonwoo thinks to himself. He recounts the words you had thrown at him, desperate for him to leave your life. The words that had sawed through his heartstrings and clipped off the tendons of his sculpted body and had knocked out the bricks of his well-crafted walls one by one, until he was left bare – in all of his diminishing glory – in front of you. Left bare in front of you and shivering in fear, lest you actually let him go. 

Soonyoung waits patiently for his response. 

Wonwoo finally relents – lets everything go, if only for a moment. “She said to give up on us,” he murmurs, “She said she doesn’t know if she can do it again, that she wants to forget us, that she wants me to stop.” He lets out a puff of apathetic laughter – frigid, detached, bittersweet. “She says that I’m being selfish, Soonyoung,” he finally spits, trying to swallow the thick ball down his unrelenting throat that constricts tighter every second. His hands shake on the desk and he can feel the tears start to gather again in the corners of his eyes. “I was stupid,” he laughs, “I was stupid to think she would– that anything I said would fix my mistakes. That it would return us to…” Wonwoo trails off, eyes misting over as he spots a picture frame, free of any dust, placed on the corner of his desk, “... normal,” he whispers. The word seems final, like he doesn’t expect anything else. 

Soonyoung is quiet as he processes Wonwoo’s speech before opening his mouth. 

“I think she just needs time, Wonwoo. She’s just scared. I know her, maybe better than you do, now. Whatever you guys had, yeah, sure, it’s over. But this? What you want it to be, that isn’t. Not unless you let it be.” Soonyoung’s voice is steady and confident. So much so that it almost makes Wonwoo believe his words. 

“It’s not about giving up,” Wonwoo counters, and he can feel himself choke up. He can feel the words he’s trying to say, die in his narrowed throat. “It’s about–” he clears his throat, eyes burning and ears ringing, “-- about knowing when I can never be what she wants me to be,” he breathes, lips curling into a bitter smile and eyes blinking rapidly as if to clear them of the tears that threaten to fall. 

“Wonwoo…” 

Wonwoo turns, facing Soonyoung fully now. He can feel the desperate helplessness rip through his entire body. “How,” he whispers, and it feels more like a statement than anything, “am I supposed to continue on with my life when it means absolutely nothing,” he laughs. His head drops and there is a beat of silence before a small plop is heard. Wonwoo sniffs, tears tracing their unfamiliar tracks down his cheeks. “When I can’t live without her again?” His fist suddenly slams against the desk as a sob wracks through him. “I can’t do this anymore, Soonyoung. I need her by my side again.” 

Soonyoung’s warm comforting hand finds its place on Wonwoo’s shoulder, slowly patting it. If he is shocked at his friend’s sudden outburst, he doesn’t show it. “I know, I know. And she needs you by her side, Woo.” Soonyoung lets out a soft laugh at Wonwoo’s sniffles and trembling shoulders, which earns him a weak shove of annoyance from Wonwoo, making him stumble back with a louder laugh. “Come on, man. It’s going to be fine. If there’s anything I’ve learned from sending her letters, which you didn’t do–”

Wonwoo cuts him off with a loud groan, voice watered down with his dwindling tears.

Soonyoung grins, slapping his friend on the back. “-- Y/n hasn’t given up on you, no matter what she says. If anything, she wants to be with you as much as you do. You just have to–” 

A sudden knock startles both men into confused silence. 

Wonwoo’s brows furrow as he and Soonyoung share a look. 

Soonyoung gives him a sideways glance and Wonwoo shrugs, wiping at his eyes as he slowly stands up. 

“Who is it?” he calls, voice now void of any evidence of tears. His deep tenor carries across his study and through his door. 

It is quiet for a second before a rushed voice replies – breathless and pitched. 

“Your grace, I am a messenger from the palace! His majesty has sent an urgent message with me. I am to return with your consent by daybreak!” 

“From the king?” Wonwoo muses, pushing out from behind his desk. 

Soonyoung whistles, brows rising, “Urgent, huh?” 

Whatever this is, it isn’t something he wants to deal with tonight, is all he knows. Not any night, really, but especially not after the emotional blockade he just experienced. 

“God,” Wonwoo mumbles, sinking into one of the couches, “Just fucking tell him to leave it at the door. I’ll look at it tomorrow,” he mumbles in the general vicinity of Soonyoung. 

“I-”

Knock, knock. 

“Your grace,” the messenger again, pressing from the other side of the door. The urgency in his voice is unmistakable. “His Majesty has stressed that this requires your immediate attention.” 

Soonyoung shoots Wonwoo a pointed look, which Wonwoo shrugs off. 

“Are you gonna get that?” Soonyoung huffs, fingers drumming on the wooden surface of Wonwoo’s desk. 

Wonwoo lets out a loud groan, head dropping on the back of his couch. “No.” 

Knock, knock, knock, knock. 

Now it sounds much more urgent – like Seungcheol will have the messenger’s head if he didn’t have an answer by daybreak. 

“Your grace, I beg your pardon, but this is really of the utmost importance!” 

“I think this is really important, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung echoes, brows rising at the desperate knocks on the door. 

Wonwoo huffs. He stands, reaching for his discarded robe that sits next to him. As he shrugs on his robe, Soonyoung trails behind him and situates himself against Wonwoo’s desk.

“You can enter,” Soonyoung calls out lazily, earning a well-timed glare from Wonwoo, who is half-way through pushing his arm through the sleeve of his robe. 

“Who’s the duke here again?” Wonwoo mutters as the door creaks open, presenting a messenger. 

Soonyoung shoots him a cheeky grin, arms crossing as he leans back against the edge of the desk. “I’ve always wanted to do that.” 

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “Do it with your knights, not with my guests, dumb–”

“--I apologize for my late interruption, your grace!” The messenger greets, bowing deep at his hips, hand resting on his chest. His pale face is ruddy, with splotches of red and pink stark against his skin, from the cold outside. 

Wonwoo blinks. Had the Capital messengers always been this enthusiastic with their greetings? 

“His Majesty insisted this matter could not wait,” is said quieter, with much less enthusiasm.

“Yes, well…” Wonwoo trails off, noticing the envelope the messenger grips in his hand. He clears his throat. “What is it that His Majesty deemed appropriate to send at this hour?” Really, if it was Seungcheol, it would probably be an invitation to a ball of some sorts. But the way Soonyoung stares at the envelope, the way the messenger quivers under his stare, hints at something more. And it makes his stomach churn. It makes his eyes dart from Soonyoung to the envelope to the messenger in a fast triangle, brows furrowing as the messenger stumbles over his words. 

“Your grace, I apologize for disturbing you but I was ordered to deliver this message directly,” the messenger repeats, hands trembling. 

Wonwoo sighs, his patience already thinning. “Deliver the message, then leave,” he says, voice flat and uninterested. Really, he could think of thirteen other things he could be doing right about now. 

From behind him, Soonyoung stifles a laugh. 

However, the messenger hesitates, clearly unnerved by Wonwoo’s piercing words. “I- I apologize, but His Majesty has requested a response by tonight.”

“Tonight?” Wonwoo’s brow furrows and he hears Soonyoung push off of the desk, footsteps light against the wood as he pads over to him. “His Majesty is well aware that my estate takes at least three hours from the palace. Surely whatever this is can wait until sun-up.” He gestures towards the crinkled envelope in the messenger’s hand. “Let me see it and you may return to the palace. I will send a message to His Majesty if I see fit.” 

The messenger hands over the letter, hands shaking. Wonwoo can feel Soonyoung’s peeping eyes stare at the envelope in his hands as he breaks the wax seal with a sharp flick. 

“What is this about anyways?” Soonyoung suddenly asks, admittedly too bored of waiting for Wonwoo to unfold the parchment out of the envelope in silence. 

“I-”

“-Quiet,” Wonwoo cuts off both the messenger and Soonyoung with his snapped word. As his eyes scan the unfolded parchment, inked with delicate cursive, his jaw tightens with every line. 

This is ridiculous. 

Wonwoo can physically feel the world around him crumble. He can feel the blood draining from his face and his teeth grinding together. 

He can’t do this. 

He can’t fucking do this. 

Not again. Not after everything. 

“What? What is it?” Soonyoung asks, stepping closer to try to read the letter. 

Wonwoo allows Soonyoung to read perhaps one word before the parchment is fisted into a ball in his hand. The thick paper folds surprisingly well under his grip. He tosses the ball onto his desk, followed by the envelope. 

“He’s summoning me north,” he says. The words feel like a punch to his gut as he utters them outloud. It’s one thing to read them and another to confirm them from your own mouth. There is not even room to argue. It’s the king, for fuck’s sake. He can’t argue. What Seungcheol says, goes. And he must know. Of course he knows – about you, about him, about them. So why? Why, why, why, why, fucking why? 

“Again?” Soonyoung frowns. Even he looks disappointed. 

Wonwoo wants to laugh. He wants to rip apart the note and throw it into his dwindling fireplace. He wants to strangle the messenger until this ghastly note disappears itself. He wants to laugh and cry and scream and throw up all at the same time because why. Why was it that every time he tries to right things, tries to make an effort, tries to keep things in the status quo, something comes up to ruin it? To shred it into the tiniest, microscopic pieces and dump it onto the floor for him to clean up? 

“Wonwoo?” 

“Yes,” Wonwoo replies, word clipped. “There’s a threat. He’s most generously decided that I’m the one to handle it.” 

Soonyoung leans against one of the high-backed couches, arms crossed. “He has other commanders. I can go by myself. Why you?” 

“Because it always has to be me,” Wonwoo mutters bitterly, a frustrated hand running through his hair. He turns to the messenger and he can’t help how tense he sounds. Not when he feels like there is a rope that is slowly choking him. “Tell His Majesty I will respond in the morning. You can leave with my answer then.” 

In any other situation, the speed in which the messenger’s eyes widen would be comical. Wonwoo’s too immersed in his own mind to notice. “But your grace–!”

“--I don’t care,” Wonwoo interrupts. His voice rises unconsciously. “I’ve had enough for one fucking evening. Stay in the guest quarters if you must, but you will leave with my response tomorrow at first light.” Then, almost as an habitual ironic afterthought, “Dismissed.” 

The messenger, though Wonwoo can see the hesitation in his eyes, nods at his command. He bows hastily, back-stepping out of the room. “As you wish, your grace.” 

The door clicks shut behind him. 

Wonwoo leans against his desk heavily, fingers fisted atop the dark polished wood. The room is silent, save for the dying fire and Wonwoo’s sharp exhales that sound more like sobs than sighs. 

Soonyoung sucks in a breath. “Seungcheol really knows how to pick his moments and stun a man.” 

Wonwoo laughs. It’s bitter – so much so that it almost startles him. “That–” he chuckles, gesturing vaguely at the door as his frustrations spills over into his words, “is the exact fucking problem he has. He doesn’t pick and choose, he creates them whenever it’s fucking convenient for him,” he hisses, eyes closing. He can’t do this tonight. If he thinks about this for one more second, he feels as though he’ll snap. 

Soonyoung sighs. “You’re mad.” 

Wonwoo’s eyes snap open, head tilting almost psychopathically as his brows furrow. “Of course, I’m mad!” he snaps. His hand comes down against his desk in a loud echoing slap! and he pushes himself off his desk, starting a pace back and forth. “Every time– every single fucking time – I try to focus on my life, my choices, my–” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening at the name that dies in his throat, “He pulls me back in like I’m some sort of pawn. If it’s not the north, it’s the title. If not the title, then the crown. If not the crown, then some other fucking thing in the nation that I frankly don’t give a clown’s ass about! It’s always something.” 

Soonyoung runs a hand through his hair like he’s debating on whether to indulge Wonwoo in his rant. He indulges: “You have to understand, though, Seungcheol’s a king. His priorities are to the kingdom. He can’t help that.” 

Wonwoo comes to a skidding stop, turning on his friend with a piercing glare that makes Soonyoung regret what he says almost immediately. “And me? What about what’s best for me? For her? If Seungcheol’s all happy-go-lucky brother-figure in her life, why doesn’t he think about her?” His voice drops to a bitter mutter as he continues, unaware of how disheveled he looks with red eyes and fly-away hair. “He doesn’t care. He never has.” 

“You know that’s not true.” 

Wonwoo scoffs. It’s loud and echoes through the room. He wants to cry. He wants to sit on the floor and hug his knees to himself and just cry. Not go to war. Not fight in battles that were frankly not his to begin with. “Isn’t it?” he breathes, opening his arms wide. “He sends me off to fight in his battles while he plays Society host. He tears me away from everything I’ve ever wanted, cared about, and I just take it. Like some rich owner’s lap dog, expected to just smile and bow and salute and say Yes, your majesty, like I’m worth only what my fucking sword has to offer!” Wonwoo’s voice is tense with emotion as he all but yells the last few words out. He can feel the hot tears down his cheeks again and he hates it. He hates it and hates it with all his heart. His shoulders heave and shake as he catches his breath. He finds himself face-to-face with the stones of his fireplace mantel. His fingers grip the edges like he is steadying himself. “I’m so fucking sick of this,” he whispers, words barely audible. But it echoes. It echoes the loudest. 

Soonyoung crosses the room, a warm hand on his shoulders, grounding him. “Wonwoo,” he starts, and Wonwoo just knows he’s going to say something smart and understanding and reasonable, “If you’re this angry, tell him. Don’t just sit here and brood in your self-pity. You’re first and foremost his friend, not his servant. Seungcheol’ll listen if you-” 

“-- Would he?” Wonwoo interrupts, facing Soonyoung. He takes in how Soonyoung’s eyes rake over his face, taking in the tears, the blushed cheeks, the bite of his lip. “ It feels like all I ever do is follow orders. A sword to wield, an archduke to parade, an asset to marry off. And then a friend, in some cases.” 

He knows, he’s being too harsh. He’s known Seungcheol for at least twenty years. It’s not like this is old news. He knows Seungcheol’s duty to the country will always override anything. Even his love for Mingyu, his own brother. And he knows it’s not done maliciously, especially not to people in his circle. But sometimes – sometimes – his words feel like a snow storm just ripped through your entire life and uprooted every single memory from the malleable ground. 

“You’re more than that.” 

“I know.” 

“You’ll figure it out. You always do.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t respond, instead turning back towards the dying flame. 

“It feels like time’s always fleeing, Soon,” Wonwoo whispers, forehead meeting the cool stones of the mantel. The childhood nickname is nostalgic on his tongue. “I need more.”

“Then start chasing it. If you need more, start chasing for more.”

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

There is a profound feeling of desperation and sadness in a leaving dawn, Wonwoo decides. The dawn of today feels too cruel – a biting cold that settles too deep in his chest. It feels heavier than the steam of his breath in the cold morning air and heavier than the icy icicles and thick sheen of snow that clung to the cobblestones and the rooftop gargoyles. Around him, horses hoof at the stones beneath their feet. Perhaps they are as desperate as him to not leave the safety, the warmth, the longing of the Capital. Or maybe they’re just hungry. Either way, Wonwoo feels a pang of relation (though short-lived when his horse nudges against him), with the horses. 

Clangs of metal fill the royal courtyard as the royal knights, under the command of Soonyoung (really, if not for his uniform, no one would guess for him to be the Commander-in-Chief), and the Northern Knights, under the command of himself, busy themselves with the final preparations. Soonyoung loiters by his side, already mounted on his horse and (im)patiently waiting for his subordinates to finish tightening useless straps on their horses’ harness. But even Wonwoo could see how his usually cheerful nature is subdued. 

Time seems to slow as the sun rolls along its usual path along its sky route, painting even the shadows of the royal courtyard a magnificent display of golds, reds, and oranges. The knights grunt as they mount their horses and some clamber onto military carriages that hold supplies for the next who-knows-how-long stay in the North. 

Soonyoung yells something out from next to him. 

The horses jostle and neigh before the first line starts to trot across the courtyard and out the wrought-iron gates of the palace. 

But Wonwoo couldn't move. 

He sits rigidly on his horse, gaze locked in on the silent castle and its closed wooden doors, guarded by no one at this hour. It’s always the same, he thinks. Every time he thinks he can finally stay, every time he promises to stay, every time he thinks he can finally put her first, duty to the crown always tears him away. Far away. To the North, far away. And the ending is always the same. She’ll get a letter from either him or Soonyoung (whoever's letter reaches her first), and she will have to stay alone, frightfully along, battling something he was unable to help with again, as he fought to the inch of his death in some random Northern county to protect an inconsequential-yet-tremendous border. 

His fists clench tighter around the reins as her words, her face, her trembling bottom lip fills his mind. 

You just leave, Wonwoo. Again and again. 

And he had shaken his head no. He had promised her, with tears and determination in his eyes, that he would stay. 

No. No, you have to believe me, I won’t. 

Yet here he was, ironically. 

Yet here he was, breaking that promise like the others he had broken (unknowingly) before it. And it wasn’t even the leaving part. It was the inevitable cyclical nature of hope and heartbreak of your relationship. Every chance he had with you seemed somehow destined to crumble and shatter under the weight of some other letter or some ill-fated re-commission into the battle fields he had thought he had left behind the prior campaign. 

And he just couldn’t fucking escape. 

He wonders, briefly, if you were even at the palace. He wonders if the messenger is currently running through the palace hallways, trying to locate your room to deliver his letter. He wonders if it was enough – his explanation, of course. His futile attempt at explaining  his situation, his rise to duty (again) and how if it weren’t for the official commission, he would have never left. His futile attempt at convincing her that he would stay had ended the same too, though. He wonders if she had ever sat in her sitting room, against that windowsill by her fireplace, quietly hoping for his return from this godforsaken battlefield. 

“Wonwoo,” Soonyoung calls softly. It breaks the suffocating quiet. “We have to go.” He says it more as an order. 

An unamused laugh escapes Wonwoo’s mouth. He can’t help it. This entire situation feels like a series of dreadfully unfortunate events on his part. 

“I can’t,” he whispers, voice barely audible to even his own ears. He is rigid on his horse and his hands seem frozen in place on the reins. The leather of his gloves creak under the strain as his fists tighten. He feels his horse shift from foot to foot, sensing his unease. 

Soonyoung turns his horse to face him. His brows are furrowed and there is a brief pang of guilt in the shallow part of Wonwoo’s heart at the concern written all over his friend’s face. 

“What do you mean ‘you can’t?’” Soonyoung asks, blinking. “You have to. You don’t have a choice.” 

Wonwoo’s jaw clenches and his eyes squeeze shut. His words feel like they are forced out of his throat, “Don’t tell me things I already know,” he mutters. He swallows. He can feel the uncomfortable ball of frustration that he seems to be increasingly familiar with at the back of his throat. Jesus. “I promised her, Soonyoung,” he spits out, and he can feel his emotions (in the form of reluctant tears) rise up to the surface, “I promised her I wouldn’t leave again.” He heaves out a sigh that sounds like it is ripped from his lungs. “I promised. She had my word.” 

Soonyoung’s reply didn't come immediately. Quite frankly, Wonwoo did not need it to come immediately. The weight of his friend’s silence was heavy enough. Enough for Wonwoo to know what Soonyoung would say. 

“I’m so fucking delusional to think-” Wonwoo cuts himself off as his throat tightens. If he continues, he knows that he’s going to cry – dissolve into a mess of tears again. Except this time, it would be exponentially more embarrassing to shed a few tears in front of five thousand of his men. But his eyes linger on the castle doors. As if his sheer force of will could make her appear on the palace steps, waiting for him in the cold as the snow flurried down around him and his knights. As if just simply staring at the wooden door in front of him could move her from her slumber and into his arms so that he could say one last goodbye before he breaks her heart again. Just like he always does. 

Please come out. 

His eyes widen just a fraction as the door creaks open. 

His face drops when it is only a messenger, a bag slung over his thick coat and still in the process of pulling his hat down over his mess of hair. 

The gates shut tight behind him. The castle is silent once again. 

There is a sound of horse hooves behind him and Wonwoo knows his men are getting increasingly restless. They don’t want to ride up north any more than he does. Some of them have wives, most of them have more tethering responsibilities like sisters, brothers, parents, and family businesses. 

He wants to laugh at himself. It took only one month and two weeks in the Capital for him to forget this feeling of helplessness when he left – when he left you behind. It was like he was twenty one again, leaving for the first time, not knowing he wouldn’t step foot back into the protected walls of Society for three years. Not knowing that he wouldn’t see your face again for another tormenting three years. He wishes you could come out. He wishes he could stay a little longer – just until the sun is fully in the sky and the church towers blare their bells. But dawn is a picky little thing, and the glowing orb in the sky has already raced past his time of leave. 

“Sir.” A knight. “Your grace, we need to leave now in order to make it on time to the northern camp. It’s already past dawn, sir,” he states. 

Wonwoo sighs, loosening the grip he had on his reins. “I know, Lim, I know.” 

“C’mon, Wonwoo. Let’s head out,” Soonyoung says softly, handing him a fur hat with a grin that doesn’t really reach his eyes. Wonwoo cracks a smile, though shaky, as he pulls it on. 

With a shaky breath, the winter wind whistling in his ears, Wonwoo tugs his reins, turning his horse towards the open gates. 

“Let’s go.” 

It’s not an order. Rather, it’s more of a statement – something that he convinces himself he should be doing: following orders. It is his duty. The longer he waits in the falling snow for someone who he knows will not magically appear, the longer the road to the north becomes. As his men start trotting out of the palace gates, his body jerks as his horse follows suit, leading him (unwillingly) further away from the palace. 

Soonyoung sighs from next to him. “You’re not leaving because you want to. Y/n knows the kind of man – the kind of person you are. She’ll understand.” His words, supposed to be comforting, only leave Wonwoo with a heavier heart. He wishes he could argue against Soonyoung’s words. Tell him that he’s not sure if she would understand after everything he forced her to endure by herself. He had failed her so many times – to stay, to protect, to shield her – that every time he tried to find a way to fix everything, the world found some threshold way to pull him away. 

As their horses move through the gates and the iron-wrought lock clicks in place, Soonyoung gives him a sideways glance that Wonwoo pretends he doesn’t see. 

“What are you thinking about?” comes Soonyoung’s question. 

“Nothing,” is Wonwoo’s one-word answer that he knows Soonyoung won’t believe. 

And he doesn’t. 

“Liar,” Soonyoung laughs as they pick up the pace, now galloping against the snow-covered road that leads to the edges of the capital and into the north. The sound of hooves against the well-paved Capital roads ring in their ears and their coats fly behind them as the snow falls faster in harder flurries. 

Wonwoo’s eyes sting. First from the wind rushing into them. And then from the ache in his chest that swelled until it felt unbearable. His breath hitches with every gallop and thud of his horse’s hooves against the road that slowly turns more worn and uneven. With every shaking breath he inhales and as the cold whipped at his eyes and cheeks and nose, his vision went blurry. Blurry and blurry and blurry until his breaths suddenly come out in hitched sobs and his cheeks are wet and warm with salty tears. He wills it to stop as he brushes a furious hand over his eyes. From the corner of his eye, he can see Soonyoung stare at him as they race across the outskirts of the Capital. 

“You okay?” Soonyoung’s voice cuts through everything – his thoughts, the wind, his tears. 

Wonwoo nods, blinking back the rest of his tears that threaten to fall. “Fine.” 

Soonyoung’s shrug is followed by a sigh, “Whatever you say, man. Just don’t fall off your horse.” 

“Fucking face forward.” 

Soonyoung’s laugh, head tilted back and teeth shining, brings a smile, though reluctant to his own lips. And for a second, he has hope that when he returns, they will be okay. 

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

The sound Wonwoo hates the most is the sound of ripping flesh. The sound of burning buildings. The sound of destruction that surrounds and encaptures the air around the event. It brings forward a devastation that people would think impossible until they lay eyes on it themselves. A sound that even he thought was impossible until his third day in the military campaign, three-ish years ago, fighting not far from this very battleground. A sound that would haunt him even in his sleep, paired with the blur-inducing image of a knight under his command, crumpled to the ground, a glinting spearhead shining from the small of his back and blood slowly pooling out of his mouth: instant death. 

The smell Wonwoo hates the most is the smell of blood-curdling iron. The bitter smell of warm blood that pools with mines of iron that hit the inside of his nose with a sharp knife. The smell of sharp blood that hits the inside of his nose and pokes and prods his malleable brain. That assaults his eyes that have seen things worse than a simple wound. But it’s a gushing wound. A gushing, tearing, irony wound that he sees in front of him. And he can feel the gag and bile rise to his mouth, which he swallows back down in a desperate attempt to seem calm. 

And imagine his own surprise when, suddenly, he hears the haunting sound of ripping flesh and smells the overwhelming odor of warm blood hit his senses, followed by a searing, blinding, sharp pain in his shoulder. 

The battlefield is chaos. Not only this one, but all and every one he has been to. In this one, the snow is almost blinding and the clash of steel and courageous men fill everyone’s ears. Wonwoo can barely feel the cold. This is the final battle. If he wins, there is no more war. At least, not supposed to be. If he wins, there is no more fighting the nation’s battles. If he wins– 

Suddenly, everything moves in slow motion: like he is watching himself from another screen or like he is reading a book about himself. 

The sharp whistle of something cutting through the air is his single warning. It gloats past his ear like a little child who stole your candy without you realising. The next warning is not as much of a warning as it is a promise. A promise of something akin to death? 

Wonwoo turns, but – ah – too late. The pain he expects – more painful than he thought, actually – erupts in a flowering and deep maroon bloom in his shoulder as the weapon (a spear, he finds) strikes. It’s his fault, he guesses, that he had chosen today to be the day he forgoes armor. He’s always worked better without armor. His weakness, he realizes, a little too late. 

The spear lodges itself in his shoulder with a sickening force. His breath hitches, eyes blurring over as the shock of the weapon’s blow steals his balance. He staggers as he feels his flesh rip and the iron assault his nose. One of his hands instinctively goes up and grips the shaft of the spear. 

God…

His legs give out and he finds himself kneeled over, sword embedded in the ground and a long ass spear sticking out of his shoulder. At least it wasn’t his right one. 

“Wonwoo!” 

Y/n? 

Ah, no. 

He can very clearly, at least, see Soonyoung running through the clamor and chaos of the remaining bits and pieces of a retreating force (when had they started winning?). Soonyoung sounds awfully panicked and concerned as the knight fully jumps off his horse and starts sprinting the rest of the way to Wonwoo. There is a momentary pang of fulfillment – because who wouldn’t want their best friend running to their side in a time of need – before the sharper pain of the goddamn spear claws its way into his nerve endings. 

“Wonwoo! You-” 

Wonwoo’s eyes widen as Soonyoung leans over him. In an almost habitual instinct, his right arm shoots out, the flat edge of his sword meeting another metal. At the sudden attack, Soonyoung whips around, sword already in hand, and makes quick work of the rest of the problem. 

The man is dead on the ground in ten seconds flat. 

Wonwoo chuckles, every breath bringing tears to his eyes. The pain is sharper now as cries and shouts of victory fill up the barren, frozen, bloody valley. He goes to rise but immediately sways on his feet. His vision swims dangerously and the edges of his world suddenly darken. 

“Wonwoo, fuck, what happened to you?” Soonyoung rushes out and Wonwoo isn’t too sure if it’s the effect of the blood loss, the cold, or the spear sticking out of his shoulder, but his ears ring and he can barely decipher what Soonyoung says. 

“You’re funny,” Wonwoo laughs out, stumbling into Soonyoung’s steadying hands that make quick work of inspecting his body. 

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Soonyoung mutters (Wonwoo thinks it’s mostly to himself), as he sharply whistles for his horse. “Why is the fact that you look whiter than snow and have a fucking spear sticking out of your shoulder funny?” 

Wonwoo accepts Soonyoung’s slinging of his good arm over his shoulder, dragging him over to his horse that had come to a light trot in front of them. 

Wonwoo clenches down on his teeth so hard he thinks they’ll break when Soonyoung helps him onto the horse. For a second, he thinks he’s going to black out. If someone had ever told him getting hurt would hurt this bad, he would’ve never become a knight. God. 

“Is the spearhead through the back?” Wonwoo asks instead, and at his own words, he’s instantly much more aware of the long stick poking out the front of his shoulder. 

Soonyoung hitches himself up behind him. “Yeah. Don’t talk.”

“Ha!” Wonwoo laughs (or tries to). But it’s empty. He can feel the bile rise in his throat again. He doesn’t have the strength to swallow it down this time. The horse whinnies and neighs as he throws up onto the right, his shoulder throbbing at another beat to his slowly slowing heart. He can’t help the tears that flow down his cheeks and the remnants of his undigested breakfast make its way up from his stomach and into the open. He can’t help the choked gasps and groans of pain either. Neither can he do anything when he feels Soonyoung’s warm hand on his back, right under the wound, and a foreign pressure against the wound itself – like someone had grabbed the spearhead. 

A grunt of exertion and the same tearing of flesh. 

A clatter of metal and wood. 

A shout of pain (from his part not anything else). 

A gush of blood that coats the back of the horse and dribbles to the ground. 

And then a blinding pressure against the wound. 

“Stay awake!” Soonyoung yells right in his ear. Wonwoo feels a sharp slap against his cheek but his eyes are fluttering shut. Soonyoung should’ve never pulled out that goddamn spear. 

“You-” Another shout of paint interrupts Wonwoo’s own words as the horse starts accelerating into a gallop and Soonyoung applies more pressure against the wound. “Fuck, take it easy.” 

Wonwoo’s head lolls against Soonyoung's shoulder. And he realizes that this is the first time he’s ridden side-saddle. It’s exceptionally uncomfortable, and not just because he’s gushing blood. 

“Shut the fuck up. You’re losing blood.” Soonyoung’s words sound so much like an order it actually makes him shut up. 

He barely registers Soonyoung’s yell to return back to main camps and someone to ride ahead of them to notify the medics of the wounded. He also barely registers someone coming up behind him and tightly wrapping his shoulder until he feels the blood slow to an occasional dribble. Perhaps the cold helps clot his blood. He doesn’t really know. 

He and Soonyoung have already been riding for at least five minutes before he actually realizes that the horse has started moving again. And when he does, each bump and gallop on a different leg jolts pain up his body and into his shoulder. He can’t imagine what he looks like now – bloody, teary, gasping oxygen into his lungs as he leans against his best friend who holds him close to his chest. It’s a weird feeling. 

“Tell her…” Wonwoo gasps, the words leaving him before he can think them through, “I didn’t mean…” another gasp, “to leave.” His voice breaks at the end when the horse suddenly jumps over a fallen tree. 

“You tell her yourself,” Soonyoung snaps. Wonwoo’s unsure if he’s angry at him, at the horse, or at his wound. Perhaps all three? 

As the ride lengthened, the packed snow slowing the horse down, Wonwoo’s breaths turn more shallow and uneven, and he knows Soonyoung can feel his warm, wet, sticky blood seeping through his gloves. 

“Hah,” Wonwoo swallows but his mouth feels disgustingly dry, “Y/n,” he mutters, “should’ve stayed… should’ve–” his voice fades out, replacing itself with a broken mumble of words even he cannot make out. 

“Stop fucking talking,” Soonyoung hisses and Wonwoo can clearly hear the tremble of worry in his friend’s voice. Soonyoung’s grip around him tightens. It’s rather comforting to know at least one person doesn’t want him to kneel over and die. 

But for some reason, his lips cannot make out anything else except her name – like a prayer. Or a plea of some sorts. Like some lifeline that tethers him to the current world. “Y/n… doesn’t know… I–” a pained groan interrupts him again and he feels the tether slowly loosen in his grasp.

The next time he regains consciousness, they’ve arrived at main camp, medics crowding Soonyoung’s horse as Soonyoung tries to help lower Wonwoo onto some sort of stretcher cot thing. He feels the burning sensation of the rubbing alcohol against his wound as the medics clean his wound. 

“...not taken out the spear, Sir!” 

“I-!” 

“-See?” Wonwoo laughs, face scrunching in pain and eyes screwing closed as the rubbing alcohol meets his shoulder again. “Told you it was a bad fucking idea. Now I’m gonna die and–”

“--Okay! When I told you to shut the fuck up, I meant for you to shut the fuck up entirely. Not only when you please, smartass!” Soonyoung snaps, and Wonwoo doesn’t even mind his friend’s raised voice. He deserves it, anyways. 

Wonwoo opens his mouth to retaliate, only for a scream of pain to be ripped from the confines of his throat when the medics pour something all over his wound and turn him to the side. Wonwoo’s breaths come out in desperate pants and he feels his heart start to race when his vision quickly closes around the world, blackening the edges of his sight too quickly for his liking. 

And before he can even say anything, he finds his eyes fluttering shut and his body going limp, followed by a prick in his arm that barely registers. Well, compared to the gaping hole in his shoulder anyway.

Soonyoung

War camps are usually grim. More when people lose, but it’s grim. The scent of iron and burning wood always lingers in the cold air and the sterile odors of rubbing alcohol and medical ointment always burns itself into the grooves of your brain by the end of the campaign. And you have to enter a war campaign, yes, with hope, but you also have to brace yourself for the worst. Like losing family. Or friends, for that matter. Except, when that time actually comes, or when you think that time will come, you’re never ready. Of course you aren’t. Because who’s ready to see their best friend fall to his knees with a giant fucking spear lodged in his shoulder. 

God, when Soonyoung first saw Wonwoo stumble and fall, he had thought the spear had hit Wonwoo’s chest. Or some more important organ in his body. He saw Wonwoo’s life flash before his eyes. 

It’s a dangerous combination: worry, concern, and panic. It muddles your brain and makes you do stupid things like pull the said spear out of your best friend’s shoulder to leave a huge gaping wound and then get berated over the entire action when you reach the medical tents at main camp because apparently you’re not supposed to do that? 

But still. 

The medical tent is, unusually, quite empty. Empty, considering all the casualties the order had this time around. God, right. The casualty reports. He had completely forgotten in the midst of this mess.

“Sir, will you be glaring over our shoulders the entire night?” Yewon asks. Her pretty brown eyes flutter up to Soonyoung as her hands still over Wonwoo’s open wound, half-stitched. The other medics nod in support of her question. 

“I was not glaring,” is his reply. His arms cross as he leans against a pillar. To the right of him is the stainless steel medical trolley containing the rubbing alcohol bottles, some weird-smelling dark ointment, surgical thread and needles, and Wonwoo’s dark red bandages that were only thirty minutes old.

Yewon laughs. If she wasn’t working in this campaign, Soonyoung would have thought of courting her, except she was working in this campaign and she was conveniently working directly under him. All the more reason to start glaring.  

“Sir, quite frankly, you’re making the newer nurses nervous.” 

“Not you?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Then, not my fault if they can’t work under pressure.” 

“Not pressure, Sir, but constant scrutiny?” 

“Same thing.” 

“Definitely not–”

A groan coming from Wonwoo’s mouth cut them both off. Yewon glances at Soonyoung like he had something to do with Wonwoo waking up earlier than planned from his herb-anesthesia-induced slumber. Soonyoung shrugs, instead moving closer to Wonwoo.

He looks bad. He doesn’t think he’s seen Wonwoo this bad since the one Knighting Duel when Wonwoo got dagger-stabbed in his thigh. But even that was just a nick to him. This wound has his hair matted with cold sweat and head lolled to the side. His lips move in unfamiliar words. 

“Y/n.” 

Soonyoung scoffs, “For God’s sake, Wonwoo.” 

He repeats her name, voice hoarse and weak. The sound is so quiet Soonyoung almost doesn’t register it, but by Wonwoo’s third repetition, Soonyoung knows everyone has heard. 

Yewon clears her throat, diverting her gaze, “He’s delirious. It’s common with wounds like this. He’ll be in and out for a while.” 

As if his utter infatuation with y/n is a common herb-induced delusion. Ha.

Soonyoung decides not to comment on Yewon’s words, instead brows furrowing. He nods, dragging a chair over to Wonwoo’s cot to actually hear the broken words slipping from his delirious friend who is hopelessly in love. It’s a surprisingly good combination, deliriousness and being in love. 

“She hates me,” Wonwoo slurs, face twisting with pain. Soonyoung tongues the inside of his cheek as Wonwoo’s fingers twitch weakly against the blanket. “I promised,” Wonwoo gasps, “swear I didn’t mean to leave her.” 

Soonyoung can feel his chest tightening. It hurts him more, Soonyoung thinks, that Wonwoo’s relationship with Y/n had always been a relationship that was meant to be but just started at the wrong time. Soonyoung knew. Of course he did. He had grown up in the Capital with the royal family and the high classes of Society. He had attended the National Academy with Wonwoo, Joshua, Mingyu, and Y/n. He had been one of the only people who had seen firsthand how Y/n and Wonwoo’s relationship had blossomed, only to fracture, shatter, stumble under the weight of everlasting duty and simple circumstance. And now, hearing Wonwoo talk only about the woman he had always loved was almost too much to bear. For the first time in his life, Soonyoung felt something akin to pity for his best friend. 

“She hates me.” 

Soonyoung scoffs, leaning back against his chair. “You’re an idiot, Wonwoo,” he mutters, though it’s more to himself than anything. 

Wonwoo’s head turns slightly to the side as if he’s looking for something. 

Ah. 

Someone. 

Wonwoo’s brows furrow and his voice cracks at the pain of the slight movement. “Will she take me back?” he whispers, eyes fluttering open just briefly. They’re glassy and unfocused, staring into the depths of the flapping canvas of the tent. “Soonie,” he mumbles, and Soonyoung sits up at the nickname, “do you think…” a gasp of breath, “she’ll forgive me?” 

Soonyoung doesn’t answer immediately. He can’t. His throat tightens. For a moment, there is nothing he knows to say. He had seen Y/n’s heartbreak, her anger directed at both herself and Wonwoo, and her attempts to move on. He had been the one who had sent her letters of the three year war campaign and Wonwoo’s condition – though she never asked for it – every week. But he had also seen Wonwoo’s side. He had seen his midnight insomniac strolls, no matter how cold the weather was. He had seen Wonwoo’s body-wracking sobs as he woke up from a nightmare of losing his parents all over again. He had seen Wonwoo’s decision to never move on from his childhood love and how he had tried everything to return to the Capital. Soonyoung was the recipient of Wonwoo’s late night musings of perhaps living with Y/n in his Capital estate in the future and helping her tend to the garden and buying her whatever she wants. 

“She’s mad,” Wonwoo rasps (as if he knew what Y/n is feeling at the very moment), and Soonyoung bites his lip at the tears pooling in his friend’s eyes. “She should be.” Wonwoo’s voice breaks and he turns his head away, body trembling under the layers of blanket. Soonyoung isn’t too sure if it’s from the pain or from the cold. “I just keep leaving,” Wonwoo mumbles, eyes squeezing tight, “I always leave.” 

Soonyoung sighs, leaning forward to grasp his friend’s hand that twitches on top of his stomach. “Wonwoo,” he says softly, squeezing Wonwoo’s hand, “Stop tearing yourself apart. Your first thought when you’re near-death should be more about staying alive for her rather than if she’s mad at you for leaving. Focus on surviving. I swear she’ll be furious if you croak.” 

But true to Wonwoo fashion, he doesn’t seem to hear Soonyoung’s words. “I’ll write her. Tell her,” Wonwoo lets out a low groan of pain. Maybe the herbs were wearing off? “I’m sorry. So so so sorry,” he murmurs, the words slurring together. Soonyoung can only watch as a single tear traces down a track from the corner of Wonwoo’s eyes, down to his cheek, before rolling into the pillow. 

Soonyoung clenches his jaw. It’s not every day you see your best friend cry. Except, he will say, he had seen Wonwoo cry more in the span of the past two months than in the three years he was with Wonwoo during the war campaign. Soonyoung grips the edge of the cot. “You’re not dying, okay?” He says. He hopes it’s firm enough to snap Wonwoo out of whatever self-deprecating shithole he’s floundered himself into. “You’re not dying. You’ve got too many fucking problems to fix. If you want to apologize, Y/n’ll hear your apology from your own goddamn lips.” 

Soonyoung almost laughs when Wonwoo doesn’t respond, his body, Soonyoung guesses, finally succumbing to the pull of sheer exhaustion and pain. Soonyoung watches as Wonwoo’s chest slows to a steady rise and fall, though it remains obviously shallow, and his face relaxes into an uneasy sort of calm. 

Slowly, Soonyoung rises from his seat, pulling one of Wonwoo’s blankets further up his naked chest until it sits right below his wound. If Wonwoo returns to the Capital injured and sick, he would never hear the end of it from Y/n. 

“Sir?” 

Soonyoung turns, coming face-to-face with Yewon, who looks more exhausted than she did a while ago. That’s what war does, he guesses. 

“Keep him alive,” Soonyoung orders, voice harsher than he intends. But Yewon, nor the other medics, flinch. “I don’t give a flying fuck what it takes. Keep that man alive.” 

He doesn’t stay to hear any of the medics’ responses, instead stepping outside the sterile-smelling tent. When the cold air blasts his face, he exhales. It’s heavy and thick in his chest. 

His fingers drum on his thigh as the sudden memories of Y/n crying during one of his visits to the Capital flood his mind. He laughs to himself at the memory. The week before, he had written to Y/n (well, to Seungcheol, but it had happened that Y/n had also read it), that Wonwoo had sustained a large gash while fighting further up north near the border, and that he had to get stitches for his wound. He was basically asking if Wonwoo could return to the Capital for a proper medical check. Technically, if Soonyoung was honest, the gash wasn’t bad. Wonwoo had barely lost significant blood and he was fine. More than fine, actually, since that day, he had been out fighting with the rest of the knights, but Wonwoo seemed so miserable without the Capital (read: Y/n), that Soonyoung either needed to send him back to the city or make him shut up. 

He distinctly remembers Y/n running up to him with tears in his eyes, asking if Wonwoo was okay, if he was alive. He also distinctly remembers her forcing out a sigh of relief with the words “I don’t know what I would’ve done if things went wrong,” leaving her mouth. 

Soonyoung had never experienced love like that, but if whatever between Y/n and Wonwoo wasn’t the purest sort of love, he wasn’t sure what to base “love” off of. He had firsthand seen how her eyes softened when she spoke of Wonwoo. Even after everything. 

So, Soonyoung didn’t have the heart to tell Y/n about this yet. Not until he was sure Wonwoo would make it conscious and upright to the Capital. But one thing was distinctly clear: if Wonwoo had been fighting for anyone, it wasn’t for the nation or his Archduke title. 

It was for her. Her and her only. 

y/n

“My lady! My lady!” 

You turn from your seat at the windowsill, watching the snow fall in flurries to cover your garden. Nai comes running into your room, and when you see the waving letter in her hands, your heart thumps to a halting stop in your chest. Your blink rapidly. 

“Nai?”

You stand, dusting off your dress in faux calm. You feel your heart start hammering in your chest when Nai hands you the letter and you read the address. 

Kwon Soonyoung

Commander of the Royal Knights

“It’s a letter, my lady, from the battlefields. It just arrived,” Nai huffs, out of breath, certainly, from running up the estate stairs. 

You bite your lip and you can feel the familiar tightness start in your throat again. “What-” your voice cracks, “what is it about?” 

Nai shakes her head, pushing the letter further into your hands. “No idea, your grace. Perhaps it is encouraging news?” 

You hesitate to open the letter. There are the remnants of tears left in your eyes from the morning. This is the first correspondence of any sorts your had received since Wonwoo had up and fucking left for the northern war. And you had thought that he would write to you at least. That he would have written because you had finally gotten around to thinking that you could start with him again – that you were finally okay with his situation (not really, but still). That he would at least have the decency to let you know of the circumstances of this prolonged battle. That he would view you with enough dignity to even simply send someone over to express his feelings. Something that would clarify things for you. But of course. This was Wonwoo. He always got up and left without any prior notice. 

Your finger slides under the envelope flap, tearing it open. 

You suck in a breath at the first few sentences. 

“Wonwoo…” you whisper. 

It’s like your world is spinning. It’s like all the blood slowly drains out of your face and goes to power your heart that thuds dangerously fast in the confines of your chest. You feel your fingers curl in, wrinkling the crip parchment, dotted with ink stains. You feel the tightness in your chest and the thick ball in your throat. You don’t know what to say. What to think. The words written in Soonyoung’s familiar messy scrawl blink back up at you, unwavering and unrelenting. 

Y/n,

I hope you are doing well. My plan was not to notify you regarding this, but Wonwoo insisted. You know how he is…

He took a spear through the shoulder in the final battle. He’ll recover (medics approve!), but he’s been muttering delirious sentences at me and anyone who thinks to change his bandages. Every other word out of his mouth is your name. “Is she angry, Soonyoung? Will she forgive me, Soonyoung? What if I died, Soonyoung?” Seriously, someone needs to shut him up (I’ve tried). 

Anyways, I thought it would be best for you to hear about his current state from me rather than from the Society rumor mills. Don’t worry, y/n. But I will be frank with you. He’s lost a lot of blood and he’s exhausted from everything. We’re trying to either get a Capital medic up north or go back down to the Capital ourselves, but the roads are icy and I barely had enough of a melting window to send this letter.

You should know this though: he didn’t want to leave. He made me promise to tell you that. Whatever you think of him, whatever he’s done to make you believe he doesn’t care, you’re wrong. I’ve never seen a man so willing to leave the battlefield—not for his title, not for his honor—but for the chance to go back to you.

He’s stubborn as hell, and sometimes he makes decisions that would test the patience of a saint (you <3), but he’s fighting for more than simple duty. He’s fighting to survive so he can stand in front of you again and beg for the chance he thinks he doesn’t deserve.

So if you’re still angry, yell at him. If you’re still hurt, let him know. But please, don’t let him wonder if you hate him. It’s killing him more than the damn spear did.

Love, Soonyoung

You gasp in a breath, the letter falling to the ground. You barely register Nai picking it up and leading you over to your bed, sitting you down. You barely register her handing you a cup of water and forcing you to drink it. You can’t register anything. Not when–

“How deadly is a spear to the shoulder, Nai?” you ask. Your voice is high pitched and hysterical and it sounds muted and faraway to your ears. 

Fuck, he can’t die. 

Nai blinks. “A spear to the shoulder? Well, it depends on how big the wound is, my lady. The bigger the wound, the greater the chance of blood loss.” 

You swallow, breaths coming out in shallow exhales. Soonyoung told you Wonwoo was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine. 

But why is there a gnawing sensation in your gut? Then why is there a sinking feeling in your gut that’s telling you he’s not? That Soonyoung was simply lying for your sake? What if Wonwoo was actually near-death? What if he was– 

“_-if that person doesn’t receive proper medical procedures?” 

Nai furrows her brows. “My lady, the war campaign’s medics are–”

“--That’s not my question, Nai!” You snap, head turning to your maid. Your eyes brim with tears as you trace over the words in your brain. 

He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s lost a lot of–

“--Well, they would need a blood transfusion. Only Capital doctors are certified for that procedure, my lady.” 

You’re quiet. Pros and cons. 

Don’t let him wonder if you hate him. It’s killing him more than that damn spear is.

There are only two pros on your list. 

Wonwoo lives.

He doesn’t think that you hate him. 

But those are two pros enough to convince yourself. The next few words out of your mouth are rushed and panicked. 

“I’m going. North, I’m leaving North,” you gasp, shooting out of your seat. You stumble over to your closet, throwing the door open and walking in, desperately digging through your countless dresses for something fur-lined. Something warm. 

Nai runs behind you. “My lady? North? Whatever for? It’s cold! You’ll fall sick!” She fusses with the corset back of your lounge dress, undoing it to help you into a new one even through her words. 

You shake your head, snatching the thickest cloak you see and slipping into your riding boots. “Send the estate’s medics up to the northern camp,” you order, clipping the cloak shut by your chest. You pull the thick hood over your head, wiping a stray tear off your cheek. You shove the crumpled letter into the cloak pocket. “I don’t give a shit if it’s icy. They will be there by noon tomorrow. Pack with them enough food and any medical equipment they need.” 

You walk out of the closet after snagging a pair of hunting daggers decorating your dresser surface. 

“My lady!” Nai yells, running after you. She grabs your wrist, halting you. “My lady, you cannot go up north by yourself!” 

You shake her off. You don’t even realize you’re shaking until you feel Nai’s hands steadying yours. “Then send an estate knight with me. I don’t care. I’m going up north right now.” 

Nai huffs, her grip on your hand loosening enough for you to pull it out. You turn on your heels and walk down the hall. Nai follows. 

“My lady, Archduke Jeon will be okay,” Nai hums, a comforting hand placing itself on your shoulder. You shrug her off. “Heading to the north may only make things worse, my lady. The archduke–”

“--He thinks I hate him, Nai!” you cry, whipping around. You feel tears poke at your waterline and your shaking hands hit your chest in frustration. “He thinks I hate him! Soonyoung just told me that they need Capital doctors. If you think I have enough self-pity to stay in the Capital while frankly, the one person I have ever loved may just as well die thinking that I hate him, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” 

When you feel the tears stream down your face, Nai pulls you into a tight embrace. It’s comforting. But only for a moment, before Soonyoung’s words replay in your head. 

“Nai, I have to,” you whisper, voice thick with tears. You don’t know what you would do if Wonwoo leaves thinking you hate him. You’ve never hated him. Ever. Not when he left you alone to go play with Mingyu and Seungcheol when you were younger, not when he didn’t kiss the back of your hand during your debutante, and definitely not when he left you to go fight the nation’s war. You’ve never hated him. Resented him? Yes, perhaps. Frustrated at him for always leaving? Yes. Betrayed that he could never tell you why? Yes, definitely. But hated him? Never. And you were going to first burn your estate than let him think that you’ve ever hated him. 

“Then take a knight, at least.” 

“I don’t care who you send behind me for protection. I’m leaving.” 

Nai presses a pouch into your hands with a knowing look. “I know, my lady. These are silver coins for emergencies. Please be careful. The journey to the north is at least four hours.” 

“That’s why I need to go now.” 

Nai purses her lips but nods, stepping away from you. You give her a tight, wavering smile. 

“I’ll be okay, Nai.” 

Nai nods, bowing deeply, before letting you turn away and run down the rest of the hall and out into the courtyard. 

Your fingers clench the clasp of your cloak and your eyes squeeze shut for a split second, trying to blink back the tears. 

He’ll be okay. 

He’ll be okay. 

He’s okay. 

When you arrive at the entrance courtyard, your mare greets you, pawing the ground with her hooves. You waste no time with formalities towards the two guards flanking your sides, instead choosing to haul yourself up the horse and tug the reins, swallowing the lump down your throat as a strong wind whistles through the treetops. 

“My lady, are you sure–” Jedediah Kim speaks up, only to cut himself off when you avert your teary gaze to him. 

“--I need to,” is your simple response, voice shaking with not only tears but also with some emotion that is harder to place. Jedidiah holds his tongue, opting to just nod and share a look with Jay Lim who flanks your other side. 

“Your wish is my command,” he murmurs. The words are simple. They are words you’ve heard thousands of times before in your life, yet now, facing the brutal, windy, icy journey that you knew lay ahead, it seemed more as a pledge of loyalty, of unfailing servanthood than anything.

“Let’s go,” you whisper, but it carries. It whistles through the slanting morning sunlight and the brittle bones of the trees littering your courtyard. It swims through the canvases of the road laying before you and you mumble out a small prayer to any deity who will listen. Anyone who could let you know how he really was. 

The moment you pass into the arched entrance of the Northern Forest – a place you vaguely remember passing through when you were seven, riding a carriage up to your grandfather’s Northern estate – you’re hit with the extent of how bad your idea is. Not the motive behind it, of course. And nothing can stop you from getting to Wonwoo by evening, but you hadn’t expected a snowstorm to greet you on the doorsteps of the northern camp. The snowflakes border dangerously on small balls of hail and the winds tear through the rather flimsy excuse for a cloak you have on. 

“Your grace!” Jedediah’s voice breaks through the whipping whistling winds. Just barely.

You give yourself a second to glance back at him, whose horse can barely keep up the same pace as yours, before you return to look straight ahead. 

“Your grace, we are literally riding into a snowstorm!” Jedediah yells. His voice is muffled by the winds and the snow. 

As if you don’t know. 

“I am well aware!” You yell back, pulling your cloak tighter around your body as you lower yourself closer to the back of your horse. Maybe it’s a placebo effect, but you swear it’s less windy this way. Or maybe the four-hour ride was finally catching up to you in the form of hysteria or something. 

You swear you can’t feel your legs. If you hadn’t been glancing down every ten minutes at your feet, you could swear that your legs fell off three kilometers back. Your fingers feel frozen on the thick reins, unmoving except for the occasional squeeze or pull to veer your mare back in the right direction. And you definitely can’t feel your face, especially not with the wind heading straight-on to you, threatening to pull your hood up and over your head. But everything pales in comparison to your windward thoughts, spider webbing this way and that, never settling on an idea for more than one minute, lest it turns into a reality. 

You think you’ve gone through at least thirty one scenarios of finding Wonwoo half-dead on in the medical tent. And don’t get started on the other fifty four possible scenes of your entrance into the camp and then finding Wonwoo half dead in the medical tent. 

And it feels like you go through hundreds of these scenarios – quite schizophrenic – before you see the clearing used for the northern camp. It’s almost idyllic how the snow suddenly lulls into a softer blanket of white, unlike the harsh gusts of ice and frigid wind just minutes before, as you approach the clearing, hooves heavy against the frozen forest ground. The knights’ forms are mere shadows against the snowy white background of the otherwise-beautiful landscape behind the main camp. As your mare slows to a fast trot, the cacophony of the snowstorm that had assaulted your ears slowly changes into a mix and a mingle of bustling knights and occasional laughter. Along the camp’s perimeter is a line of crude barricades, most likely to keep away the snow piling too much, and the grounds are surprisingly empty and crowded at the same time, with knights rolling up spare tents and packing up unused or too well-used armory into wagons. At least half of them are visibly injured, with either crutches, arm slings, or bandaged heads (something you only heard of back in the Capital), and almost every one of them turn to look at you as you pull your mare to a sudden stop, simply and cleanly ignoring Jedediah’s hurried calls after you as you step down from the saddle, swallowing down the dryness of your throat. 

It’s a weird feeling because you were sure you could face all of this when you left your estate five hours ago. Now, you are standing in the entrance of the Northern camp, underdressed for the snowstorm that had been billowing outside ten mere minutes ago, hair wild from the wind, eyes colored red from the tears you had unknowingly shed, and body trembling – from the cold, the shock, the exhaustion, you aren’t too sure. 

You see their mouths moving before you hear the whispers as you stagger your way into the camp. The snow crunches under your feet and you offhandedly register Jedediah’s complaints of riding in the snow for five hours straight, and you minutely register the flakes of snow that decorate your hair. But nothing – nothing – pales in comparison to the thundering of your heart that has been transported generously to your brain, thrumming a melodramatic, syncopathic, urgent beat against the very fibers of your being. 

As you move into the camp, crossing the perimeter line, you glance around frantically. You can’t see him. At least, not from your current vantage point. You can feel the stares of everyone drilling holes into your head and if you were in any other mental state, you would have questioned why no one stopped you from entering yet. Each crunch of the snow underfoot is then drowned out by either the bustling of the camp or the chattering of your teeth that you don’t know is even happening until you clench your jaw and suddenly a noise stops. You feel high-strung. So high-strung to the point that you feel like if you don’t see Wonwoo in the next ten minutes, you might as well sit down and start crying. 

You’re so out of it that you don’t even notice the figure watching from the outskirts of camp until he starts jogging towards you, voice sharp with surprise and not-that-hidden accusation. 

“Y/n?” 

You whip your head – which grants you five seconds of almost complete blackness as your world spins, and you regret not taking your iron supplements like Nai had suggested – and come face-to-face with a brow-furrowed Soonyoung. His grip is firm against your shaking shoulders and he’s tense with some sort of anticipation and concern. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Soonyoung hisses, eyes frantic as they glance behind the two of you. His tongue darts out in between his pursed lips. “Do you have any idea how dangerous–” 

You have no mind to stand and listen to him tell you to ‘go home.’ 

“Where’s Wonwoo?” you interrupt, voice hoarse and trembling, Your words break off at the end and even you are surprised at how distraught you sound. You barely give Soonyoung a glance, eyes wild as you try to look over his shoulder to search the camp. 

Soonyoung visibly freezes, his grip loosening on your arm. “That’s why you’re here?” he scoffs, running a stressed hand through his hair. “Y/n, I didn’t send you that letter for you to come running up to a battlefield because you–” 

“--Soonyoung!” You snap, eyes locking with his. And maybe it’s the way you’re gasping for breath, or the godforsaken snowflakes in your hair, or your wild eyes, or maybe your rumpled clothing, but Soonyoung shuts up, glancing at you and then further behind you, where you can hear the rolling of a familiar carriage. “Soonyoung, where is Wonwoo?” At this point, you’re on the verge of begging your old friend. You’re desperate. You need to see him. You need to look him in the eyes and hold his face in your hands and tell him you’re sorry. Because God forbid if this shit happens again and all that you come to is a cold, lifeless body. 

“...he’s in the middle,” Soonyoung whispers, swallowing as you push past him, stumbling through and over the barricades and the strewn battle items. 

The knights glance your way, their movements slowing as you push past anything or anyone in your way, flatly ignoring the looks and calls of confusion, concern, and your name. 

You almost stumble to the ground when you finally see him – tall and resolute in the midst of everything. The snow falls in gentle flurries around him as he speaks with three other knights, gesturing vaguely towards the group of boxes on the other side of the camp. His back is towards you, his focus obviously on the knights speaking to him, but when all three of their eyes widen almost comically and they mumble something about a woman behind him, he turns. 

His eyes meet yours. You see his entire body freeze, his clipboard slipping out of his grasp and sinking into the snow-covered ground. 

And it’s as if something in you breaks entirely. A dam or a wall of some sorts. Something that had been the sole energizer behind your five hour ride into the northern territories, through a snowstorm, and now, here, in the middle of a military camp, completely powers off, leaving you standing along, cold, exhausted, and on the verge of tears, like you have been since the third hour on horseback. A sigh of relief is punched out of you. Relief that Wonwoo’s alive. That he is walking. That you can tell him without having to lean over his cold body and cry a river. 

Your legs give out, your knees hitting the cold snow. 

Wonwoo’s eyes snap open. “Y/n!” His voice rings out as he rushes to your side, knees also hitting the snow with a hard thud. His hands hover around your shoulders and waist, as if he’s unsure if he can touch you or bring you into an embrace, but the look on his face is unmistakable. His eyes are blown wide with alarm and you can see the deep dark circles under his eyes even through your slowly blurring vision. 

Wonwoo swallows, “What- what are you doing here? Are you hurt? Are- are you okay? What–” 

“--How could you?” you choke out, your voice shaking as your tears that had been gathering for hours finally decide to spill over, marking their tracks down your cheeks, chin, and onto the snow. 

Your words make Wonwoo tense up, his hands freezing from their hovering near your face. “Y/n…” For a second, he looks so pained you want to just bring him into your arms and tell him everything. Just let him encircle you in his familiar warmth and bask in the safety of his arms. 

“You left me,” you whisper, voice aghast with some sort of panicked grief, “Fucking again.” 

The guilt that flashes across his exhausted face is instant and dreadfully sharp. “I never– I didn’t want to leave –” 

“--Shut up!” You cry out, burying your face in your shaking palms, tears now drenching your icy face. “Just– Wonwoo, just shut up!” 

Wonwoo flinches as though your words had physically struck him, browning knitting together in ill-concealed anguish. “Y/n, listen, please, I didn’t have a choice–” 

“--You always say that!” You sob, your voice rising to a level of hysteria you personally thought was incapable. You don’t mean it to slip in, but there is a bitter undertone to your words. “Every time, Wonwoo, it’s the same fucking excuse. I didn’t have a choice. I had to leave. Do you really think that makes it hurt less?” You gasp, wiping your eyes, streaming with tears, to tearfully look up at Wonwoo, who stares at you with reddening eyes and a parted mouth. “Do you think that makes it okay?” 

Wonwoo shakes his head, his fingers curling around your wrist to pull your hand away from your face. “Y/n, I was trying to protect–”

“--Protect me?” you snap, bitterness imbued into every letter of your words. “Explain to me how leaving without a word is protecting me. How breaking every promise you ever made is protecting me,” you force out, angrily wiping away your tears. You barely even notice the stares from the knights around you. You shove a finger into Wonwoo’s chest. “Do you know what’s it’s like to wait for someone, not knowing if they’ll ever come back? If they even made it out of the first week alive? To love someone who keeps walking away?” 

Wonwoo suddenly grasps your hands, pulling them to his chest, laying them flat against his beating heart. “I didn’t want to leave,” he whispers, voice breaking. 

“But you did!” you yell, and you feel a fresh onslaught of tears in your eyes. “You did! You left and I-” you gasp in a breath, one hand clutching your chest and another gripping Wonwoo’s cloak, “I couldn’t breathe, Wonwoo. Every time I heard– heard your name, I thought–” you heaved, “thought you were dead!” Sobs wrack your shaking body as you clutch the furs of his cloak like it is the only thing grounding you to the present. “Do you even care? Do you understand what it feel like to lose someone over and over and over again?” 

“Y/n–” 

“--I can’t do this,” you cry, shaking your head as tears blur your already-clouded vision. “Wonwoo, I can't keep loving someone who always ends up leaving! Everyone I love leaves. My mom, my dad, my grandmother – they left. And just when I think I can finally at least have you by my side, you–” a bitter laugh escapes you, scratching blood down your throat, “you’re just like them. Always leaving, always running, always breaking your promises of staying.”

“I’m not–” Wonwoo’s voice trembles as he reaches for your hands again, only to have you pull away. 

“You are!! You left, Wonwoo. You left and you didn’t even think to say goodbye. How could you do that to me? How could you do that to me!” You’re left gasping for breath – mind reeling and throat constricting, and vision blurring out of control. Everything’s too much. You shouldn’t have come to the North. You should’ve–

“I can’t, Wonwoo,” It seems as though your mouth works separately from your mind, “I can’t keep waiting for you to come back, wondering if the next time I wake up to the news of your departure will be the last. I can’t go through that again. I can’t–” 

"Y/n, please, please just give me a chance--"

"--I can't, Wonwoo, i don't know how--"

"--Y/n, please, you-- you're everything to--"

It’s as if the walls to your own brain are closing in on you. All your thoughts are racing and your pulse quickens with every breath you take. It doesn’t take long before the confession is forced – squeezed – out of your entire being.

“--I love you,” you choke out, the broken confession falling from your lips like your salty tears fall from your chin. 

Wonwoo stares at you, stunned, like you just told him something extraordinary.

“I love you so much it feel like I’m breaking,” you say, your voice trembling as the sobs escape uncontrollably, staring dead-straight into Wonwoo’s eyes, “Like I’m tearing apart at the seams because of much you worry me and stress me out and make me cry and leave me waiting for years—” your hands reach up to him shakily, clinging to his cloak, “I hate it. I hate how much I love you because it hurts so much. It hurts, Wonwoo, it hurts.” You finish with another sob, head bowing as your forehead meets his chest. You feel his breath coming out in small stunned sighs against your hair. His hands hover as though his touch will make you rescind all your words.

His voice cracks as he whispers, “What did you say?” 

You look up, blinking as your lips tremble, tears trickling down your cheeks. “I love you.” You glance down before laughing mirthlessly, “I love you almost too much.” 

For a moment, Wonwoo is quiet. So is the camp and the rest of the world. Then, almost rushed, you feel a warm hand against your frigid cheek and a sudden swipe against your cheekbones. Next thing you know, Wonwoo’s lips are crashing into yours, molding shape against your plush lips. Your eyes are wide before another hand, though less confident, sneaks down to your waist, pulling you flush to him, chest to chest. His grip is tight against your clothes, against your frigid skin, as if a grip any looser will make you run away. He holds you like you’re fragile – like any stronger and you’ll break. Like letting go will shatter him. But his kiss is intense, strong, deep, as if he is pouring out his entire soul into a single kiss. When your eyes flutter closed, he breaks apart, and you see a single streak of a tear down his cheek. 

“Say it again,” he breathes, forehead meeting yours. 

Your mind is hazy from the kiss, and your fingers rise to brush against your lips. But your tongue moves with no wait for your brain. “I love you.” 

Wonwoo swallows and he lets out a small laugh, and with every passing millisecond that he holds you and brushes his thumb against your cheek, his smile grows with his laughter. “God,” Wonwoo mumbles, pulling you into his arms in a tight embrace, ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder. “God, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,”  Wonwoo rushes out, a hand threading through your hair. You can feel a couple of tears that drop onto your cloak but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s right in front of you, mumbling nonsensical I love yous into your hair. 

Wonwoo pulls back to rest his forehead against yours, tears filling his exhausted eyes. 

You chew the inside of your cheek, bringing your hands up to his face. There is a sharp pang of guilt as you watch tears slip down Wonwoo’s smooth face. “Don’t cry,” you whisper, gently brushing the tears off his face with shaking hands. You try to steady your fingers, at least, but it feels like your adrenaline has finally worn off and you can distinctly feel the icy cold seep into your bones. Every bite and sting of the wind is sharper than you remember it to be and the flurries of snow around you land on your skin with a frigid sort of burn. 

Wonwoo is quiet before stands quickly, pulling you up to your feet, which you do, save for the slight stumble. 

“What-”

“-You’re freezing, Y/n,” He states, holding you at arms-length to glance up and down your body. You see his eyes narrow as you tremble, eyes blinking rapidly to drive away the blurriness. 

He suddenly reaches for the clasp of his cloak with his good arm, reaching behind him to shrug off his cloak. His good arm fumbles as he drapes it over your shoulders, movements stiff but deliberate. When he tries to adjust how the cloak sat on your shoulders, you see his eyebrows furrow as if he’s in pain before it disappears behind his focused expression. 

“Won–”

Wonwoo turns away, pointing to the first knight he sees with an air of command, “Get the fire going in my tent,” he orders, tone regaining its commanding edge. “Now.” 

The knight, rather shocked at the sudden singling-out, glances around himself before he salutes, rushing off into the biggest tent. 

Wonwoo’s arm snakes around your waist, pulling you tight against him as he motions Soonyoung over. “Take over here,” he hums, expression softening slightly, “Finish the preparations. We’re still leaving as planned.” 

Sonyoung raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “And what do you want me to do with this half-assed packing, huh?” he glances between the two of you with twitching lips, “Magic it into completion?” When you roll your eyes, Soonyoung sticks a tongue out at you childishly. 

“Just handle it,” Wonwoo mutters, patience obviously thinning as he glances back at you, tucked into his side, head resting against his chest. “I’m taking her into the tent. She’s freezing out here.” 

Soonyoung shrugs, picking up Wonwoo’s dropped ledger from the snow. He tuts when some of the ink is smudged from the snow. “Fine, go be in love,”  he sighs, gazing off to the side as if he is reminiscing about some old love of his (which never ever happened). 

You smile, genuinely, at his words. A feeling that you’re not used to creeps up your throat. It threatens to make itself known when Wonwoo pulls you closer — as if you could get any closer to him — and pokes at your eyes. 

“Come on, let’s go inside. You’re shivering.” 

It takes you a moment to register in your dulled head that Wonwoo is talking to you and not some other knight or even Soonyoung. You would have swayed on your feet if it isn’t for Wonwoo’s tight hold on your waist. Everything feels a little hazy and you don’t know if its the exhaustion or if its the cold that lulling your brain to sleep. 

“Y-yeah,” you mumble, looking down at the ground as Wonwoo just gives you a soft glance, leading you to the direction of his tent, away from all the knights and the bustle of the packing. 

You can see Wonwoo glance down at you at least twice every five seconds, as if he’s making sure if you’re really there, and you feel a pang of guilt — or regret, maybe? You didn’t completely think through your course of action when you had deceided that you needed to go up north. It didn’t really occur to you at the time that maybe Wonwoo would already be swamped with responsibilities bigger than you (like organizing the knights), until now. And seeing Wonwoo try to hide his every wince of pain when he even just moves his shoulder to better grasp your waist, basically holding you up as you stumble through the thick snow. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, palms digging into your eyes. When you remove them, black charcoal from your waterline follows, smudged and thick. “I’m sorry for coming, I didn’t really think through the—“

”—Don’t say that,” Wonwoo interrupts, his eyes sharp, even through the exhaustion and the pain lingering and floating in his orbs. He looks almost pained at your words and you mentally hit yourself at the constant distress you cause this man. “Don’t say that, Y/n, please. You— To me, you being here means more than everything. The only thing,” Wonwoo gives you a heartwarming smile, glasses fogging up as his puffs of breath hit the surface, “you shouldn’t be doing is staying out in this cold.” He lifts up the tent flap, ushering you in before closing it behind him. 

The first thing you notice about his tent is that it’s warm. It’s warm and toasty, thanks to the fire that’s blazing in the makeshift fireplace. The second thing is the sheer amount of nothing in his tent. It’s spacious, but only because the room contains nothing but a single cot, a desk, a chair, sheepskin rugs, and a random table in the middle of the room. As Wonwoo sits you down on his chair, pushing you closer to the fireplace, you notice the stacks of papers that line his desk, just waiting for him to come back and finish signing them off. You also notice the stiffness in his shoulder and how he works to minimize any movement in it. 

“Wonwoo–”

“--Here,” Wonwoo interrupts, flapping a thick fur blanket over your shoulder. You don’t miss the way he bites back a hiss of pain at the sudden movement. He gives you a smile, though thinner than last time. 

You shake your head, gently grasping his wrist, stopping him from moving his arm. “Wonwoo,” you repeat, firmer than before. He finally holds your stare, eyes flickering from your forehead to your eyes to your lips and then back up. 

He hums in response, kneeling in front of you so that he’s eye-level and not towering above you. He maneuvers his hands so that your hands rest in his. You feel his thumb gently smooth over your knuckles, calloused palms so warm under your touch. He looks at you like you hung up the stars and briefly, you wonder how you never saw the love in his eyes. 

“I brought my doctors,” you murmur, one hand going up to trace your fingers along his sharp jaw. You cup his cheek, fingers brushing against his pale skin, still slightly cold from the outside air. Your gaze flits down to his shoulder, bandages obvious under the thin tunic he has on. The stain of red clearly disrupting the sterile white has you worrying. “You need Capital medics, not just ones from the war camp.” 

Wonwoo’s eyebrows furrow, a hand going up to cover yours on his cheek. “Who told you that? I’m–”

“--Soonyoung did,” you state over his words, quieting him, “and don’t tell me you’re fine because there is no way your stubborn ass actually rested.” You give him a knowing glance and he glances away, murmuring something about being busy helping his knights pack and filling out paperwork. 

When you don’t respond, Wonwoo sighs, leaning into your touch. “You didn’t have to.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I know. But I needed to.” 

Wonwoo gives you a confused look, blinking as if to tell you to continue. 

You bite your lip as you feel another rush of tears. “I–” your voice cracks, “I thought you were going to die before I told you the truth,” you whisper, feeling a stray tear drop from the corner of your eye. It feels refreshing, almost, to get it off your chest – to let someone else into your fiercely-guarded heart that was once (and still is) his. 

Wonwoo is quiet, studying your features as if looking for more unsaid feelings – things you’ve kept to yourself for these long years. When he deems it enough, he catches you off-guard, turning his head to leave a long kiss on the inside of your wrist, his eyes fluttering shut for the briefest of moments. 

Then, without moving, he murmurs into your palm, “Y/n,” his voice trembles at the last syllable of your name, “I’ve been in love with you for so long I don’t even remember what it feels like to not love you.” 

Your breath hitches and your heart pounds in your chest as his words wash over you like a tidal wave. Over and over again until every other sound surrounding the two of you sounds like meaningless white noise. Wonwoo says something, you know because you see his lips moving, but everything after his confession is a blur. It’s mere ringing in your ears compared to the soft words he had just murmured into your palm like agave honey down your throat. 

“...I know I’ve hurt you,” Wonwoo suddenly says, snapping you out of your daze, “I know I’ve made mistakes that I can never make up for. But if you can forgive me–” he cuts himself off, shaking his head, pulling your hand down into your lap, “--no, if you can even just let me try to– I swear to you, I will never leave you again.” He sounds breathless after the last word, like it took all the oxygen in his lungs to convince you of this fact. 

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until you feel Wonwoo’s fingers brush the tears off your face. 

“Never ever?” You ask, voice quiet and tinged with an edge of teasing. You fiddle with the silver ring that encircles his pinky. 

“Never ever,” he confirms, brushing the last of your tears off of your wet cheeks. He laughs as you blush under his touch, cheeks heating to a dusty pink. 

You sniffle, rubbing at your eyes. You pull your hands out of his grasp, instead trapping his face in between your palms. Wonwoo’s eyes widen a bit at your sudden actions. 

“You’re going to get that shoulder looked at when my doctors arrive,” you state. You want your words to sound firm, but it actually comes out more as a meek order than a non-negotiable sentence. 

But still, Wonwoo nods, a small smile gracing his lips. Your heart thuds in your chest. 

Fuck, if you knew battling this whole thing straight-on would make him smile so much, you would’ve done it sooner.

“Promise,” you add, holding up your pinky. 

Wonwoo links his pinky with yours, twisting so that your thumbs stamp together. Before you can say anything else, he pulls you by your hand, his good arm going to steady your waist when you suddenly jolt forward from the momentum. His hand cups your cheek (and you pretend to not notice his grimace of pain), as he leans in, a grin dancing on his lips. 

“I promise,” he whispers, his breath hot on your lips, before his lips meet yours. Softly as first, then with some growing carnal intensity that steals your breath from your poor lungs. It’s as if he is pouring all of his emotions into the kiss, the sincerity, the love, the truth. He mumbles something against your lips as he pulls back, but it’s lost in the pounding of your heart and the small embarrassing gasps you let out when he pulls you to stand, his lips now trailing soft kisses down the column of your throat. You hope, with eyes squeezed shut, that he can’t feel your erratic pulse under the thin skin of your neck. 

When he teasingly bites, right above your collarbone, you jolt, hands finding purchase higher on his chest. The movement has him wincing, face suddenly buried in the crook of your neck as he turns away from you, arms stiffening around your waist. 

You freeze, eyes blown wide open as Wonwoo lets out a soft noise. 

“I’m so– so sorry,” you gasp, unsure of what to do as Wonwoo just stands there, breathing heavily, a pained grunt escaping him. “Are–” you try to pull away, “Are you okay?” When Wonwoo doesn’t respond, your brows furrow, shifting so that your arms wrap around his waist, leaning so that your head rests against his chest. You can faintly hear his heartbeat from where your ear presses against his chest, and Wonwoo seems to relax a smidge under your embrace. “I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest, feeling Wonwoo breathe a sigh into your hair. 

“I’m fine,” he replies after a beat of silence, save for the crackling of the fire. His voice is tight but not angry. “Don’t be sorry, ‘s not your fault,” he murmurs. 

You beg to differ. But you decide to keep your arguments to yourself, at least when he’s injured. 

“You need to rest,” you hum, eyes closing as his good arm goes up, fingers threading through your hair. 

“Later,” he rebuts, pressing a soft kiss on your temple. “Need to help with the packing.” 

You click your tongue. “A normal person wouldn’t even be out of bed in a week with a puncture wound as bad as yours.” 

You can feel Wonwoo’s lips curve into a smile against your temple. “Are you calling me abnormal?” 

“No, I’m calling you not self-responsible,” you huff. “Have you ever stopped to consider what would happen if you actually ripped your stitches open and your wound got infected? How are you even walking around? Don’t you feel the–”

“--Y/n–”

“--No, listen to me. You can’t just jump right into your duties after you were stabbed within an inch of your life–”

“-- Y/n–” 

“--Wonwoo. I asked the doctors before and they said–”

“--Love,” Wonwoo laughs, his head tipping back ever so slightly. His glasses slide low on his nose. But it’s the pet name that makes you actually shut up. 

You blink up at him, mouth slightly parted as he gives you a quick peck on the lips, the tips of his ears blushing red as you stare at him. It’s like your heart just stops for a second. But Wonwoo acts like everything is as it was. 

“You’re adorable,” Wonwoo chuckles, giving your forehead a peck as well. His injured arm’s hand sits low on your hip. 

“W-what?” 

Wonwoo gives you a cheeky grin, pinching your hip. “I’ll rest after I finish these reports, yeah? Just thirty minutes.” 

You nod, but your mind is still reeling from what he had called you before (Love!!!!!). “O-okay. That’s fine. But you have to.” 

Wonwoo just hums in response, gently adjusting his cloak that is on your shoulders. He looks down at you for a moment, meeting your eyes, before swooping in to steal another kiss, lips stretched in a grin as he whispers, “I love you. More than you know,” against your lips, and he smoothens your hair with such care and utter love that it’s hard not to believe him. 

Your eyes flutter shut and you reach up to cup his jaw, rising to your tip-toes to kiss him back. Wonwoo gently pulls your head back as he leans down, tongue swiping over your bottom lip with such practiced ease it almost makes you jealous of anyone he ever kissed before you. 

You detach with a gasp, out of breath and cheeks definitely a dark pink. Wonwoo’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, the edge of his mouth lifting as he thumbs your bottom lip, pulling the flesh down and swiping over your kiss-bitten lips with a laugh. 

“Sorry,” he grins, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. “Can’t help myself.” He curls a finger around your hair, lightly pulling on it with a teasing sort of smile. 

You let out a laugh of disbelief, burying your face in his muscled chest, face heating at his words. 

“So crude,” you mumble, but it’s not without a smile. Your cheeks hurt from how much you are smiling, arms returning to their place around Wonwoo’s waist. 

When you glance up, you feel your breath hitch. Wonwoo looks down at you with such an infatuated look in his eyes it churns your stomach. You feel tears prick at your eyes and you quickly go back to hide your face in his chest, lest he sees your watering eyes. But of course, it’s Wonwoo.

“Hm?” He gently goes to lift your head, but you shake your head no, holding him tighter, like you’re subconsciously afraid that if you let go, he’ll collapse. “Love, what’s wrong?” he asks, voice ever-so gentle. 

“Nothing,” you mumble, cheek pressed up against his chest. “Just,” you fist his tunic, feeling a tear slide down your aching cheeks, “it feels good to tell you– cathartic, I guess – that I love you.” Your cheeks burn at your confession, your voice trailing off into a meek whisper by the end of your hastily put-together sentence. 

Wonwoo just kisses the top of your head, gently peeling you from his chest with minimal resistance from you. “You know, right?” 

“Know what?” 

“That I love you, angel, more than anything.” 

His forehead rests against yours and the last word is a faint whisper against your lips but it rings clear in your ears. Internally, you hit yourself over the head because how could you ever have doubted this man – though battle-worn and sometimes clueless – and his love for you. 

And for the first time in years, you felt comfort in letting yourself believe him. 

: ̗̀➛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ @syluslittlecrows @gaslysainz @meowmeowminnie @luvjichang @peachytokki @nicoleparadas @haneulparadx @venuszaa @lilylikesthat @ppaia @ameliamirabela @tearsdntfall617

[sweetvoidstuff]

Where You Belong - Part 3

Jungkook x Reader I Werwolf x Werwolf I Mates I Slow Burn I Asshole JK I Supernatural Romance I Yoongi I Violence

GIF von jung-koook

Summary : A festival meant to bring unity turns into something far more intimate when you catch the eye of a wolf who never intended to fall. Torn between the freedom to choose and the instinctual pull of a mate’s bond, you face both emotional and political pressure from the pack and outside forces. As loyalties are tested, the question lingers: will you run, or will you stay and claim your place?

Word Count: 35K (all Parts)

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! I’ve been meaning to post this one for a while, but I kept going back and forth on it. Life got a bit hectic, I got sidetracked, and took a few days off—so it took longer than planned. It didn’t turn out exactly how I first imagined, but for now, I’m calling it done. Maybe I’ll revisit and rewrite parts of it in the future, who knows. In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy it—please be kind, but I also welcome honest feedback.

Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me…again... so I’ll be posting Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Part 1 I Part 2

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For a solid heartbeat, he didn’t move.

Then—after another sharp glance around the area, his ears straining for any nearby movement—he rose to his feet.

And followed you inside.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The tent was small—at least, smaller than he expected.

The inside was simple, with thick blankets piled over a sleeping mat, a few extra layers stacked against the far end in what looked like an attempt at a pillow. It smelled like you, too, but not strongly—not like a normal omega’s tent should. Jungkook’s scent had been muted on you ever since the festival began, and now, without it, the space felt wrong.

You were already curled up on your side, your back to him, as if you were ignoring the fact that he had just stepped inside.

Jungkook hesitated for a second.

Then he crouched near the entrance, unsure if he should lay down or stay seated.

He opted for the latter.

His eyes flickered toward your still form.

After a long pause, you muttered, “If you’re just gonna sit there, you might as well lay down.”

Jungkook bit his lip.

And then, slowly, he shifted, lowering himself onto the extra blankets, laying on his back beside you.

The space was tight.

If either of you moved even a little, you would touch.

And when you exhaled, shifting slightly—your back brushing against his arm—Jungkook nearly lost his damn mind.

Jungkook needed something to ground him—anything.

And the only thing here was you.

The tight space of your tent left no room for hesitation. No space for second-guessing. The moment your back brushed his arm, the fragile thread of his restraint snapped.

He rolled onto his side, one arm snaking firmly around your waist, his chest flush against your back. The heat of him bled through the thin layers of clothing, his grip possessive, securing you against him.

He felt your tense inhale.

"Did you already decide?" Jungkook’s voice was low, a murmur against the shell of your ear.

You hummed, your fingers lightly twitching over the blankets. “Kinda.”

Jungkook’s hold tightened.

"Kinda?" he echoed, voice gruffer now. "What does ‘kinda’ mean?"

You exhaled slowly, your tone shifting into something almost teasing, yet undeniably shy.

"Well, you already decided if you're going to scent me twice a day from now on..." You paused, then added with a smirk, "for safety reasons?"

Jungkook growled.

A soft, dangerous sound, curling around the whisper of your name on his tongue. His fingers flexed, gripping your waist tighter.

“You are my mate,” he rumbled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

His nose nudged into your hairline, inhaling deeply, and then—

He scented you.

A slow, deliberate drag of his nose from your temple to the base of your neck.

You shuddered.

His chest rumbled, another growl spilling from deep within him.

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin at the curve of your shoulder, his breath hot as his lips parted.

And when you whimpered, Jungkook nearly lost it.

"Don’t promise anything you can’t keep," you whispered, but it sounded weak. Like a plea. A warning. A wish.

"If… If this is just want—fine. But then tell me."

Jungkook’s chest ached.

He wanted to rip the doubt out of you, to prove to you that there was nothing about this—about you—that was temporary.

He exhaled sharply, his fingers skimming the edge of your ribs.

“Mark me.”

Your entire body locked up.

Your heart stuttered.

Slowly, your head turned, the dim light inside the tent casting shadows over Jungkook’s face as you twisted just enough to look at him.

Your eyes were wide.

“What?”

Jungkook growled again, this time more urgent, more raw—needy.

Your movement had shifted you slightly away, leaving a sliver of space between you, and the distance made something feral inside him snarl.

His dark gaze locked onto yours, unflinching. Unshakable.

"Mark me as your mate."

Your breath hitched.

Jungkook's jaw clenched, his pulse pounding.

"You can still leave if you want," he said, voice low, rough, as if the words physically pained him. "But I will follow you."

His fingers brushed up your spine, his touch feverishly warm.

"I will only claim you if you want me to," he swore, and fuck—he meant it. He would never take this from you, never force you into something you weren’t ready for.

But then—

His eyes burned into yours.

Raw. Unwavering.

"I want your mark on me. Now."

Your stomach flipped.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

You were shocked. Speechless.

And fuck—

You were so goddamn turned on.

Your eyes went impossibly wide, your breath catching as you stared at him.

"Y-You don’t mean that."

Jungkook’s gaze was intense, but gentle, steady in a way that left no room for doubt.

Without hesitation, he moved.

His strong arms shifted you, guiding you until you were under him.

He hovered over you, his body looming, broad and commanding, but he wasn’t caging you in—he was holding you close.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

His weight balanced on his forearm, the one marked with ink and meaning, etched with the responsibilities of his pack. But his other arm?

His other arm was wrapped around you.

A deliberate, possessive grip.

Like he was making sure there wouldn’t be the slightest bit of space between you.

And you could feel him.

The heat of him, the weight of him, the way his scent wrapped around you like a second skin.

The way he wanted you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your body suddenly too warm, too aware of how little separated you from him.

Jungkook’s nose brushed down your neck, slow and intentional, his breath ghosting over your skin as he inhaled deeply.

“I mean it,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

“And I can smell that you want it, too.”

Your stomach flipped.

Heat shot through you, every nerve in your body sparking to life, making your limbs tingle.

Your shaky fingers curled into the fabric of Jungkook’s shirt, your grip weak—like your body couldn’t decide if it wanted to pull him closer or push him away before you completely lost yourself. You were practically vibrating with nerves, the weight of his body, the scent of him, the sheer need in his presence overwhelming you.

Jungkook wasn’t rushing you.

But he wasn’t stopping, either.

His nose lovingly dragged up and down your neck, lingering at your pulse point, like he was savoring every inch of you.

And then—

His lips followed.

Soft, warm, achingly gentle.

He pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses against your throat, against the hollow where your neck met your shoulder. Pressing against your pulse, lingering.

His teeth nipped at your skin, not enough to hurt—just enough to tease.

To dare you to move.

To see if you would run or stay.

Your next whimper, the next trembling inhale, the next sharp jolt of your scent pushing into the air around him—

It was too much.

Jungkook rolled his hips into you, slow and controlled, and you felt every inch of him, every sharp, burning line of his need pressed against you through the thin barriers of your clothes.

Your entire body shuddered.

Jungkook’s breath was ragged, his lips barely a whisper from your jaw as he spoke.

His voice was like honey and smoke, thick with need, with restraint, with something wild barely held back. He rolled his hips into you again. A slow, deliberate grind, letting you feel exactly what you did to him.

"Can I kiss you?" His lips ghosted over yours, his nose brushing the tip of yours. His words came out hoarse, desperate. "Please. Let me fucking kiss you, at least."

His fingers tightened slightly where they rested against your ribs.

Your lips parted, air shaking as it left your lungs, and then—

“Please.”

Jungkook groaned, his forehead dropping to yours for just a second before he finally—finally— kissed you, got to taste you.

And fuck—

It was everything.

The first press of his lips was firm, but hungry. He wasn’t just kissing you—he was claiming you, pouring everything into it, his lips moving hot and slow against yours, his tongue teasing the seam of your mouth.

His mouth was hot, urgent, starving for you, but still so goddamn careful.

He kissed you like you were something precious, something he had wanted for so fucking long—something he was desperate to make his. The moment his tongue brushed against yours, he growled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.

And you melted.

Your fingers dug into his shirt, clutching him, needing him, and Jungkook felt like he was about to lose his mind with how sweet, how warm, how perfect you tasted, against him—

Until—

You made a pained sound against his lips, a small, pained hum muffled by the heat of the kiss.

Jungkook froze.

He jerked back, his breath was heavy, his pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises, his brows furrowing in concern.

Your lips were swollen, damp from his kisses, and fuck, you looked so beautiful like this, but—

His eyes locked onto your lips—

A thin red line glistened at the corner of your mouth. The small, still-healing cut from your fight with Yoongi earlier.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, guilt slamming into him. A low, guttural sound escaped him, something close to a frustrated snarl.

"Shit," he exhaled, his fingers lightly gripping your jaw.

Without a second thought, he leaned back in, but this time, his lips didn’t claim yours.

Instead—

His tongue dragged over the cut, gentle, careful, the warmth of him soothing the sting.

A sound rumbled from his chest—low and deep, a vibration of pleasure that was almost a purr.

Your breath hitched.

From something else entirely.

A deep rumble rose from Jungkook’s chest—not a growl, not a snarl—but something softer, so utterly full of warmth and possession, that it made your stomach flutter.

It was close to a purr.

If you hadn’t already been lying down, your knees would have buckled.

Jungkook stayed close, his forehead lightly pressing to yours.

His breath mingled with yours, his fingers twitching against your skin, like he was still trying to memorize you through touch alone.

And then, softly—so fucking softly—

“Say yes.”

His voice was hoarse, thick with something deeper than just desire.

“Say yes, and mark me right now.”

His nose brushed yours, his body still pressed so perfectly to yours.

“Say yes,” he whispered.

“And be mine.”

Your breath came heavy, your chest rising and falling too fast, too unsteady.

And then—

You nodded.

Your voice was shaky, but still, the word fell from your lips, wrapped in something breathless, something undeniable.

“Yes.”

Yes, yes, yes.

Because how could you not?

Jungkook had made your life difficult, had pushed and challenged you at every turn. But now—

Now, he was trying.

He wasn’t just taking, wasn’t just demanding.

He was offering himself to you.

If he meant it—if he let you mark him—then it wouldn’t just be you belonging to him.

He would belong to you, too.

Your fingers trembled as you slowly—so fucking slowly— pushed up the hem of his shirt.

Jungkook’s breath hitched, his entire body going taut at the first glide of your hands under his shirt, the first whisper of your touch against his bare skin.

And then—

A growl rumbled from his chest, and before you could even think, his shirt was ripped off.

Torn away like it was nothing.

Because if you wanted to touch him, if you wanted to claim him, then fuck—

He was going to let you.

Your fingers traced over the warm, hard planes of his torso, his body shuddering beneath your touch.

You were gentle at first, almost shy, your fingertips light as air over his abs, up to his ribs.

But then—

Jungkook let out a low, gravelly sound, his own larger hand capturing one of yours and pressing it flat against his chest, right over his racing heart.

“Mate,” he rumbled, the word vibrating deep in his chest—a vow, a promise, an undeniable truth.

And then he was on you again.

The intensity he couldn’t use on your lips—not with your still-healing cut—he poured into your neck instead.

He kissed you there, savored you, his lips trailing a path that burned in the best way, nipping, licking, tasting you.

You shivered, your hands growing bolder, moving freely over his skin now.

Your fingers skated up his sides, explored the taut muscles of his shoulders, then dipped lower.

And when you flicked your fingers over his nipple—just to see what he’d do—

A deep, guttural growl tore from Jungkook’s throat, his body jerking in response, a sharp inhale dragged through his teeth.

You fucking loved it.

Loved this power over him, loved the way his body shook under your touch, the way his need grew almost unbearable as you teased him. His hips rocked against yours, desperate for friction, for anything.

But then—

Jungkook wanted you in the same state of undress.

His hands moved under your clothes, hot and reverent, his touch just as exploring, just as aching.

First, his fingers glided over your stomach, smoothing over the soft curves, tracing up your ribs—

And fuck—

You fluttered under him, your body shivering at the warmth of his hands.

And when you lifted yourself just slightly, just enough for him to pull your shirt off—

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

He sat up, gripping the hem, and in one smooth motion, he had your shirt off and discarded.

And then—

Silence.

Heavy, suffocating silence.

Jungkook’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown wide, drinking you in, taking in every inch of your bare skin, every part of you that was exposed to him now.

You should have felt powerful.

You should have felt wanted.

But instead—

Jungkook’s gaze hardened.

His jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring as his eyes locked onto the bruises littering your skin.

There were blue and purple splotches, fresh reminders of your fight earlier.

There weren’t any bandages, you didn’t care to replace them after your little swim, but there didn’t need to be. The ugly mark near your ribs was more than enough proof of what you had been through.

Jungkook growled—

Deep and dangerous.

Furious.

The second he saw your reaction, he regretted it.

Because you weren’t proud, weren’t smirking like you had won a fight.

No.

You looked ashamed.

Your gaze dropped, your body curling in slightly like you wanted to disappear.

A shiver ran over you, but it wasn’t from pleasure.

Jungkook saw it all. Felt it all.

And fuck—

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

You already knew you didn’t smell as sweet as other omegas, your scent too weak to be truly enticing.

And now—

Now, your battered body wasn’t even nice to look at for your mate.

The realization hit you so hard it felt like a physical wound.

Jungkook saw the way your body stiffened, how your shoulders sank, the way you seemed to shrink into yourself, and his chest ached.

Because no.

He couldn’t let you feel like this.

Not for a single second.

A snarl ripped from him—sharp, frustrated, not at you, but at the world for making you think this way.

And then—

His hands grabbed your face, cupping your cheeks, forcing you to look at him.

“Stop.”

His voice was low, commanding, but desperate.

You hesitated, lips parting, eyes still downcast.

Jungkook wouldn’t allow it.

His forehead pressed to yours, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, soft, reverent, but unyielding.

“Look at me.”

It took a moment.

A long, painful second.

But then—

You did.

And fuck—

Jungkook’s eyes burned.

Because he didn’t see flaws.

He didn’t see imperfection.

He saw you—his mate—beautiful and raw and strong.

And he needed you to see it, too.

Jungkook’s lips found your temple, pressing soft kisses to your skin, down to your cheek, over the curve of your jaw.

And then—

Softly.

Almost pleading.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”

Jungkook’s fingers traced the outline of your bruise, featherlight, like he was memorizing it, like he wanted to absorb it, take it into himself instead.

And your breath hitched.

He was so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine, something warm and twisting pooling deep in your belly.

But you still didn’t understand.

“Jungkook…”

Your voice was small, almost shy—like if you spoke too loudly, he might change his mind.

Might see what you saw.

Might realize you weren’t worthy of this.

You almost couldn’t say it.

But the words tumbled out anyway, soft, fractured—

“I… I’m black and blue. I’m not… I—”

Your entire body curled inward, as if you could make yourself smaller, as if you could hide from him, from the way he looked at you.

And fuck—

Jungkook felt sick at the sight.

How could you not see?

You weren’t some fragile thing.

You had beaten a strong beta at the festival, had fought with everything in you for your pack.

You weren’t weak.

You weren’t ruined.

You weren’t less.

You were more.

More whole, more unyielding, more alive than anyone he had ever known.

And fuck, he needed you to understand that.

With one swift, careful motion, Jungkook moved—flipping you effortlessly until you were on top of him.

His hands found you immediately—

One curled into your hair, grounding you.

The other gripped your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

A surprised yelp escaped your lips, your hands bracing against his chest, wide eyes staring down at him.

You were straddling him now.

The contrast was dizzying— the way he had handled you with such ease, like he could break you in half—

And yet, beneath you, he was so fucking hard, his need pressing thick between your thighs, hot even through the layers of clothing.

Heat flared across your face, crawling down your neck.

You shifted, trying to put distance between you, your hands pressing into his chest, your knees digging into the mattress to lift yourself.

But Jungkook’s grip tightened.

The hand on your hip yanked you back down, forcing you against him again, another strangled sound breaking from his throat.

The hand in your hair held you firm, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to look at him.

And fuck—

Jungkook, an alpha, the next to lead your pack, was beneath you, hard and desperate, staring at you like you were the moon itself.

Like you were his fucking world.

His voice was low, gravelly, but so fucking sure.

“My mate isn’t some brittle flower.”

His fingers dug in, his body coiling like a predator holding itself back.

“My mate gives alphas a run for their money.”

Jungkook breathed you in, a sharp inhale, a growl deep in his chest, the scent of your arousal spiking in the air.

“Your scent is just for me.”

His hips bucked once, slow, purposeful, grinding into you, forcing you to feel him.

“And every bruise you got, you gave back twice as hard.”

His hand tightened in your hair, his next words a growl—

“Don’t you dare think I don’t want you because of that.”

Your entire body burned, your stomach coiling tight, molten heat spreading like fire in your veins.

“But…”

Jungkook cut you off—his grip firm, unwavering.

“Just because I want to treat you like my fragile little mate, doesn’t mean you’re fragile.”

His fingers slid lower, teasing at the waistband of your pants, gripping at the barrier between you, pulling you harder against him.

His next words were a promise, a growled warning wrapped in heat.

“And if you let me, I’ll show you just how often I can put you back together tonight.”

And fuck—

Your scent spiked again, another wave of arousal washing over you, unbidden, undeniable.

Jungkook felt it immediately.

Felt the way you shivered, the way your body melted just slightly, the way your pupils widened, blown black with want.

His grip tightened.

His fingers curled under your waistband, ready to tear it away—

And his next word was simple, a single command, his voice dark and demanding.

“Off.”

You were both moving.

Fumbling.

Desperate.

Pants were kicked away, clothing discarded, and then—

Jungkook grabbed you again.

But instead of pulling you back onto him, onto his length—

He lifted you higher.

Your thighs trembled as he shifted you up, your core hovering over his face now.

Your breath caught, the realization slamming into you, heat flooding your cheeks as you stammered—

“Jungkook—?”

But his grip was firm, his eyes burning, filled with absolute hunger.

His hands guided you down, his head tilting back, reaching for you, and then—

His tongue flicked against you.

And fuck—

Your legs shook, a strangled gasp ripping from your lips, fingers fisting into the sheets.

Jungkook groaned, the sound low and ravenous, his hands clutching your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

He licked you again.

Long, slow, deliberate.

You were falling. No—flying? Maybe both. Your body no longer felt like your own, overtaken by sensation, by the fire spreading through every inch of you under Jungkook’s relentless touch. His hands, strong and possessive, held you firmly in place, keeping you from escaping the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. Every brush of his lips, every flick of his tongue sent waves of shivers coursing through you, and the quiet, helpless whimpers slipping from your lips only seemed to feed his hunger.

Jungkook was insatiable, the deep rumble of his pleasure vibrating against your core, sending tremors through your entire being. He groaned against you, drinking in your scent, your taste, every reaction you gave him like it was the only thing he’d ever crave. The way you trembled, the way you gasped and arched above him—he wanted more. He needed more. He wanted to bury himself in every part of you, to pull every sound, every movement, every ounce of pleasure from you until you were entirely his.

His grip tightened, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you in place when instinct had you trying to squirm away. The intensity was too much, yet not enough, and Jungkook wasn’t about to let you escape—not when you were giving him everything he wanted. His mouth worked against you with precision, teasing, stroking, flicking, each motion designed to unravel you, to leave you shaking above him. You tried to find purchase, to hold onto something, but your limbs were weak, and the only thing grounding you was Jungkook himself.

And then he did something different—a new pressure, a shift that made your body jerk in response. He adjusted his hold, pulling you closer, locking you against him as he moved, his nose brushing against your clit, his tongue coaxing more pleasure from you than you thought you could handle. A strangled sound escaped you, somewhere between a gasp and a plea, and Jungkook’s deep growl of satisfaction sent another tremor through you. His grip tightened just a little more, as if reminding you that you were his, that you belonged to him, and the sheer possessiveness in his touch made your head spin.

Your breath hitched, body tightening, and Jungkook felt it—the way you were teetering on the edge, the way your muscles locked as the wave built inside you. He hummed against you, the vibration pushing you closer, and then, with one final movement, he sent you plummeting into oblivion. A sharp cry, a desperate breath of his name—"Kook"—was all you managed before the pleasure overtook you completely, your body shaking with the force of it. Jungkook didn’t stop, didn’t let go, holding you through it, watching with dark, heavy-lidded eyes as you came undone above him, utterly lost in the moment he had created for you.

His chest rumbled with satisfaction, his grip shifting as he slowly brought you back down, grounding you with gentle touches even as his own restraint frayed. Because he wasn’t done. Not even close.

Your breathing slowly evened out, your body sinking into the soft bedding beneath you, boneless and trembling in the aftermath. You barely had the strength to lift your head, but you became aware of Jungkook sitting back on his knees between your legs, his gaze locked onto you with something dark, something primal burning in his eyes. And for a second, you were utterly confused. Why was he still wearing his pants? Why had he held back when he was clearly fighting against every instinct to claim you?

Before you could question him, he pulled you closer again, his hands sliding under your knees, lifting your legs to rest over his thighs. His fingers traced delicate patterns along your skin, smoothing over the trembling muscles he had wrecked only moments ago. The way he touched you now was different—still possessive, still intense—but laced with something softer, something reverent. His touch soothed even as it sent more shivers down your spine. His chin was still wet from your arousal, his lips slightly parted as he caught his breath, his hair tousled and wild from how you had gripped him. And god, he looked beautiful. Absolutely untamed.

The sight made something in your chest tighten, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the heat between your legs. You reached for him without thinking, hands opening and closing in the air, needy, desperate for him.

"Mate," you breathed, the word slipping past your lips before you could stop it. Before you knew what you said.

Jungkook’s gaze snapped to you and froze. His breath hitched, and then a sound—deep, guttural, and dangerously close to a purr—vibrated from his chest. His pupils blew wide, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your thighs as if you had just broken him and put him back together all in the same moment. You hadn’t even realized what you had done. You had given him the one thing he craved the most—you had acknowledged him. Claimed him, even if you didn’t fully understand the depth of it.

A shudder ran through him as he leaned over you, letting you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, letting your scent fill his lungs as though it was the only thing keeping him sane. His lips pressed against your throat, slow and deliberate, before trailing up to your jaw, your cheek, and then finally—your lips.

“Don’t say that,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice raw with restraint. “Not right now. I’m already using everything I have to hold back.”

But even as he spoke, he couldn’t stop touching you. His hands never ceased their slow, torturous exploration, his fingers skimming the inside of your thighs, creeping higher, testing how much more you could take. The contrast was maddening—the way he spoke of restraint while simultaneously unraveling you all over again.

His teeth grazed the shell of your ear, a teasing nip, a quiet growl vibrating against your skin. “One more,” he murmured, his voice thick with want.

Your breath hitched. "I... I—" The words barely made it out before your body betrayed you, another shudder rolling through you, your legs trembling even as he tried to soothe them.

Jungkook only hummed, his grip steady, his patience razor-thin. Because if he had his way, he’d have more than just one.

God, it was embarrassing how fast he could reduce you to this—how easily his fingers found the spot that had you keening for him, how effortlessly he had you spread open and taking him. One, then two, then three fingers, stretching you with slow, deliberate precision, filling you so perfectly that you could barely think, barely breathe. Your body trembled, a shiver rolling down your spine with every slow push and curl of his fingers inside you. You were beyond holding on at this point, your senses overwhelmed, your nerves alight, and the only thing keeping your legs from snapping shut in sheer overstimulation was the weight of Jungkook’s waist between them.

Your hands were desperate, restless, running over every inch of him, gripping at his arms, his shoulders, his chest—anywhere he would let you, anywhere but where you really wanted to touch him. Because Jungkook wouldn’t allow that. Not yet. And it was driving you insane because he sounded just as wrecked as you felt, his breath uneven, his muscles tensed like he was barely restraining himself. And god, the way he looked at you, the way he kissed you—deep and consuming, like he wanted to devour every sound you made—it had you spiraling all over again.

The next slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, tightening around him, making your head fall back against the pillows. It was too much and not enough. You needed more. Needed him. And as your pleasure built higher and higher, as you scrambled desperately for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself, a broken whimper fell from your lips.

“Mate.”

Jungkook cursed under his breath, his body jolting as if the word had physically struck him. His control was slipping fast, but he didn’t care—not when he could feel the way your walls fluttered around his fingers, gripping him so tightly, so sweetly, as you shattered beneath him once more. Not when you were shaking in his arms, when you were looking up at him like that—fucked out and dazed and so incredibly beautiful.

His head spun, his blood roared in his veins, and the need to claim you, to take you completely, burned through him like wildfire. But he couldn’t let you touch him. Not yet. Because if you so much as brushed against his cock right now, he’d come in seconds. He was painfully hard, so fucking close just from watching you fall apart again and again, and as he finally shed the last barrier between you, he had to take a moment—one shaky, grounding moment—not to lose himself at the sight of you.

You were still catching your breath, your body soft and pliant, your legs trembling in the aftermath of your release. But then—god, you were a fucking minx—you looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes, gaze dropping to where he was thick and aching for you, were he held himself not to come undone just by watching you, and without a word, without even a moment’s hesitation, you slowly spread your legs just a little wider. A silent invitation.

And that was it.

Jungkook was over you in an instant, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so deep it stole what little breath you had left. His hands framed your face, holding you with a reverence that contradicted the raw hunger in his movements, his groan vibrating against your lips as he completely lost himself in you.

He gave you whiplash—his touch still grounding, still careful, his fingers tracing over your bruises with a tenderness that sent shivers racing down your spine. But there was something barely restrained in him, something trembling at the edge of control.

"Mate," he growled, voice raw, the word vibrating from his chest like a snarl, like a plea, as if he might snap in half if he didn’t sink into you this very instant.

You met his eyes, still hazy from pleasure, still dazed from the intensity of it all, but you knew what he needed—what you needed. Without a word, you lifted one leg over his hip, opening yourself to him, guiding him closer. And slower than you ever thought possible, he began to push in.

The stretch was overwhelming, the feeling so intense it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. You could feel him everywhere, in every part of you, in every nerve ending, in the very marrow of your bones. Both of you groaned in unison, bodies trembling at the sheer overwhelming sensation of being joined like this, and fuck—you had never felt more full, more complete, more utterly his than in this moment.

But then Jungkook stilled.

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, pleading for him to move, to give you more. But Jungkook’s body trembled, his grip on your hips tightening—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor himself. Unintentionally, his fingers pressed just a little too hard against one of your bruises, and the sharp gasp you let out had him groaning. He pulled back instantly, cursing under his breath.

“Fuck. Wait—don’t… don’t move.” His voice was strained, wrecked. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his breath searing down the slope of your neck, over your collarbone, making your nipples harden further. His body shuddered. “You feel too fucking good.”

You didn’t care. You needed him to move.

“Jungkook,” you pleaded, trembling beneath him, body taut with need. “Please—move.”

He was shaking. He was trying so hard to hold himself back, but after a long, painful moment, he finally nodded, voice wrecked.

“Yeah… fuck.”

He pulled out agonizingly slowly, the drag of him against your walls, against every sensitive nerve inside you, making your toes curl and a desperate mewl escape your lips, making you whimper, your thighs trembling around him. Jungkook groaned—a deep, guttural sound—and his grip on your hips tightened, holding you still, not trusting you, not trusting himself—not right now, not with how tight and warm you felt around him.

And then he thrust back in.

Your breath hitched, a broken moan tearing from your throat, and Jungkook’s control snapped completely. His movements were still slow, but deep, hard, relentless in their precision. The force of each thrust sent pleasure crashing through you, your body arching into him, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. Your nails raked down his back, over his arms, but Jungkook didn’t let up. He was lost in you, drowning in the way you clenched around him, the way you took him so perfectly, as if you were made for him.

Your eyes rolled back, pleasure so sharp it left you breathless, and Jungkook wasn’t fairing any better. His hair clung to his forehead, sweat beading along his temple, his breath ragged against your ear. He didn’t dare look down, didn’t dare watch where his cock was disappearing inside you, because just the thought of it was almost enough to undo him.

He needed more.

His hands roamed greedily over you. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, dragging you against him, against the heat of his skin. His scent was thick in the air, intoxicating, wrapping around you like a drug.

“Fuck, I want you,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a desperate groan.

You gasped against his throat, shivering at the sheer need in his voice. Your lips brushed against his skin, soft and warm and reverent.

“You have me.”

A tremor ran down Jungkook’s spine, his hand tightening in your hair as he fought for control. But then—

“Where will you mark me?”

The question sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, your walls clenching desperately around him involuntarily. Jungkook let out a broken moan, his rhythm faltering. He was holding on by a thread, his entire body trembling with restraint, waiting—pleading for your answer.

"I—" Your voice faltered, your mind hazy with pleasure, with need, with the overwhelming gravity of what he was asking.

But there was no hesitation in him.

"Mark me, my mate,"

His voice was rough, commanding, leaving no room for doubt. And you didn’t hesitate any longer. You tilted your head, lips brushing over the spot that had drawn your attention from the moment he had leapt after you, the spot where his pulse thundered beneath his skin. You parted your lips, tongue flicking over the skin once, twice—

And then you bit down.

Jungkook shattered.

A deep, guttural growl tore from his throat as he slammed into you one final time, his entire body locking up as he spilled inside you, his pleasure hitting so hard it sent you spiraling after him. Your own release crashed over you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out, your body shaking as you clenched around him, milking him for everything he had.

His body covered yours, his hips rolling through the aftershocks, prolonging both your highs, until the pleasure finally faded into a warm, blissful haze.

You could feel him throbbing inside you, feel the way his breath shuddered against your skin, feel the way his hands still held you like he was afraid to let go.

You had claimed him.

And he was yours.

Jungkook collapsed against you, panting, shuddering, his lips pressing feverish, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone—anywhere he could reach. His breath was still uneven, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of his release, but he never stopped touching you, never stopped grounding himself in the reality of you beneath him.

You had marked him.

There was no going back now.

He was yours.

But as you slowly came down from the high, your mind clearing in the hazy warmth of his embrace, a realization settled over you—one that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

He hadn’t marked you.

Just as he had promised, he had held himself back, had given you the choice to wake up in the morning and decide for yourself. He had been careful, considerate, exactly as he had sworn he would be. And yet… you found yourself wishing he hadn’t. Wishing he had been selfish, had lost control, had claimed you the way you had claimed him.

Your body betrayed you, walls fluttering involuntarily around him at the mere thought.

Jungkook groaned, his body jolting in response. His head dropped to your shoulder, a soft chuckle vibrating through his chest as he realized what you had just done.

You gasped, your face burning. “That— I didn’t mean—”

But Jungkook lifted himself up, still nestled deep inside you, still keeping you close, and the look on his face nearly made you forget how to breathe. His dark eyes drank you in, half-lidded and lazy with satisfaction, yet still burning with something deeper—something raw and unfiltered. He looked wrecked in the best way possible, his skin flushed, his damp hair falling into his eyes, his lips still swollen from kissing you. And yet, it was the way he gazed at you, the way he took in every inch of you, the way his scent wrapped so thickly around you, mixing with yours—it made your stomach flip.

And, of course, the bastard knew it.

A slow, wicked smirk curled at the corner of his lips. “You’re a menace,” he murmured, voice still rough from pleasure.

You let out a breathless laugh, your body still too spent to do anything more than weakly swat at his arm. But Jungkook was faster, capturing your wrist and pinning it beside your head, his nose brushing teasingly along the curve of your throat before he playfully nipped at your skin. You squeaked, squirming, but he only chuckled again, his hands steady on your hips, making sure he didn’t slip from you just yet.

After a moment, his voice softened.

“You good?”

You took a slow breath, nodding. And then, as you met his gaze, the question that had been lingering in your mind slipped out before you could stop it.

“You didn’t mark me.”

It wasn’t an accusation, wasn’t even disappointment, just a quiet observation.

But Jungkook’s reaction was immediate.

His gaze dropped to your neck, to the exact spot where he already knew—without a doubt—his mark would one day belong. His fingers twitched against your skin, as if barely restraining himself from reaching out, from pressing his lips to that spot, from sinking his teeth in and sealing the bond.

“You want me to?”

The roughness of his voice sent a fresh shiver down your spine, but before you could even answer, you felt him twitch inside you.

A startled yelp left your lips, and now it was his turn to chuckle, clearly pleased with himself as he nosed at your throat, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin.

“Jungkook,” you whined, still sensitive, still overwhelmed.

He hummed in amusement, pressing another kiss to your neck. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes,” you admitted, breathlessly. “But… but not today.” You swallowed, suddenly shy. “Thank you. For… for letting me choose.”

Jungkook stilled for a moment, then pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, and something warm, something dangerously tender flickered in those dark irises.

“Don’t mistake me, little mate,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “If you decide to leave the pack in the morning—which would be a fucking terrible decision after all the work it took for them to recognize you—I’d simply follow you.” He smirked, eyes dark and unwavering. “I’m yours now.”

Your heart swelled, a feeling too big, too all-consuming wrapping around your ribs, threatening to steal the breath from your lungs. You barely had the strength to say it, to let the word slip from your lips in a whisper so soft it barely existed between you.

“Mate.”

And then you kissed him, slowly, deeply, reverently, brushing your nose against his before your lips met.

Delighting in the warmth of him.

Delighting in the fact that he was yours.

Jungkook adjusted you carefully, rearranging your limbs so you could rest comfortably for the night. But even with all his care, a hiss of protest left you both when he slowly, begrudgingly, slipped out of you—dragging out the inevitable as long as he could.

Still, he helped you clean up, albeit reluctantly. Even as he wiped you down, his hands lingered, his touch reverent, his lips brushing over your skin as if he could somehow preserve the moment. And when he finally let you settle back into the furs, his scent still clung to you—enough to satisfy him, though not nearly enough for his liking.

Jungkook tucked himself against you, his nose buried in your hair, his arms wrapped protectively around your waist. Your lips hovered near his neck, your hands resting over his heart and around his shoulder, holding him just as much as he held you. Your legs tangled together beneath the blanket draped lazily over you—not that you needed it. Jungkook’s warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the safety of his presence—it was all you needed to lull you into sleep.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It was early when you stirred, blinking against the soft light creeping through the tent. Jungkook was still wrapped around you, his body heavy with sleep, his grip unyielding. With a sleepy groan, you tried to sit up, pushing away the haze of drowsiness.

Jungkook mumbled something incoherent, his arms tightening around you as he buried his face deeper into your neck.

You chuckled, trying again—only to be rolled onto your back, his weight pressing you down. His nose nudged against your throat, his breath warm against your skin, still lost in the remnants of slumber.

A laugh bubbled from your lips as you tried to wake him with kisses to his neck. He grumbled in response, pressing closer instead of pulling away, a deep sound of protest rumbling in his chest.

“Don’t start anything,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep, comfort, and something dangerously close to temptation.

You huffed, nudging him playfully. “I need to get up. I have to pack.”

The reminder brought reality crashing back in. The festival was coming to an end. Soon, the packs would return to their lands, carrying stories back to their elders. And for the first time, you weren’t bound to leave with them.

You had a choice.

A choice that both thrilled and terrified Jungkook.

Because he had meant every word—if you chose to leave, he would follow. His heart had already decided. But still, a sliver of anxiety gnawed at him. Would yesterday—everything he had done, everything he had given—be enough to make you stay?

With a deep, reluctant sigh, Jungkook finally rolled off you, though not without a few more mumbled complaints.

He helped you pack, though his mood darkened when you disappeared to freshen up. And when you returned, smelling like soap and morning air instead of him, a displeased growl rumbled low in his throat.

His scent wasn’t entirely gone—he could still catch traces of it on you. But had you deliberately left it there? Or had he marked you so thoroughly last night that no amount of scrubbing could erase him?

He didn’t know.

But what he did know was that he had no interest in finishing the rest of his morning tasks—not when he could be pulling you back into bed, pressing his scent into your skin all over again.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Before Jungkook could act on his impulse to pull you back into bed and mark you all over again, two wolves arrived. And unlike you, he wasn’t particularly happy to see them.

Namjoon and Yoongi.

They greeted you warmly, their smiles easy, their presence familiar. And Jungkook—who, just moments ago, had felt content in the lingering haze of your shared night—now found himself gritting his teeth.

It wasn’t fair, but it still made his chest tighten to see you smile at them like that, to witness the genuine affection on your face. He understood, of course. Yoongi and Namjoon had been kind to you, had offered you a place where you wouldn’t have to fight to be recognized.

But understanding didn’t make it easier to watch Yoongi hover so damn close to you.

Jungkook dropped the tent pole he’d been holding, nearly bringing the entire structure crashing down on Jimin in his haste to move toward you. Yoongi barely spared him a glance, smiling as he met your gaze.

“So, Thunder, have you decided?”

You blinked. “Thunder?”

Yoongi looked just as confused as you. “Yeah. You smell like it. Didn’t you realize?”

Your brows furrowed, and you shook your head. Jungkook’s hand hovered just over your lower back, the heat of his presence grounding you, even as you remained puzzled by Yoongi’s words.

Then, Yoongi’s sharp gaze flickered to Jungkook. His expression shifted slightly, as if piecing something together. His eyes dipped to the collar of Jungkook’s shirt—where, if one knew what to look for, they’d see the faintest hint of your mark. Barely visible, easy to miss.

Yoongi chuckled under his breath.

“So?” he pressed.

“I…” You faltered, fumbling with your words.

Jungkook clenched his jaw.

He wanted to step in, to tell Yoongi off, to grab you, scent you, take you home before anyone else had the chance to make you second-guess your choice. But this wasn’t his decision to make.

Then, just as he braced himself for your answer, you took a step toward Yoongi.

And hugged him.

Jungkook’s heart lurched.

It wasn’t a possessive hug, not the kind that sent fire roaring through his veins. It was soft. Grateful. A gesture of appreciation rather than hesitation.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you murmured, stepping back. “Really.”

Then, you turned—your gaze sweeping over the rest of the pack.

Jimin looked like he was vibrating with nerves. Hana seemed as though she might faint. Seokjin was gripping Hoseok’s hand so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, as if awaiting the decision of a lifetime.

You chuckled.

“Thank you for seeing me,” you said, voice steady now. “But I want to truly see them before I can go anywhere. So, I have to decline.”

Yoongi nodded, hands tucked into his pockets, his smile warm but knowing. “Thought so.”

His gaze flickered to Jungkook, unreadable for just a second.

“But the invitation still stands,” Yoongi added, meeting your eyes again. “If you ever see something you don’t like—if you ever need a way out—come looking for me.”

A low, dangerous growl rumbled from Jungkook’s chest before he could stop it.

You only chuckled, nudging him in warning.

With that, Yoongi and Namjoon left.

Jungkook barely gave you time to breathe before he had you back in his arms, pulling you flush against him. His grip was firm, his lips pressing against your temple, his body curling around yours in a way that left no room for argument.

You laughed, struggling half-heartedly against his hold. “Jungkook—”

“You smell like that mutt,” he grumbled, voice dark, but not truly angry. His lips ghosted over your skin, his teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Jungkook,” you scolded, half amused, half exasperated.

“Not my fault he got too close,” he muttered, his hands sliding over your hips, as if physically reclaiming you. “Gotta fix it.”

“You can’t just—”

His nose brushed against your neck, inhaling deeply. “I can. And I will.”

But before you could say anything he continued “I meant what I said,” his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, quieter now, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “If you’d left, I would’ve followed.”

“I know.” Your hands moved from his hair to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms. “But I didn’t want to leave. I want this. I want—”

“Me,” Jungkook finished for you, and there was a hint of something teasing in his voice, but mostly, there was relief.

You rolled your eyes but smiled, brushing your nose against his. “Yes, you, idiot.”

A deep, pleased sound rumbled from his chest. “Then let me fix this.”

You huffed. “At least let me finish packing first?”

Jungkook let out a displeased sound but, begrudgingly, let you go—“Put your stuff with mine,” though not without grumbling under his breath as you moved to help your pack. You exhaled a soft laugh, warmth spreading through your chest.

And it didn’t take long for the teasing to begin.

“Oh, he’s not letting you out of his sight, huh?” Jimin snickered, watching as Jungkook hovered near you like a restless shadow.

“You better not run off,” Seokjin called out, smirking. “I don’t think he’d survive it.”

“You’re lucky, you know,” Hoseok added, throwing an arm over your shoulder. “He never acts like this. Usually, he just scowls at everyone.”

Jungkook growled, yanking you out of Hoseok’s hold with a glare.

Hana, still looking slightly overwhelmed, gave you a hesitant smile. “I guess that means you’re really staying?”

You glanced at Jungkook, at the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire world. His fingers curled around yours instinctively, possessive but warm.

A slow smile spread across your lips.

“Yeah,” you said, squeezing his hand. “I’m staying.”

Jungkook exhaled, relief flooding through him, though he tried not to show just how much your words meant. But when you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his entire body melted against yours. And as the pack continued to tease and celebrate, as laughter and warmth surrounded you, you realized—this wasn’t just Jungkook’s pack anymore.

This was your home.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Part 1 I Masterlist

[merlincmgirl]

Gentle Sex - Fireball x FReader - NSFW

Summary: Fireball returns back to you but he's not quite the same. Something has happened and he just wants to be as close to you as possible.

Characters: Fireball (The Bad Batch)

Pairing: Fireball x F!Reader

Word Count: 4,153

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, soft sex, riding, fingering, PinV sex, fluff and smut, they're both saps for each other.

Author's Note: This is set during TBB season 3, and Fireball lived god damn it because I am still hurt over him. It got really emotional really quickly. Again, another story that kind of ran away with itself.

The apartment was covered in a complete darkness, barely any light peeking through the windows. The barest hint of moonlight highlighted the empty living room as Fireball let himself in. He felt weighed down, armour getting heavier with every shaky breath he let out as he locked the door behind him. Every bone and muscle in his body ached as he fell back against the wall. Today had been one of the worst days of his life. The Empire had found them, and they had only just managed to escape by the skin of their teeth. He could still feel the heat flash against his skin before he was thrown back. He could have died. Could have marched on and nobody would have been the wiser about the fate of the clones.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up and began the exhausting task of taking his armour off and stacking it next to the door. As he was unhooking his belt, his fingers stilled on the holsters of his blaster. No. He wouldn’t be leaving that with the rest of his armour. Not tonight. Placing it to one side, he made the instinctual moves he needed to be finally free from the plastoid.

Fireball headed to the windows, then the back door and finally the front door again, triple checking the locks and that they were secure. It was something that he always reminded his cyare about whenever he was off planet for a while. He wanted to make sure his riddur was safe while he was on base and she had to return home to work and her other responsibilities. Before he could even blink a flash went off behind his eyes and he groaned, shoulder twinging after the hit it had received. Reaching up to rub the flash away, he knew it wasn’t real. Just like the crack and shifting of rock that sounded like it was coming from all around him.

Taking a deep breath, he looked around the room he was in, seeing the flowers in the vase you had left on the table, hear the buzzing of the conservator in the kitchen and the smell of the soap you used as you washed your clothes. It helped settle his nerves and he dragged his hands down his face.

To think he was about to ask you to stay on the rebel base permanently with him. He was glad that you were far away from Teth. That you hadn’t been there visiting when the Empire had caught up to them. He could still feel the stickiness of the bacta on his shoulder, glad that the shadow clone had missed by an inch or so otherwise he’d been marching on. And you wouldn’t know anything about it until it was safe enough for Rex to turn up at your door and tell you. Maybe not even then. It was dangerous to contact others, the Empire constantly monitoring communication systems. Rex would have to tell you over comms or a message about his death. He couldn’t imagine you finding out like that.

He needed to find you now, to feel you in his arms and hold you close to him. To know that you were real and that he was alive. That this time you had been lucky.

Heading to the quarters at the back of the apartment, Fireball let himself in and finally felt more relaxed than he had for hours. Seeing you safe and sound was a balm to his frayed nerves. You were fast asleep, not a care in the world. Unable to help it, he ran his fingers through your hair before he stripped off his blacks. He wanted to get in beside you, feel your warmth against him and hear the soft breaths you let out, imagining how they would feel against his exposed tanned skin.

“Fire?” a voice groaned, and he grimaced at waking you up.

“Go back to sleep cyare” he whispered, sliding in beside you and wrapping his arms around your middle, pulling you back to him.

“Sleep? No! Missed you” you murmured, still half asleep as you turned in his arms to face him. You nuzzled in closer, pressing a kiss to the bottom of his neck and letting out a contented sigh. It felt amazing to have Fireball back home. Even if he had sneaked into your apartment and didn’t announce his visit. It was such a wonderful surprise to have him here.

Fireball sighed, closing his eyes as he held you close to him, not willing to let you go just yet. Having you here in his arms was overwhelming. To think that this could have all been taken away from him so easily, to have your love and then for it to be so easily ripped away.

“Missed you too” he mumbled, burying his face into your hair, his breathing shaky as he took you in. The scent of your shampoo, the feel of your soft skin against his, the warmth you radiated after being so wrapped up in your blanket, the soft sounds of your sleep addled brain coming out of your mouth as you began to wake up. “So much, cyare” he admitted, closing his eyes and holding you even tighter.

“Fire” you grumbled, pushing against his hold slightly so you could breathe a little easier. “You okay?” you asked, feeling the slight tremble in his hands as he held you closer to him.

Instead of answering, Fireball rolled you over so you were on your back, settling above you as he let his weight press you into the mattress. Running a hand from your hip all the way up your sides, tracing the curves of your breast and up your throat to cup your cheek, he couldn’t help but let out a little huff of air at having you underneath him. Not wasting time on words, he lowered his lips to yours, gently prying them apart so he could slip in his tongue, exploring your mouth and letting out quiet moans at reuniting with you once again.

You couldn’t help but melt into his kiss, running a hand up his back to run your fingers through his dark hair. You tugged on the strands, leaving a little nip on his bottom lip as you did so, expecting his playful swipe of tongue against your own. Instead, you felt him caress your cheek, your jaw and just feel you.

Something was wrong, this was not how his normal returns would go. Most times, he could barely wait to get through the doors before he was on you, pressing you against him and tugging off your clothes as soon as he could. Whispering filth in your ear about how he had missed you and what he was going to do to you to make up for all those lonely nights without each other. Would complain how he only had his brothers for company when you weren’t there, how he’d have to listen to their idiocy while he thought about you.

This, however, was not that. Was nowhere close to what you would have expected from Fireball and his playful and teasing personality. This was more contradictory; gentle, yet tense at the same time. He was acting strange. Something must have happened to make him act like this. You wondered if it was his brothers, if the rebellion had been crushed before it began. As you went to push him away, he groaned and shook his head before returning his lips to yours, laying gentle kisses all up and down your jaw. Again, too slow. Not like he normally did, and definitely not like when he wanted to take him time and make you squirm.

“Let me kiss you” he whispered, nuzzling his nose with yours as you felt something hard brush against your thigh. Letting out a little sigh, he took in a deep breath, almost like he was trying to soak you in. “Want you like this” he told you, running a hand down to tug the neckline of your sleepwear down.

“Why are you being so gentle with me? I like it when you’re rough” you frowned, pulling away enough to get your words out and to cup his face, to try and get him to look at you. But all he seemed incapable of doing anything but hold you close, not willing to let you get away from him.

“Just let me have this, please cyar’ika. I need to feel you tonight, need to hold you close to me” Fireball murmurs, kissing gently down your neck and to your chest. He whines, still not close enough to you for his liking. Pulling away, he climbs up your bed until he sits against the headboard.

There’s so much sadness in his eyes, you’re about to ask him if he wants to stop before large, warm, calloused hands are gripping you and tugging you onto his lap. You’re straddling his lap, his cock pressing against your core as you run a gentle hand through his greying hair, the lighter strands mixing with his dark ones effortlessly. “We can stop this if you want? We don’t have to do this. We can just hold each other” you suggested softly, watching how he almost melted into your touch. Whatever Fireball needed at the moment, you would provide that for him. Be it a gentle touch, some loving words or the feel of your bodies moving against each other. Whatever he needed, you wanted him to feel comfortable and relaxed.

However, at your words, Fireball shuddered and tensed up, wrapping an arm around your waist and another round your back and pulling you closer. “No, please! I need you, cyare. Just like this” he begs, hand gliding up into your hair before he pulls you down for a kiss. It’s soft and gentle and desperate all at the same time, the way he holds your head in his large hand, the way his lips move against your own and the way his tongue asks for entrance into your mouth makes your heart ache with love.

Nodding, you can’t help but to give in to him. Whatever it was had shaken Fireball enough for him to act like this, he was obviously too distressed to talk about it. So if he needed you like this, you would be there to hold him against you and provide the comfort and safety he needed at this time. You pulled away, reaching for the hem of your shirt. “Gonna take this off, okay?” you breathed, resting your forehead together against his. Fireball let out a shuddering breath, pressing his head into yours before helping you to pull off your shirt. You were thankful to have forgone your usual bottoms, instead going to bed in just your panties.

“So beautiful” he let out, voice full of awe and appreciation as he took in the sight of your heaving chest, your breasts bouncing slightly at the momentum. He lifted a hand to them, feeling the weight of them in his hands before pressing gentle kisses to each one before taking a nipple into his mouth.

You groaned, unable to help it as your hips rocked against his. The feeling of his hot mouth against your chest had your eyes slipping closed, hands coming to run through his hair and holding him closer to you. “Yes, you’re so good at that, riddur. Make me feel so special” you praised him, knowing how much he enjoyed listening to how he made you feel.

“You’re special… always come back to you… ner kar’ta, ner cyare” he whispered back to you, mouth barely lifting from your chest.

You could feel the vibration of his words echo in your chest and across your skin. Tugging him up by the back of his neck, you pressed an urgent kiss to his lips, trying to encourage him to move a little faster. You loved whenever he spoke Mando’a to you, the language making his voice drop lower and roughen up his words so that they felt like caresses against your sensitive skin.

“Fireball” you gasped, trailing your hands down his broad chest, your hands found the small wound that looked recent. Very, very recent if the residue of bacta had anything to say about it. Instantly you pulled away, scowling down at the mark on your trooper’s shoulder. He had been hurt. The thought made dread settle in your stomach at the sight. “You’re hurt! We shouldn’t be doing this” you protested, gently running your fingertips over the red and raised skin.

“I’m fine. I’m fine, not hurting at all. I’m here mesh’la, I promise. I just need you, need to feel you against me right now. Please” he begged, shaking his head and pulling you down onto his hardened cock. He squeezed your hips, sending you a small smile in reassurance before he began sucking a mark underneath your breast. You just know the bruise would be something for you to remember him by when he returned to the clone rebellion.

Letting him pull you back down against him, sinking into that head space as you began to rock against him, teasing you both at the friction.

“Can I take these off?” he asked, biting his lip as his fingers tucked underneath the hem of your panties. You could feel his calloused fingertips brushing against your skin, squeezing slightly before running soothingly across your hips, never daring to venture lower like you wanted him too.

“Of course!” you consented, helping to raise yourself up and aid him in taking off your underwear. He slipped them under your knees, carefully pulling them down your legs until they were off and he threw them somewhere in your bedroom. You didn’t care as long as he was touching you.

“Never leaving you, cyar’ika” he vowed before his face turned into a grimace and he shook his head. As you opened your mouth to check in with him once more, he gripped the back of your neck and pulled you into a kiss, his other hand venturing down to your wet core. Words were forgotten as you felt yourself get lost in him. The feel of him against you, the dark hair on his chest tickling yours, his strong thighs beneath you spreading you open for him. As he trailed his fingers between your folds, gathering your wetness, you couldn’t help but whimper at the touch of him. It had been so long since he was here with you, since you could properly take care of each other without the use of toys and a temperamental comm line. “You’re so wet for me pretty girl” he moaned in appreciation before rubbing at your clit with his thumb.

Your hips jumped up at touch, seeking out more pleasure from him. “Fireball, please, I need more” you insisted, tired of his careful caresses of your labia. You wanted to feel him. Feel his long, talented fingers slide inside of you, prepare you for him after being so long away from each other.

“Anything” he promised, licking a stripe from your neck and up your throat, stopping at the spot just under your ear where he devoted all his attention into giving you gentle kisses and leaving a mark there for all to see.

With that, he gently and slowly pressed one finger into you, and you sighed, sinking onto him. “That’s it, Fire! Maker, just there!” you gasped, reaching down to guide his hand into a better position so you could rock your hips against his hand.

He hummed against the skin of your neck, one of his hands gripping your hips to guide your movements against him. With his help, you managed to find a good rhythm as you ducked yourself open on his finger, letting out a loud moan as Fireball pressed another finger inside of you, pressing deep and crooking them to find that spot inside of you.

It took him a couple of tries but you could feel yourself tighten around him as he continued to play that bundle of nerves inside of you, strumming away as though he was trying to match a beat in his head. You clutched at him, grounding against his hand to try and seek your pleasure, to feel the heat wash over you as you sought your release.

“Good girl, you’re so beautiful like this. So perfect” Fireball smiled, spreading kisses all over the swell of your breasts. He closed his eyes, listening to your sounds of pleasure and ecstasy as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He needed to prepare you for him as well as make sure that whatever happens, you would remember nights like these with him.

When he was sure you were prepared for his cock, he pulled his fingers away, mouth seeking yours as he continued to rub his desperate cock against you slightly before stilling. “Need you, mesh’la” he reiterated, guiding you over his cock and gently holding you as you sunk down onto his length.

“I’m here Fireball, I promise, I’m not leaving you” you assured, stroking his cheek before wrapping yourself tight around him, knowing and feeling like he needed that close connection tonight. To feel how close the two of you were, with nothing in between you but the love, respect and care you had for each other.

Taking great care, you began to bounce back onto his cock just as he thrust up into you, both of you letting out loud moans of pleasure as you felt his length fill you and you squeezed down around his cock. Pushing a few strands of hair away from his sweaty forehead, you both rocked against each other, barely pulling off from his cock. You didn’t want to be too far away from him.

Gasping and panting heavily, Fireball took one of your hardened buds into his mouth, running his tongue around the nipple before he sucked on it softly as he tugged you even closer to him. He couldn’t get enough of you, wanted to savour this moment for as long as he lived. The feel of your body pressed against his, both of you climbing and chasing that pleasure that only the other could give. He couldn’t help but let out a quiet high sound as he felt your walls ripple around him.

“So beautiful” he breathed, hips thrusting up into you as he held you still, hands gripping tightly onto your hips. He swallowed your whine, sliding his hands around your body and up and down your back, determined to not let there be any space in between you. You were intoxicating to him, he could never get enough of you.

“Fire!” you hissed, dropping your head onto his shoulder as a hand slipped above where you were connected, finding the bundle of nerves that was swollen against his touch.

“Please, mesh’la. Please cum around me, I need to feel you soak my cock.”

Shaking your head, you brought your face up to his, taking in the desperate and loving look that he was sending your way. “Cum with me, I know you’re close” you whispered, pressing your lips against his as you thrust your hips back down to him.

Fireball couldn’t help but sob as he felt you tighten and clench around him. You cried out his name, digging your nails into his back as your walls shook and you felt your release wash over you. His cock throbbed inside of you, shooting ropes of cum inside of you. He held you close, both of you shuddering through your intense orgasm.

Without needing to be asked, you held him against your chest as he sobbed, tears flowing down his cheeks. Pressing gentle and tender kisses against the crown of his head, you couldn’t help but feel a few tears of your own build behind your eyes. This brave, strong trooper had been through enough. And whatever had happened before he came home to you had obviously shook him. It was no wonder that his release had triggered this intense emotional reaction.

Shushing and making soothing noises, you rocked him as much as you could with how you were still connected to him. Playing with the short curls at the back of his neck, you assured him he was safe, that he was loved and that he always had you. That for tonight at least he could relax and put down his every worry.

“I nearly died.”

The words cut straight to your heart, and you tightened your grip around him, fear lodging in your throat.

“What? Wha-what do you mean?” you stuttered, hoping that you had misheard him. It wasn’t that you didn’t know that death was a very real possibility for him. He was fighting back against the Empire and trying to rescue his brothers. But this was one of the first times that you had even came close to experiencing him being taken from you.

“The Empire… they found the base. One of their shadow clones infiltrated the base and was shooting at us. I couldn’t… I couldn’t just stand there while Nemec was hurt so I… I laid covering fire” he explained, words pouring out of him along with his tears.

“Of course you did, you’re so brave. I know you would do anything for your brothers” you reassured, squeezing him to you.

“I grabbed a flame thrower, thought it might throw off his scope but he… he got a hit in.”

“You shoulder?” you frowned, reaching for the wound that he had. Fireball nodded, taking another shuddering breath.

“I dropped the flame thrower, realised it was next to some thermal detonators and I… I ran. I felt the heat, the light from the blast… I can still feel it cyare, it’s like it’s burnt into me” he admitted, running a hand over his face once more.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re bound to feel it when you’re still working through this and processing everything” you reminded him, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back.

“I’m a soldier! I was made to withstand the pressure and stress of war!” he grumbled out, shaking his head in objection.

“How much though? You nearly died baby, that doesn’t just leave you, no matter your genetic engineering” you soothed, kissing his temple.

Fireball sighed, agreeing with you as he wrapped his arms around your waist and lifting you off him. You grimaced at the feel of his release trickling out of you. Making sure not to let you go too much, Fireball resituated you both so you were lying on his chest and he was relaxing against the bed. You were both a lot more comfortable, and you could continue to touch and soothe each other as Fireball told you exactly what happened to him.

“I heard the walls and roof start to crack and cave in. Rex managed to drag me back to the command post before I could be crushed” he retold, closing his eyes as you traced patterns on his chest.

“Remind me to give him an extra big hamper next time I see him” you grinned, hoping to bring that smile that you loved onto his face. Looking up, you caught the twitch of his lips as he scoffed at your joke.

“I’m sure he’d love that!” he remarked, amused at the thought of Rex receiving a hamper and not knowing what to do or say to you. His face fell as he remembered how close he was to actually leaving you, how Rex would have to tell you about his death. “All that time, I could remember seeing your face. Thinking that it wasn’t fair, that we haven’t had our time together yet. It wasn’t enough. I don’t think it will ever be enough” Fireball revealed, looking down at you.

You swallowed the ball in your throat, snuggling into him even more. You couldn’t think about how it would feel if you lost Fireball. It would be like your whole world would collapse on itself, your heart would break into a million pieces with no hope of ever recovering. It was a fate you didn’t want to think about at all.

“I don’t think eternity would be enough for us” you agreed, tears slipping down your cheeks and onto his chest. He rubbed a warm, soothing palm against your spine. “But… I don’t want to waste any more of our time Fireball. What happened has just proven it. So ask me” you breathed, gulping back the lump in your throat and the nerves settling into your belly.

“What?” he gaped, eyebrows risen in surprise at your response.

“Ask me the question we’ve both been dancing around for ages now” you instructed him, looking up into his honey-coloured eyes.

“Would you join me and the others?”

[stuckinthesun]

“You got a little something…” Sanji x Fem!Reader

Kinktober — Week One: Food play (whipped cream), semi-public sex, against a wall, desperate

When you guys docked The Sunny at the nearest Island, your guy’s plan had been the usual one: split up, stock up, load up, move on. But when the crew got to the main village of the small island to see the townspeople in the midst of setting up for a large Halloween party, the plans instantly changed.

Luffy was more than happy to invite himself and his crew to this village's festivities and, of course, put his friends to work to make up for their intrusion. You and Sanji were obviously put on food and drink, getting no complaints from your boyfriend as he was already talking to the local chef about tonight's menu.

You smile at the blonde fondly and follow after him, ready to be his sue chef.

Hours later, the town was a beautiful sight. Pumpkins, both carved and plain, decorated the steps of the buildings; orange lights glittered in the trees, and all kinds of spooky Halloween decorations were set up on the main street, making the local kids laugh.

It was nice, and the townspeople were so lively and festive. You couldn’t wait to go out there and enjoy it after finishing your job serving food to everyone.

“Darling, please, I can handle this myself,” Sanji complained again as he came towards you with another stack of delicious food to be passed out, “grab some food for yourself and enjoy the party.”

You smiled at him, taking the tray of food from him and handing him your empty one, “Now, how am I supposed to enjoy the party without my date, hmm?”

Sanji’s cheeks flush bright red, making you giggle.

“Sorry, baby! I’m almost done, I promise! I’ll be out to enjoy the party with you soon, don’t you worry!” Your boyfriend shouted much too loudly as he started running back to the kitchen, bumping into people as he went. You just smiled at him and nodded before turning around and batting away the rubber hand that tried to steal another helping of food.

After you finish serving the last of the food, you don’t get to see Sanji again for twenty minutes as he helped the local chef clean up. As you waited for your boyfriend to join you for the night, you got yourself a drink, finally allowing yourself to unwind.

“I’m here!” You hear a familiar voice call out, and you smile as you turn to see Sanji jogging up to you, “I’m here, my sweet!”

“Never doubted you,” You chuckled, giving him a kiss when he finally made it to you.

“And as an apology for making you wait,” Sanji beamed a cheeky smirk at you as he held out a plate. You looked down and saw a delicious-looking dessert with what looked like freshly whipped cream, making your eyes widen.

“Did you seriously make all of this? Is that a short amount of time?” You ask, taking the plate from him.

“What, you doubt my skills?”

“Of course not.” You roll your eyes with a smile and take a bite of the dessert.

Instantly your eyes close and an involuntary moan escape’s your lips at the sweet taste. Sanji’s cooking is always flawless, but his baking is almost just as good.

“Gods this is amazing,” You mumble, looking up at your boyfriend to see him staring at you with wide eyes and red cheeks.

“I’m glad.” He said quietly, voice sounding like it was caught in his throat.

You furrowed your eyebrows, “Are you-“

“Have another bite.” Sanji quickly cut you off, almost demanding, as he nodded his head towards your dessert.

You narrowed your eyes and slowly took another bite. This time when you bit into your treat, a smear of whipped cream got on your cheek.

You sighed, ready to ask your boyfriend to grab you a napkin, when he reached up, cupped your chin, and pressed his thumb against your skin. Slowly, Sanji began to smear the cream along your lips before sliding his thumb between them, forcing the whipped cream inside.

Eyes widening, your grip on the dessert plate tightened as you stood there shocked. You instinctually began to suck on the digit in your mouth, feeling heat pool between your legs as you watched Sanji’s eyes stay fixated on your lips wrapped around his thumb, almost like he was in a trance.

Sanji’s gaze seemed to grow hungrier as he started sliding his thumb from your mouth, the whipped cream now licked clean, and pulling your bottom lip down along with it.

Finally his eyes met yours again.

“Do you mind if I keep you from the party just a little longer, Doll?” Sanji muttered, and you shook your head immediately.

Without another word, Sanji grabbed you by the hand and began pulling you between buildings, trying to get as far from the party as possible. You scramble to set your dessert down on a nearby table as you’re dragged away, knowing for sure that Luffy will find it before you return.

Anticipation tingled your skin and you quickly followed behind him. You had honestly never seen your boyfriend like that before, and it heated your core to see the pure want in his eyes.

The moment Sanji deems the two of you far enough away, he has you pressed up against a wall in a desperate kiss.

You sigh into the kiss, reaching up to grip him by his dress shirt and pull him closer. Sanji pushed himself flush against you, rolling his hips against yours, letting you feel just how hard he already is.

You pull back from the kiss, “Fuck Sanji, what’s gotten into you all of a sudden?”

“Dunno,” The blond mumbles, leaning down to kiss along your neck making you moan, “Just need you.”

With a nod you slid your hands down his torso, unbuttoning his dress pants and untucking his dress shirt. Sanji’s hands trailed along your thighs and up your skirt to grip your panties, yanking them down in one fluid motion.

“Fuck~” You hiss when the cool air hits your warm center, making you want to close your legs and rub your thighs together.

You don’t even get the chance as you’re suddenly picked up, legs wrapping around Sanji’s waist as he suddenly buries himself inside of you.

“O-oh gods! Sa-Sanji!” You cry out, tears flooding your eyes at the sudden intrusion.

“Couldn’t wait anymore, Princess.” Is Sanji’s response, his voice sounding deeper than usual, “I’m sorry I promise to make you feel so good.”

“Please,” You whimper, holding onto your boyfriend for dear life. His long cock fills you so well, just kissing your cervix and driving you nuts.

You want him to move.

“Fuck.” Sanji groans and gives you just what you need.

He starts thrusting up into you hard and fast, his powerful leg’s useful for more than just fighting. Both of you moan loudly and cling onto each other tighter. Sanji’s face is tucked against your neck, dragging open mouth against your skin while you grip fistfuls of his hair.

It’s all so much; you can still hear the music from the party, see the orange light’s glittering in Sanji’s hair, watch your breath in the cool October night air.

You can feel how his cock hits your sweet spot just right, every time. Causing shivers to go down your spine and loud moans to pass your lips.

Heat builds in your abdomen until you can’t hold it anymore, “Sanji I’m gonna-“

“Me too, love,” Sanji grunts, his thrusts becoming sloppy in a telltale sign of his own orgasm, “Fuck, baby, me too. Cum for me, don’t be shy.”

“Sanji!” You cry out, cumming hard with only his cock inside of you.

The feeling of you cumming around him pulled Sanji off the edge right along with you, making him spill inside of you.

The two of you just stayed like that for a minute, panting against the wall, trying to catch your breath.

After a little bit, Sanji pulled away and looked at you sheepishly, “Sorry about all… that.”

You blink at him before smirking slowly, “I don’t know, I kinda like it. Maybe I should’ve brought the dessert and let you lick some of the whipped cream off of me.”

You felt his now soft dick inside of you twitch and slowly begin to harden again.

You look at him.

Sanji looks at you.

You’ll definitely have to remember this.

Let’s pretend I didn’t get really sick and actually was able to post this on week one AND that the ending isn’t rushed okay