#will there be intense peril? yes

[hpowellsmith]

NOBLESSE OBLIGE is due to launch August 25 - wishlist on Steam!

Spark romance amid secrets in a crumbling mansion! What will you sacrifice for love? Can you trust your own heart?

Noblesse Oblige: a Crème de la Crème Adventure is a 137,000-word interactive Gothic romance novella, a standalone story in the Crème de la Crème universe.

On a windswept island, far from the mild shores of Westerlin, stands the estate that is your new home. You have been hired to work as a conversation partner for a lonely aristocrat. It is a profitable opportunity, and your impoverished upbringing and middling university education leave you few others.

But secrets lurk in every darkened corridor, and nothing is what it seems. Why does your young charge go wandering in the middle of the night, haunted and mourning? What is in the letters that the charming new secretary constantly writes? Why is your employer so intent on keeping outsiders from prying into the family’s business?

Attend grand balls, ride through fast-paced fox hunts, spend jovial evenings with the servants, teach diligent lessons to your charge, and observe - or take part in - this northern land’s religious rituals. Meanwhile, there are webs of deceit for you to unravel, and deep mysteries to explore. When you reach the end, will you bring justice to those who deserve it, or keep their secrets buried forever?

And, of course, there is love: midnight trysts, stolen moments, and sweet warmth amid the cold. Your job on this remote island has just begun: will you work hard for a secure future or abandon everything to follow your heart?

[baldursgate3tempobsessed]

Astarion Jealousy Part 2

The graphic extension to this but a lil less serious and definitely not sfw.

CW: Jealous spawn astarion who is still a sweetheart, but the drow twins get under his skin. graphic sex scenes, oral, relatively tame honestly. The sex part will be under the cut btw which is m/f. Also vampire man drinks blood. mentionable incorrect language for sex workers

~

It was odd, being home in Baldur’s Gate without the threat of Cazador always looming. Odd, but equally as wonderful. It had been so thoughtful, if not a little idiotic for Cazador to end up being your first stop in the city. The fight itself had been a blur, a barrage of intense emotions and bloody violence. Astarion had come so close to losing himself back there, losing everything that made him better than the man who almost ruined him. But then… you stopped him. You saw something more in him, a chance for a better life. A more meaningful life, away from the shackles of vampiric power obsessions. 

He was officially free. Now he could exist without any fear of his disgusting master’s retribution. He could just… be. Well… not including his darling’s own myriad of enemies that seemed to follow them about everywhere. And there was still the matter of defeating the elder brain, and lord knows if any of you made it through that alive. But at least his personal demons were slain and out of the picture.

Every little step counted after all. Perhaps some of your delusional hopefulness had finally started to rub off on him, but Astarion was actually starting to look forward to his future. Your future, together. All he had to do was get through a few more perilous adventures and then he’d really have you all to himself. 

All that said, Astarion could really go without the frequent visits to the local brothel. Was it the best place in the city for gathering information? Yes. It seemed that every walk of life in Baldur’s Gate found their way into Shar’s Caress and if you were going to find alternative passage to the underworld, this would be the best place to find it. But that didn’t mean he had to like it. For one there were the unwelcome advances to his own person, the concept of grace and personal space apparently left at the door. He was so very close to breaking the hand of the next person who thought it was appropriate to grab his ass. And if they could afford to get kicked out he would have by now. Your verbal, angry tirades in his defense could only scare off so many. 

But as terrible as his own discomfort was, it was nothing in the face of how often you were being fawned over. What was it about you that seemed to drive everyone mad? Yes you were objectively attractive, but this was frankly getting out of hand. First there was the green skinned druid doing something sensual to your mind, then there were the general stares and whispers as you walked by, and now a pair of gorgeous drow twins trying and failing to proposition you. 

It was getting tiresome. There were only so many times a man could take his lover being offered “free” services before he snapped. 

On one hand, he could respect the dedication they had to the craft. He could be considered something of a hired whore himself in his time, the old, “the first one’s free” was a tried and true trick. And he also knew, vaguely, that no one was actually trying to steal you from him. But on the other, he couldn’t help the fact that he wanted to claw their eyes out for looking at you so brazenly.

He hadn’t expected the eyes of the woman to wander over to him, like she was just noticing the possessive arm he had wrapped around your waist, “Is that your partner with you? How would you both feel about having a little fun?”

Absolutely fucking not. Maybe the old Astarion would have smiled and nodded, ready to do whatever was asked of him. But the man from that wretched era had died, or at the very least was dying. And he would be damned if he let you lay with another, never less participate in it. 

Astarion interrupted your overly-polite attempts stuttering of a refusal. He glared at them both, a sneer painted on his face, “We’ll be passing on that. You’d think the first no would have sufficed, but I suppose it’s not fair to expect everyone to have basic language comprehension. Now as illuminating as this conversation has been, we have places to be. Excuse us.”

Then he was pulling you away, happy to ignore the offended huffs of indignation he had left in his wake. 

“We’re supposed to be investigating, remember?” You said with a giggle, not even questioning him as he dragged you to the second floor, “Being rude is not the way we’ll find travel to the hells.”

“I highly doubt they would have been of use,” Astarion said as he pushed you into the first empty room he could find. He felt off, maybe even a little crazed as he turned to you, “Tell me darling, what is it about you that makes you so irresistible, hm?”

He crowded you against the closed door, ducking his head into the crook of your neck to breath you in. You smelled heavenly, you always did. He could trace the barest whiff of your blood from beneath your skin, always calling to him. You were the sweetest thing he ever tasted. Delicious even, for more reasons than one. 

“T-They just wanted my coin,” You gasped when he started to suck bruises into your skin, “That’s all.”

“I think they wanted a bit more than that,” Astarion bit out as he shoved his thigh between your legs, “What will it take for others to realize you’re mine.”

His hands were wandering, resting low to grip your hips. He was using them to move you, forcing you to grind against his thigh. You grasped at his shoulders, trying to bite back a moan as you stared at him with wide eyes, “You want to do it here? Does that door even lock?”

It looked like it didn’t, not that Astarion cared. Maybe walking in on him ravishing you would finally start getting the point across of who you belonged to. Astarion shrugged, "There are less appropriate venues than literal whore houses."

“But-”

“But I can tell you want it,” Astarion interrupted with a smirk, his hands barely working to move your body anymore. But that wasn’t stopping you from rubbing yourself all over him, “Just look at you darling. Desperate little thing. But if you really don’t want to…”

Astarion made a lazy attempt to step back, laughing out loud when your desperately pulled him back, your desire finally winning out over your common sense. But you were glaring at him, obviously annoyed that he was so good at riling you up. He had seen that look before, the one that just screamed that you were scheming something. 

He just hadn’t expected you to drop to your knees in front of him, huffing as you started to undo the fastenings to his pants, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit of a shit?”

“Maybe,” Astarion said with a strained laugh, his breath catching when you pulled his half-hard cock out, “But it seems to keep getting me the things I want.”

You rolled your eyes before licking a wide strip up his cock, like you weren’t directly proving his point. You looked amazing own there, you’re half-hearted glare morphing into a blissful haze. 

Gods, how were you real? Astarion wasn’t quite sure why you were such a fan of getting him down your throat, but he knew that he was a lucky bastard for it. 

“Sweet girl,” Astarion sighed, letting a hand drift down to tangle in your hair, “Sweet girl with a perfect mouth. And you’re all mine, aren’t you?”

You made a small, affirmative noise around his cock, taking him in deeper as you clutched at his thighs. You were so good at this, so well-trained after months of being together. He loved the soft, wet sounds that would escape your lips as you swallowed him down, the pretty way your eyes would water as you encouraged him to fuck your throat, how you would squirm in place on your knees, no doubt ruining your panties with how wet you were getting. 

And no one else would ever know. No one would get to see you like this again, feel you like this. Needy, desperate, and his. Oddly enough, that thought was what sent him over the edge. He came down your throat, groaning as you eagerly swallowed around him. 

You pulled off of him slowly, panting while you smiled up at him. There was the smallest string of spit mixed with his come, connecting from the head of his cock to your lips. You licked it up, still clinging to his thighs as you hazily stared up at him. Sweet enough to make his heart skip a beat, and his dick give a valiant twitch.

He pulled you to your feet, not wasting any time in smashing your lips together. He spun you around, pushing you towards what he prayed was a clean bed. 

He pushed you back onto the sheets, making quick work of tearing your pants down your legs as he grinned down at you, “Your turn.”

He kneeled in front of you; spreading his hands over your splayed thighs to peel off your underwear. The core of you was already glistening, slick enough to make Astarion’s mouth water. He licked his lips as he spread your legs further apart, shameless as he feasted on you with his eyes. 

You were shaking in his hold, biting your bottom lip when you whined, “Stop staring already…”

“But you’re so pretty here my sweet,” Astarion cooed, tracing a single finger over the seam of your cunt, “And you’re dripping. Poor thing, have I kept you waiting too long?”

You nodded excitedly above him, your hips bucking when he let his fingers dip in further between your pussy lips. He lightly traced your clit, softly laughing at the way the simple touch made you whine.

It was his own fault that you were so needy, a fact that brought a smirk to his lips. You always got so wet after you had him down your throat, soaked and gorgeous. 

Astarion dove right in, loudly moaning as he licked into your folds. He dragged his lips upward to suckle on your clit, basking in all the cries and whimpers escaping you.

He licked back down, teasing your hole with his tongue as your legs quivered around his head. He let the sharpness of his fangs scrape against you as he started to fuck you with his tongue, threatening your most intimate places.

He knew you liked that; little minx that you were. The slight risk of pain that was always looming. It made him want to sink his fangs in you for real, a hunger that he'd sate after he had you gushing into his mouth.

You were already close, he could tell from the way your cunt was tightening around his tongue; too worked up from the thrill of being in public and the taste of him still lingering on your tongue. Astarion trailed talented fingers up to rub against your clit, his tongue still curling inside of you as you cried out. Finally falling over the edge. But that wasn't stopping him from continuing to play with you.

You had to tug on Astarion’s hair for him to finally pull away, too over sensitive to handle his talented tongue. You were still trembling by the time he leaned back, licking his lips. He rested his head on your thigh, obviously pleased with himself as he grinned up at you. He could feel your heart racing against his cheek, the sound of your blood pumping singing through your veins. It had his mouth watering for a completely different reason. 

He let his fangs drag against the delicate skin of your inner thigh, looking up at you through his lashes, "Can I?"

A superfluous question. Not when he already knew the answer before it escaped your lips.

“Y-yeah," You mumbled, lovingly gazing down at him. He would never tire of seeing that look on your face, "But be gentle? Please?” 

"Of course my love," Astarion murmured, before promptly sinking his fangs into your flesh. He had to hold you down from the way you were still trembling, your quivering only getting worse at the pleasure mixed with pain. He didn’t let himself go rabid, just enough to get a taste. He was pulling back too soon, smiling to himself at the little whine you let out. He gently licked over the wound before standing, not yet swallowing the last drops on his tongue.

Instead he leaned forward to kiss you, more than happy to share the sweet taste of your blood as he slipped his tongue into your mouth.

“Thank you my dear,” Astarion sighed as he pulled away, “That was exactly what I needed. Now I think that’s enough investigating for one day.” 

You sighed, taking the time to card your fingers through his hair, “Agreed. Though you might have to carry me out of here now.”

Wasn’t that a wonderful idea?

Astarion hummed as he pulled your clothing back on, “I think I like the sound of that," He didn't give you time to respond, too busy sweeping you up in his arms with a grin, "I'll be taking you up on that."

You squeaked when he hefted you up, bridal style, “I wasn’t being serious!”

But it was too late, Astarion was already kicking the door open. He shrugged at you, completely shameless as he winked at a few onlookers, "Then you shouldn't have suggested it."

You groaned, hiding your face in his shirt as he happily took you outside, “I’m going to get you back for this. I hope you know that.”

Astarion laughed as he kissed the top of your head, “I’m sure you will.”

It was a childish stunt, borderline on par with a jealous tantrum, but gods, did it feel good. Good enough to sate Astarion's obsessive tendencies for an impressive amount of time. Under normal circumstances. 

But what about your lives were normal?

[gloomwitchwrites]

Winter Gem

Thranduil x Female Elf Reader

Content & Warnings: soft!Thranduil, widowed!Thranduil, fluff, peril & rescue, mild hurt/comfort

Word Count: 1.8k

Seeking something precious for Thranduil, you're caught in a storm. When you don't return, he goes searching for you.

A/N: For @firelightinferno

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist

“The first snows have arrived.”

“It has come early.”

Thranduil inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed.”

You stand beside Thranduil outside the main gates. Five guards stand nearby but there is no danger. A steady snowfall drifts down from the sky. The snowflakes are slightly gray in appearance, almost like ash on the wind. You frown down at a few of the flakes that land on your leather vambrace.

“You look ready for your hunt,” observes Thranduil, gesturing toward your attire with the tip of his head.

“Yes,” reply softly. “I plan on heading out for a bit.”

His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “In this weather?”

You glance up from the vambrace and meet his blue eyes. Thranduil’s gaze is startling and sharp. Piercing. Intense. It cuts right down to your heart. His gaze always holds you hostage, wrapping you up in his essence. Most might find Thranduil intimidating, but you know better.

“Is my king telling me I cannot?” You’re teasing him, and Thranduil knows this. His smile is one of soft amusement.

“As long as you return to me. You are free to do as you wish.” Even though Thranduil’s tone is gentle, you understand the deeper meaning.

Thranduil lost his wife many years ago. Other than his son, Legolas, you are his comfort. He wants you to be free, to enjoy the pleasures of life, but he also wants you to be safe, to return to him at the end of every leaving.

Thranduil glances over his shoulder. The guards on duty discreetly glance away, staring off into the distance as if they’ve suddenly found something of great interest. Thranduil leans in and shifts his body to block their view of you. He is close enough that it might appear that the two of you are kissing, but he does not meet your lips.

In the end, Thranduil is private about affection. He does not like to share your tender moments together in front of others.

“Enjoy your hunt. I eagerly await your return.”

You give him a half-hearted, sarcastic bow that immediately puts a wide smile on his face. Thranduil watches you until you disappear into the trees. Perhaps he lingers longer than that, wondering if you will turn around and come back to him.

It is true. You are on a hunt, but not for what he or anyone else is likely expecting.

Over a week ago, Thranduil went out in the woods with some of the guards on patrol. It’s the first time he’s been out beyond the walls in some time. Many patrols that ventured into the northern regions reported back on a strangeness in the air, and the scent of evil. Thranduil decided to investigate.

While tracking, he lost something precious.

Around his neck on a chain, Thranduil kept a silver ring. Within the ring is a precious gem, a blue stone so pale it almost appears white like a burning star. The chain that held it snapped while he and the guards chased a group of spiders that had made their way south.

He remembered it snagging, and while he did not show any distress upon telling you of its disappearance, you also know how much that ring and jewel means to him. It was a gift from his wife when they were newly married. She had a matching one, but upon her death, Thranduil moved it from his finger to around his neck.

This hunt—your hunt—is about that ring. You have a fairly good idea about where it might have fallen, and there is no reason for it to have moved since then. Few enter these woods unless they follow the road, and that is on rare occasions.

Tracking is your specialty, and your time is not limited due to the falling snow. But you’ve tracked in worse weather. The snow is unfortunate, but you can still search as long as it remains at its current pace. The tree cover will keep much of the snow in the higher canopy. There will be time yet before the snow completely covers the ground and you lose the trail.

Heading north, you retrace the path the patrol took. Yes, a week has passed, and nature reclaims much, but not everything is hidden so quickly. There are small disturbances that indicate the path ahead.

As you begin to draw nearer to the area Thranduil mentioned, the snow starts to pick up. It becomes thicker, not staying above in the canopy but instead making its way to the ground. It’s not ideal, but you can manage.

Thranduil mentioned two tree trunks growing together and then breaking apart. When you happen upon it, the snow comes down in thicker sheets. On the ground, it’s sticking. Collecting. Time is running out. Elves have good eyes, and you focus in on the ground, gnarled roots, and underbrush.

Near the base of the tangled tree, you notice a slight sparkle. Approaching it, you go down on one knee, brushing away some of the snow.

“Found you.”

The ring is there, resting in the roots. It appears undamaged, and that is a relief. Picking it up, you tuck it into an inside pocket, protecting it from the elements.

The snow crunches under your boots, and the wind howls. For the first time, you shiver. Cold is not and has never been an issue. Elves can withstand a great many things, including winter weather.

Frowning, you turn into the chilly wind. There is a disturbance. Something dark and foul. It sets the edges of your nerves tingling. A simmering suspicion bubbles up from somewhere within you, question whether this snow is natural or not.

Turning on your heel, you head back the way you came. But the snow is heavy, and your fresh tracks are starting to slip away, returning to the snow. As you walk, the snowfall becomes a storm. The wind whips up, swirling the snow around until you cannot see more than a few feet in front of your face.

Your instincts were right. This storm is not natural. It is too early for it, and storms like these are rare in the Woodland Realm.

The toe of your boot catches in a downed tree branch and you slam face first into the snow. It’s freezing. Temperature isn’t usually a deterrent for the elves, but this is beyond cold. It’s as if you’ve been swallowed whole by a massive glacier.

You walk and walk, and you have no idea if you’ve gained any ground. There are no visible signs, and you’re not sure how far you’ve gone, or if you’re simply walking in circles. The snow is deepening or perhaps you’re imagining it. Everything seems darker, like the world is closing in.

You’re not dressed for this sort of weather.

And you’re tired. So tired. Your knees and thighs burn, and sitting down for some rest doesn’t seem so bad. It’s fine. You can take refugee within the deep roots of a tree. You can stay warm there until the snow dissipates. Then, you can return. Thranduil will understand.

As if opening for you, the roots of a nearby tree expand, showing safety from the storm. You slink into it, curling up into a ball.

You drift in the howling wind. There is a haze that sits on your eyelashes. Whether you dream or not is irrelevant. Numbness oozes into your limbs, and that only forces you to curl up tighter, wanting to pull away from the cold.

A hand touches the side of your head. It is warm. Gentle. The fingers slide up to brush your hair out of your face. You hear your name but it is a whisper. Distant. So far away it doesn’t seem real.

There are arms around you. Lifting. Steady. And when you inhale, the scent is familiar. You know who it is instantly.

“Thranduil,” you murmur, and the answer is a gentle squeeze of your hand.

“I found you, my star.”

There are only short moments of consciousness. There is snow. Cold. The antlers of an elk. The gates of home, and then warmth. So much warmth that the numbness begins to recede.

You are brought back to the living world near a roaring fire. Beneath you is a makeshift bed comprised of pillows and soft blankets. You shift, and feel bare skin against bare skin. Slowly, you push yourself to sitting.

Your leather gear is gone, replaced with a soft robe that traps in the heat.

“You’re awake.” Thranduil’s voice is a gentle, comforting hug.

Turning toward his voice, you watch as he glides across the floor. Thranduil wears silver robes of starlight. In his hands in a small tray. On it is a steaming cup of tea and an assortment of food. Bending at the knees, Thranduil settles in beside you, placing the tray down on the blankets.

“You came looking for me,” you say, and your voice nearly cracks with emotion.

“Did you think I would not?” he asks, arranging the food around on the tray.

You know, deep in your heart, that Thranduil would come, but you also believed in your abilities as a tracker. “When did you start to worry?”

Thranduil lifts the cup off the tray and presents it to you. “When the storm picked up. Something about it felt unnatural.” You take it, and bring the warm beverage to your lips. “I gathered some guards and we set out. It is good that we found you in time.” He pauses. “I’m not sure my heart could take any more loss.”

The heat of the tea spreads throughout your body, the chill slipping away quickly. “I do believe you are correct. That storm was not natural.”

Thranduil nods. “There is a growing darkness to the north. The scouts on patrol have spoken of it often but have been unable to get close enough for more details.”

“Perhaps I strayed too close,” you murmur.

“Perhaps,” replies Thranduil, reaching out to take your hand. He lifts it, and brings it into his lap. Using both hands, he rotates your wrist until your palm faces the ceiling. Then, he guides your open palm to his lips, placing a soft kiss in the middle of it.

Instant warmth shoots out from that spot, running down your arm and piercing your heart like an arrow. Slowly, he curls your fingers in, creating a loose fist, and then brushes his lips against your knuckles before pulling away.

He does not release your hand. “I know why you left.”

“Thranduil—”

“You did not need to explain. I understand why.” Thranduil reaches out and cups your cheek, turning your face toward him. “I am thankful that you found it, but you are also precious to me, and losing you is a far greater loss.”

You turn into his touch. “That ring is important to you.”

“Many things are important to me. But the ring is just that. A thing. You are breathing. You are here. I would like to keep it that way.”

Your eyes drift close and you revel in the warmth of his touch. “Are you mad?”

“Never.”

“Will you hold me?”

“For as long as you like.”

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @ninman82 @therealbloom

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Five- Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Theos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Throat Fucking, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Dirty Talk, Toxic Behaviour, Blackmail, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Jealousy, Possessive Behaviours, Manipulation, Begging, Spitting, Gagging, DubCon, CNC.

****FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

"Yes, Wednesday stays the same, but I've added Friday evenings for potions." You said, shutting the creaky wooden door behind you as you trailed inside the empty classroom after Mattheo. "I've already informed Professor Dumbledore."

"But, Raven...Friday nights are for the fucking boys." He grumbled, a playful yet frustrated pout on his lips as he practically threw himself into the chair. "You've absolutely sewered me here."

You cocked an eyebrow. "Sewered?"

"Yeah, you know...you sewered me...it's the clean version of 'you fucked me'," he said, staring at you as though you were an alien with three heads. "I would have just said that but we both know you've never fucked anything..."

You rolled your eyes. "No need to be so crude, Riddle."

"Crude?" Mattheo smirked, his eyes widening with sheer amusement. "What's going on with you, princess? You finally get into the club of your dreams and now you're back to being all uptight? Trying to impress someone, perhaps?"

You were on the verge of scoffing, ready to roll your eyes so far back that the inside of your skull would be your view--but then, he stood up, advancing toward you with an electrifying intensity in his eyes--a look that effortlessly stalled your breath, seizing your lungs and making your heart race without the slightest effort--and you already knew you were doomed, your defiance cracking more with each one of his footsteps.

"Guess that just means I'll have to loosen you up a bit, yeah?" He purred, gripping your jaw and directing your eyes up to meet his. "After all, my pretty little slut still has a job to do..."

Your mind reeled. My pretty little slut. The first two words were almost enough to make your stomach wind up in your goddamn feet. Not only did he call you pretty, but he fucking called you his.

"Yours?" Your voice was a mere breath as it left your lips. "Did you just call me yours?"

"I did, Raven...because it's true..." A smirk curled upon his lips, his eyes deepening into pools of darkness as he pulled you closer by the grip on your jaw. "You know it, and I know it."

"N-no..." You stammered. "It's not."

Mattheo paused, his gaze fixated on yours, a flicker of something primal dancing behind his eyes, sending a shiver down your spine that seemed to reverberate through every inch of your body.

"You sure?" He snickered. "Who else do you get on your knees for every fucking week?" His tone dropped into a low whisper, tilting his head slightly as he scanned your face, free hand finding purchase on your hip. "Who else touches you like this?...or kisses you like this?..."

With a tenderness previously unseen, Mattheo tilted your chin up, leaning in and brushing his lips against yours--once, then twice, and finally, a third time before he pressed the plush entirety of his mouth to yours--his movements so gentle, so incomprehensibly tender they made everything around you fade into insignificance, your lids fluttering shut as his mouth worked over yours. The sensation in your chest grew stronger as his hand cradled your jaw, ensuring your lips remained connected to his while his free hand traced a path around the small of your back, pulling you snug against his frame.

And as you melted into the kiss, your mind reeled with the reality of the situation. You couldn't deny the whirlwind of emotions inside you as the two of you continued this potentially perilous game; a game where the line between obligation and necessity blurred into an indistinct haze.

You knew you fucking despised this boy, but you weren't naive enough to deny that the line between love and hate was a very thin one to begin with. You were well aware that your heart was teetering on the brink of destruction, and caution was your only lifeline--so with trembling fingers, you gripped the wrist to the hand holding your jaw, exhaling a shaky breath as he pulled back, dark eyes searching your face.

"Please, don't do that, Mattheo..." you whispered, swallowing the lump of anxiety in your throat. "If you have even the smallest ounce of respect for me, you'll stop that."

His brows pinched, his hand falling from your face. "What am I doing, exactly?"

"Complicating things." You said, trying with everything in your power to keep your voice steady. "When I agreed to this, I agreed to helping you get your release and that's it...I didn't agree to whatever the hell is this is...whatever this has become..."

Mattheo huffed, seemingly amused. "And what has this become, Raven?"

"I-I don't know...you're acting weird...being possessive, calling me yours...I think you know exactly what you're doing, and I think it needs to fucking stop..." your voice was trembling, your brain telling you to stop fucking talking, but of course your mouth had other ideas. "This is what you do to every girl, I've heard your story countless times. Your little act won't work on me."

"My little act, huh?" He sneered, not even attempting to hide his arrogance. "All of that sounds like a you problem, Raven...maybe you need to be honest with yourself..."

Your brows furrowed, heart pounding. "What are you talking about?"

"You're falling for me," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "I see it in your eyes...you know you can't fucking resist me..."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes until you were seeing white. "Please, don't you dare flatter yourself..." you said, sharply--the words simply flowing from your lips without even a mere second of consideration. "I would never fall for the likes of Mattheo fucking Riddle...the schools best-known delinquent who blackmailed me into becoming his little pet, only for him to harbour some obsessive need to bloody own me and keep me as his with nothing but selfish intentions...I know I'm just a body to you, and nothing more."

"What did I tell you about denial, Raven?" He sneered, his eyes darkening and jaw tightening, seemingly dismissing your last sentence. "It's highly unusual for the schools most uptight little good girl to spew such amusing lies like that...guess I really have rubbed off on you, huh? Wonder what Dumbledore would think if he found out?"

"Get out of my fucking head, Mattheo," you hissed, anger searing your skin now, kinking your neck back and leaning in until you were as close to his lips as you physically could be without touching. "You think you are possessing me...but what you fail to realize is I've already sunk my teeth into you...you're as much mine as I am yours."

"Mm." He murmured, leaning closer. "You're so fucking hot, you know that?"

"Go to hell," you breathed, your mouth brushing against his.

"Only if you come with me." He whispered against your lips, before shifting toward your jawline and grazing up toward your ear. "Someone's gotta suck me off while I'm down there."

Amused, you couldn't suppress a laugh, shaking your head at him. "You have no right having such a smart fucking mouth, Mattheo Riddle."

Mattheo's smirk deepened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "My tongue makes up for what my brain lacks, princess...perhaps you'd care to find out?"

Your lungs stalled, fingers trembling. You knew what he meant by that, and almost instantly your body was torn in half--one half of you screaming excitement, the other half screaming in nerves.

You exhaled, ignoring the tingling in your cunt. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Undoubtedly, but I'm certain you'd like it more..." he purred, voice a low, seductive murmur. "And about yesterday, don't mistake my possessiveness for weakness, Raven...I still can't bloody stand you, but I will admit that I have a clamouring need to fucking ruin you."

"I can't stand you either, Riddle." You said, without hesitation; breath hitching as his teeth grazed your ear. "It pleases me to know that the feeling is mutual."

"It's settled then." He hummed, tugging on your earlobe, hands slithering to your hips. "I hate you, and you hate me. Let's see who hates best, yeah?"

Your stomach twisted, leaping with excitement. "Oh, Riddle...I promise you, you won't win..."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, princess..." he whispered, head tilting. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

Your breath hitched, a potent surge rushing through your veins, a blend of anticipation and something far more primal. Your hands instinctively left your sides, fingers finding the cool leather of his belt, and with a bold tug, you pulled him closer, feeling the tension in his body as he stiffened against you. His reaction confused you slightly, but when his eyes locked onto yours, there was no trace of hesitation--only an intense, unbridled hunger that mirrored your own.

You tilted your head, your voice a sultry, whispered invitation. "Why don't you fucking show me, then?"

Mattheo's eyes darkened, his grip on your hips tightening like a vice, pulling you fiercely against him. "Salazar fucking save me, Raven..." your hands glided up his chest, finding solace on his shoulders. "You are one hell of a fucking mystery..."

You smirked, a hint of challenge in your gaze. "Am I?"

"You should have never come near me...you should have ran the second you heard my fucking name..." he whispered, his stare penetrating yours, deadly and serious. "Now look at you..."

"Yes..." you whispered, your voice barely a breath, "look at me..."

His chest heaved in shallow bursts, synchronized with your own erratic breathing as he inched closer. His long lashes danced as he blinked, his gaze lingering on your lips, each glance feeling like an eternity passing in mere moments. Your lungs seemed to stall, captivated by the profound depth of his eyes--which, despite their rich brown hue, held a mesmerizing quality akin to the brightest hazel you'd ever seen.

And as you lost yourself in the depths of his eyes, it was there that you found the essence of the sea--deep, mysterious, and boundless--drawing you in like an irresistible tide. This is how people drown, you thought. Stupidly diving headfirst into eyes like his.

"I warned you that I was bad for you..." he murmured, one hand slithering up your side, finding your chest and softly grazing over it; forcing a small whimper from your lips. "But here you are...the sweet little angel...unable to take her fucking eyes off the devil."

As he teased your nipple through the fabric of your shirt and the sheer lace of your bra; you gasped, a low, needy sound escaping your lips while your nails dug into his shoulders, your body arching toward his with an insatiable hunger.

"Mattheo..." your voice came out as a soft plea.

He raised an eyebrow, his lips parting in a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Raven..."

"Please," you implored, your tone laced with desperation. "Just fucking kiss me."

Without a fraction of hesitation, Mattheo's hand seized the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair as he captured your mouth in a kiss so fervent and scorching that your teeth clacked together. A guttural groan reverberated from his chest, mingling with your own soft gasp, while your fingers found refuge in his unruly chocolate curls, tugging him closer. His lips moved against yours with a possessive hunger, as if he sought to devour you entirely through the kiss--the intensity surged, amplifying as he skillfully shifted your position, pushing you back against the desk until your ass met its edge, urging you to perch on top of it.

The cool wood raised gooseflesh over your bare thighs, but Mattheo's hands quickly worked to soothe them, one slipping under your skirt and gripping your hip, tugging you closer to the edge while the other kneaded your tits, his grip possessive and needy; turning the kiss primal and hungry.

Long fingers circled your nipple, groaning as he felt it harden under his touch, and you mewled into his mouth at the foreign sensation, your entire body engulfed in flame as his mouth moved to attack your neck, tongue tracing heat as he nipped at the sensitive skin, another aggressive shiver rippling through you.

You were trembling, hardly able to withstand the collective sensations of his teeth on your neck and his fingers toying with your nipple--your thighs screaming with need as you moaned, head absentmindedly falling to the side to give him better access to your neck.

"Mhm...so good for me..." he purred, licking a flat line up the side of your throat. "You like that, princess?"

Your lids fluttering, heart pounding, fingers trembling as you gripped the fabric of his shirt for dear life. "Y-yes..."

He hummed, nipping your ear. "Yes, what?"

As he pinched your nipple between his fingers, you yelped, the pain eliciting an intoxicating mix of sensations that made your eyes roll--desperately wishing you could press your thighs together in desire of sating the insatiable need between them.

"Yes, Mattheo..." you whimpered. "Please..."

At your plea, Riddle stopped everything, his body turning to stone as he pulled back--brows pinched, throat knocking as he swallowed, eyeing your features with enough intensity to scare the breath from your lungs.

"What are you asking for, Raven?" His voice was a low, almost imperceptible rumble, despite his lips being mere inches away from yours.

Your lungs stalled, words fleeing you. "I...I-"

He seized both your hips with a commanding hold, pulling you tighter against his chest, his lips crashing back into yours in a momentary, fervent kiss. As he pulled away, he inhaled sharply through his nose, his eyes locking onto yours with an even greater intensity than before.

"I'll ask you one more time, Raven," he whispered, his voice threaded with both desire and restraint, the aggression in his tone doing inexplicable things to your body. He inhaled again, slowly releasing it. "What are you asking for?"

Trapped within the depths of his stare, you sat there, a battlefield of emotions raging within. The yearning for his touch was an overwhelming tide threatening to drown your senses, yet fear clung to you like a vice, squeezing your heart with icy fingers. Each heartbeat echoed with the dread of consequences, the turmoil of what could happen if you succumbed to this raw desire.

The unspoken tension between you two hung heavy, an electrifying charge in the air that crackled with unfulfilled longing. Both of you stood on the fragile edge of control, teetering between surrender and restraint--wanting to give in, but afraid of what might be lost in the aftermath.

Yielding to him using your mouth felt transactional, a physical act detached from any emotional involvement. He might have been your first in that aspect, but the experience held no sentimental value. He was merely exploiting you. However, the second his hands ventured into uncharted territories, bestowing upon you a pleasure unprecedented and unimagined, you both knew that moment marked a line crossed--a point of no return.

"I...I don't know," you whispered, your voice a mix of vulnerability and desire, eyes locked onto his with unwavering intensity. "I have no idea what I'm asking for."

In a heartbeat's pause, Mattheo's world seemed to hang suspended--his eyes, intense and filled with desire, blinked once, then twice, betraying a flicker of vulnerability before he swallowed audibly. His gaze, magnetic and hungered, fell to your chest, tracing the curves beneath fabric as one hand shifted to his crotch, palming the insistent bulge in his pants. His eyelids fluttered like the wings of a trapped butterfly, a deep, slow exhale escaping his lungs as if he were attempting to regain his unraveling self-control, time stalling until he seemingly collected himself and met your stare.

"For both our sakes, I hope you figure it out soon..." he said, taking a step back, fingers working at his belt. "Now, stand up for me."

Your heart thundered in your chest, an adrenaline-fueled symphony as you complied with his command, the sharp click of his belt being undone resonating in the charged atmosphere. Rising to your feet, you barely had a moment to react before Mattheo lunged, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons of your blouse with a fervent determination, a hunger you had never witnessed from him before. The second your skin was bared, his eyes met yours, a mixture of desire and possession burning in his gaze--and with a gentle yet forceful grip, he cupped your jaw with one hand, and shoved two fingers past your teeth with the other.

"I just want to make one thing very fucking clear here, Raven..." his words dripped with intensity, his hot breath washing over your face. "In moments like these, when I tell you you're mine, I fucking mean it."

His tone was as dark as the midnight sky, a promise of dominance lingering in the air.

"Right here, right now, you belong to me--you answer to me, you listen to me, you are obedient to me...and this perfect little mouth," he emphasized, waggling your jaw in his hold, "...is fucking mine to command. Do you understand?"

Under the strength of his grip, you attempted to nod, desperate to convey your understanding, but your attempts faltered, leaving you vulnerable. An amused, devilish grin spread across his face as he witnessed your struggle, and in response, he shoved his fingers deeper into your mouth, eliciting a gag from your throat, his expression one of twisted pleasure.

"What was that?" He sniggered, relishing in your vulnerability. "Couldn't quite catch that, princess. Try again."

You struggled against his grip, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of desperation and desire. You couldn't believe the control he had over you. Although you'd never admit it, not to him, that is--you fucking loved it.

"I understand," you managed to say, your voice slightly muffled around his fingers.

"That's it..." he praised, his voice a low purr of satisfaction. "Show me your obedience. Stick out your tongue."

With his fingers still in your mouth, you struggled to comply, but somehow managed. He tilted your head back slightly, leaning down to spit into your mouth before he straightened your head and pushed his fingers deeper, the intrusion leaving you gasping for breath.

"Good girl." His lips parted as he watched you. "Now do your job and suck.”

With unwavering determination, you enveloped his fingers, your tongue dancing around the coarse skin, lids fluttering shut as you lost yourself in the submissive act. As you hollowed out your cheeks, your head moved along their length, following the rhythm dictated by his desires. Mattheo's hand, which had been gripping your jaw, released its hold, traveling down to his crotch--his face flushed with heat as he watched you, captivated.

"Fucking hell, Raven..." he breathed, tugging his pants down his thighs, forcing another gag from your throat before he pulled out his fingers and cupped his hand in front of your mouth. "Spit."

When you did, he hummed, bringing it down to his cock, rubbing it into the smooth skin of his shaft as he eyed your exposed chest; which was heaving rapidly in attempt to gulp down air.

Mattheo snatched your hair, bringing your mouth dangerously close to his, his hard cock pressing against your belly. "Are you going to be my good little slut and let me fuck your throat as hard as I want? Hm?"

You swallowed, nerves tingling. "Yes, Mattheo."

"Yeah?" He exhaled, you could tell he was testing his self control. "You like being used like that? My smart little Raven likes to be throat fucked like a dumb, mindless whore?"

Your stomach twisted, your thighs fucking screaming for his touch. How the fuck does he do this to you. "Yes, Mattheo..."

"Fuck..." his grip on his cock tightened, stroking his length with increased motion as he watched you. "You want to beg for me, baby?"

Your heart palpitated, your knees nearly giving out from under you. That nickname fucking did something to your cunt. Something so disgustingly dirty you could only hope the four founders couldn't hear you now.

"Gods, yes...Matty, please..." you whined, practically throwing yourself against him, ignoring the pain he was inflicting on your scalp. "Please, let me suck your fucking cock."

Mattheo's entire demeanour shifted, and if you thought he was possessed before--that was nothing compared to this.

"What the fuck did you just call me?" he growled, his voice so deep it scared your bones from your body.

Your heart plummeted to your feet. "I...I'm-"

"No, no," he hissed, cutting you off, his eyes ablaze with an intensity that left you breathless. "Say it again."

"Oh..." You were utterly speechless, your voice barely a whisper. "Matty...please.."

"Fucking hell..." he groaned, immediately shoving you down to your knees by the hold on your hair, stroking his length in a slow, languid motion as he waited for you to settle. "Open up for me, princess."

Both hands shot into your hair, holding you still while he rocked into your mouth, and you hummed, peering up at him with wide eyes, cunt clenching at his exasperated appearance. Your tongue pressed to the underside of his dick, earning a growl from his chest, and he jerked your neck back, sliding in deeper.

"Yeah, that's it..." he breathed, voice strained. "Take this fucking cock."

Groaning, your lids fluttered while you drooled onto him, slicking your saliva down his length, bobbing your head while you struggled to keep your attention trained on his face. His cock filled your mouth, the tip poking your soft palate, and you sucked, revealing in his sharp intake of air as you pulled back for a moment.

He adjusted his grasp, urging you back and forth on his cock, making you gag. "Mhm. Choke on it, fuck-"

You moaned against his shaft, hardly even realizing that you did, but the sound awakened something inside Mattheo, and without warning he yanked your head back further, shoving his cock down your throat in one aggressive thrust.

You retched, choked, vision flooding with tears, but with him handling your hair like reins, he trapped you there, your mouth a helpless hole for him to fuck. He snapped his hips, his dick bulging in your neck, his breath labored with the pace of his thrusts. Sweat spilled down your back, and you retched again as his cock twitched on your tongue, cranked your jaw wide, plunged in and out of your throat.

"Fuck..." he said, sighing your name.

The sound of your actual name leaving his lips did something indescribable--you couldn't remember the last time he's actually said your name, actually addressed you by anything other than the Raven nickname he seems to love so much. Your lids fluttered, and admittedly, so did your heart--with this realization, you moaned again, and his hips bucked hard, earning a stifled retch from you.

Without warning, he crushed your nose against his skin, sinking into you, cock pulsing between your lips as he shot his cum down your throat. He groaned--low, deep--head bowing and breath sputtering as he watched you take his release.

"Swallow it," he hissed, chest heaving, eyes feral. "Swallow my fucking cum, slut."

You winced when you swallowed around him, and he twitched and cursed with every ripple of your throat.

Finally, his breath stilled, and he pulled out, moaning when his cock slipped between your lips. Able to finally catch oxygen yourself, you devoured the air, wiping your puffy lips and saliva-slicked chin on the back of your arm. Riddle hovered over you for a moment, gaze roaming your figure while he tucked himself away, not daring to look away as you pulled yourself up to your feet and started re-buttoning up your shirt.

"Good girl," he mumbled, switching focus from your eyes, to your breasts, to your lips. "Come here."

The instant his words left his lips, his powerful grip snaked around your wrist, pulling you towards him. Time seemed to freeze, your lungs momentarily forgetting their function as you stood there, caught in a whirlwind of emotions. With a deliberate gesture, he tenderly brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes scrutinizing your face intently, searching for something elusive that you couldn't quite grasp.

"You okay, Raven?" He whispered, not blinking as he met your eyes.

Your throat was more arid than the desert, your fingers trembling against his chest, but you nodded. "Yes, Mattheo..."

"Good." He exhaled, releasing you. "When do you meet with my brother?"

An inexplicable fear twisted your stomach, a sense of foreboding you couldn't put into words. You felt his shift in demeanor, waiting for your response, and despite the fear gnawing at you, you tried to conceal it. Summoning a halfhearted smile as he pulled out your chair for you, and sat down in his.

"Tomorrow night."

Mattheo's jaw tensed, and he nodded, flipping open the textbook as he remained silent.

——————-

Here’s chapter six so you don’t have to scroll back to the top. Xoxo :)

[skzdarlings]

final part: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 19k words)

warning for this chapter: the usual story dynamics plus explicit violence, intense peril, threat and injury to reader, graphic depictions of death, explicit sexual content.

-

Your father will be here soon.  He kept his distance during the rescue operation but will reconvene with his team before the journey home. 

You and Felix wake long before his anticipated arrival, when dawn is only just peeking into the hotel room. 

You lay in bed, your head on his bare chest and his arms around you.  You discuss the potential confrontation ahead.  Last time you were taken, your father was less than sympathetic to your plight.  Even though this was more his fault than yours, you are certain you will take the blame.   He cannot take responsibility for a misstep.  If he is fallible, he is weak, and that puts his whole existence in jeopardy.  It must always be someone else’s fault.    

Therefore it is likely he will punish you.  Therefore it is likely he will ask Felix to do it. 

“Felix,” you say when he does not look at you.   He is staring out the window with a look of pure frustration. 

“I know,” he says.  “You want me to do it.  Last time I…” 

“Yes.” 

There is no need to discuss last time.  You both know he fumbled that exchange.  Felix is meant to be the personification of resolute strength and obedience, the perfect soldier.  His moment of weakness snared your father’s attention, as weakness always does.  Your quick response remedied the situation well enough, but you will not be so lucky next time.   The only thing worse than a moment of weakness is the persistence of it.  He cannot hesitate again. 

“If,” you say slowly, “we want to find a way out… then now, more than ever, we cannot give him any reasons to be suspicious of us.” 

“I know,” he says, but his jaw is still clenched and his gaze is faraway.  

“Felix.”  You touch his jaw, minding the darkening bruise, and turn his face to yours.  His expression softens when he meets your gaze.  “Thank you,” you say.  “I love you.  I trust you.  It will be okay.” 

He cups your cheek and lifts your face.  His looks at you like he is studying every small detail.  Even though he must know your face perfectly – seeing it when he wakes, before he goes to sleep, every day for so much of his life –  he looks at you like he is seeing you for the first time all over again. 

You laugh when he flicks your bottom lip, the little pout he has long since called his weakness. 

“You could convince the sky it wasn’t blue,” he says, and kisses you tenderly.  “I love you too, sweetheart.” 

Maybe it is the novelty of hearing that out loud, or maybe you will just be crazy about him forever, but you feel flustered.  You laugh and squirm, your skin hot.  It makes him laugh, the menace kissing down your throat just to make you wriggle more. 

“Don’t let my daddy catch you then,” you tease, breathlessly.  “He wouldn’t like that very much.”    

The returned chuckle makes you shiver.  You run your fingers through his hair but he grabs your wrist and pins it down.  Your breath catches when he sucks a bruising kiss on your throat.  He is usually so careful about leaving marks, but today he dips his head to the soft skin of your breast and bites a mean little mark into the tender skin, making you gasp and buck beneath his hold. 

“No, he wouldn’t, would he?” Felix says, his deep voice dropping even lower.  “What would everyone say, hmm?  Your daddy, your guards… all those rich boys at those fancy parties who think they have a chance with you…” 

“Everyone thinks I’m a frigid bitch,” you reply, joining his game, smiling knowingly.  “And I am, aren’t I?  Nothing but trouble.”

“Nothing but trouble,” he says with a grin.  He flicks the covers off, then his hands are on your hips and he flips you as smoothly.  You yelp when he drags you halfway down the bed, arranging you as he kneels behind you.  “You can’t fool me, sweetheart,” he says.  One hand curls around your throat and the other snakes down your backside.  “Frigid?  Mm. I don’t think so.  I actually think you are very, very soft… and warm…” 

His fingers slip inside you easily, wet from your previous lovemaking and wetter still from his voice.  Every little breath and tortured groan has you twitching and gasping. 

“Felix,” you say.   

It is the right thing to say.  You are clawing at the bedsheets moments later, hiccupping on each watery breath as he holds your hips and fucks you right down into the mattress.  You press against it like you could disappear there, fucked into freedom, never to return to this dire world again. 

You sink into the bed and float in your mind, sighing when he wraps his arms around you and covers you with his body.  He is hot and whole and so alive, and everything seems possible while you are joined together.  You have each other, completely and irrevocably.  That is all you need to survive. 

You finish not a moment too soon.  You are nestled in his arms, kissing and kissing and kissing, flushed and satisfied and content, when reality comes knocking.  Felix throws on some pants while you scurry into the bathroom and close the door. 

Felix steps into the hall.  Between the bathroom door and the hotel room door, you only hear muffled voices.  Then a few clicks, then another knock, then you jump.   You are wearing a blanket and it slips with your surprise.  You adjust it frantically, but Felix says, “It’s just me.”  

You crack open the door to Felix in a t-shirt and his combat pants.  You recognize the tired lines on his face, cracks in the mask he is struggling to don.  His reassuring smile is not convincing. 

“Here,” he says, handing you some clothes.  “Your father is here.  He wants to see you at breakfast.” 

“Of course he does,” you say, just for something to say, letting your frustration seep into your tone. 

The bathroom tiles are cold under your feet.  A sharp snap of sensation and a reminder of reality.  Felix makes the world feel small in comparison to him, but the world is still there, ever turning with its usual machinations and politics and powers.  You are still suspended helplessly in the centre of it all.  Though you pushed the darkest truths to the corner for a few hours, making love and comforting each other, all those hurts and agonies are still there.  You see it in his eyes, his glance flickering from here to there as he roams with his thoughts.   

Neither of you have ever had a normal life and you do not know what to do with one.  He has been making difficult choices since he was a child.  Neither of you truly knows if you are making the right one now. 

You do the best you can with a strong hug.  It is a lingering, affectionate embrace, fitting your bodies together until you feel grounded. 

Felix looks over your shoulder, catching his own reflection.   You look back as well, his cheek against yours, your eyes meeting in the mirror. 

“I couldn’t stand the sight of my own face,” he says, his voice low even though you are alone, like the words are fighting his tongue.  It is hard to admit.  He swallows hard but continues, “I hated the stupid kid looking back at me… I wanted to be someone better, someone who could actually do something right…” 

You look at him rather than his reflection.  When you touch a strand of blonde hair, he closes his eyes, as if he can feel the pad of your finger on a lock of hair, smarting more than his bruises. 

“Is that why… the hair?” you ask clumsily.  You do not know how to wade through ten years of emotion.  Felix has coloured his hair regularly since the day you met him.  The blonde suits him but it is clearly unnatural.  It has not been soft in a very long time, coarse from repeated dye jobs. 

The colour is just one more layer of his meticulous mask, crumbling in front of you as he nods and sighs.  An admittance.  He could not stand to look in the mirror and see that other version of himself, the boy he was, the boy who made all those mistakes.   You see him, the years of questioning his choices, the impossible tether around his throat.  There has never been a day he has not questioned his choices.  Working for one bad man or another.  Rescuing his friend or his lover.   Letting violence happen or letting the violence use him.

You kiss his cheek, then below his jaw, threading your fingers through his hair.  You scratch at his scalp, just a feathery light touch, one that makes him melt in your arms.   

“I love you,” you say.  You find it is an addicting word yet it never loses its potency.  Your heart still races when he touches his forehead to yours, when he strokes your sides and hums a gentle sound of pleasure.  “Things have changed a lot over the years.  But we’re still here.”  Still living your lives, even in broken bits, those stolen pieces you mentioned so long ago.  “We’ve changed.  We’ll change again.  Things will happen and we’ll figure it out.  But please don’t hate that boy anymore.  I care about him a lot.  I want him to be happy too.” 

His face scrunches with the threat of tears, but he controls himself.  He pushes the emotion into a laugh, though it is humourless.  Then he closes the space between you and kisses you, cups the back of your head and holds you there until you are both satisfied. 

“All right,” he says in a rough voice.  “Get dressed.  It’s going to be a long day.” 

“You’ll be there, though,” you say. 

“Always,” he says, a hint of amusement touching the corner of his lips.  “I’m your bodyguard, hmm?”

You laugh and kiss him again. 

“Right,” you say.  “Always.” 

-

Your father sits at a dining table in the penthouse suite.  Behind him, a window wall flaunts the city skyline.  Daylight casts a glow around him like some deified king lording over his petty kingdom.  Guards loiter in the room and the corridor, keeping their eyes sharp as hotel staff prepare the table. 

You sit across from him with the sunlight in your eyes, the usual position of discomfort and inferiority.  He does not look at you, nor does he greet you, his eyes on his phone until the table is set.  A staff member goes to serve him but he dismisses them. 

“All of you, go,” he says, not just to the staff but his team as well.  They filter out of the room one by one.  

The penthouse is a ostentatious space, all white linen and gilded frames, tall ceilings and bay windows, but as the room empties, it becomes frighteningly big.  Or maybe you just feel frighteningly small, his tactics working as they often do.  Your father knows how to push your buttons because they are the same as his.   He is scared.  It makes him angry.  He makes you scared.  It makes you angry. 

“Felix,” he says.  “Stay.”

Felix is all that tempers you.   He stands against the wall but you do not look at him, staring at your father until he finally looks your way.  Despite the light, you hold his stare, feeling a modicum of triumph when he looks away first. 

“Did they damage you?” he asks.  His phrasing almost makes you laugh.  Damaged.  As if outside forces were needed for that. 

“I’m fine,” you say.  “My bodyguard rescued me.  Your team was damaged, though.”  You throw the word right back at him.  You cross your leg and sit back, like you are as unbothered as him.    

You know that underneath his cold exterior, he is anything but casual.  He is letting his rage simmer as he builds to some awful retaliation.  He was conducting a mission, sending his best asset on a job, and it was interrupted by your kidnapping.  A kidnapping that nearly lost him more than his heir, but that same irreplaceable asset.  An asset that previously made a mistake in front of his eyes.  This is no longer a game, a squabble between a parent and child, but a real world crisis with dangerous consequences.    

You should not provoke him, and that is why you do.  Because provoking him is something you have always done and you need him to see you as that hapless child if you are going to beat him.  You do not want to arouse further suspicion in him, that you are sitting here thinking about your own schemes, that you know more about his assets and operations than he could ever suspect.

So you toss your rejoinder and he catches it, as he always does, with a cruel smirk. 

“There are more where they came from,” he says.    

Returning like cockroaches and squashed just the same.  If only a multi-generational empire could be toppled as easily.  But your father is more than a man across a table; he is ten men in the corridor and more on the ground, he is paid staff and investors and a whole society.  

Though you feign nonchalance, inside adrenaline pounds.  Sweat gathers, your heart races.  He is good at making you feel small, but at least it is predictable.  The scene unfolds  in your mind before it happens, the script playing before a single action is commanded.   You will be scolded.  You will be reprimanded.  You will be punished. 

“Felix, come here,” your father says.

You predicted he would involve Felix after what happened last time.  The only question is what manner of punishment he will force from his hand.  All you can do is trust Felix to play his role so you can play yours.  You made it clear the physical pain was meaningless, that you could take whatever he inflicted.  Just another inside joke between you.  You will laugh about it one day. 

You do not look away from your father.  Your eyes are locked in a challenging stare, daring the other to break.  You are scared, but you feel so much more than fear and rage.  With your love for Felix, with the hope in your heart, you are an ocean of feeling and you are not ashamed of it anymore.  You stare your father down and mutely convey that you are not broken, that he did not win, that he never will win. 

His answer is the flick of a kitchen knife.  It slides across the table and nearly tumbles right over the lip.  It teeters within arm’s reach of you.  It is tempting to look and consider its purpose with the trepidation you feel, but you do not.  You tell yourself he will only hurt you so much, that putting you in true peril would surely be counterproductive to his overall efforts.  Whatever plan he has for that knife will be a momentary pain you can recover from.

Then he says, “Felix.” 

Felix steps into your periphery, the black of his fatigues a shadow at your side. 

“Pick up that knife,” your father says.  “Put it through your hand.  Right through to the table.”

It is not the demand you were expecting, not by a long shot.  As your father stares you down, steady where you start to waver, you realize this test is not for Felix.  It is for you.   

“I trust,” your father hisses the word, “you know the spot that will inflict the least permanent damage.”

The last time your father made this demand, you and Felix were kids at the start of your messy life together.  Instinct propelled you to stop him.  Over the years, you have mastered schooling your reactions.  The girl who tackled Felix, the girl who sobbed while he was beaten, that girl learned to save her tears for later.  Your father’s version of you is a cold, headstrong, hateful fool.  She might stop Felix to combat her father, or she might let him suffer out of pure hatred. 

Both options feel wrong.  Regardless of what you choose, you feel like you are giving something away.  You feel like your father will see right past it.  He stares at you like he will find your secrets written on your face.    

You have seconds to decide and that is not enough time.  The moment passes you by.  Felix plants his hand and takes the knife.  Your father does not count him down.  He watches you, willing you to make a mistake, to show your weakness.  To prove him right. 

You flinch when the knife thuds into the table, the soft reverberation of the wood accompanied with a gross little squelch that sounds too loud in this too big room.  Your reaction is strongly stamped on your face, disgusted and upset.  You look away to stop the tears that stab behind your eyes. 

Everything that has happened, everything you have done, and you are right back here.  After everything, he still ended up with that knife in his hand. 

Your father rips it out.  Felix catches his breath but does not cry out.  You catch a glimpse of the bloody knife before your father tosses it on the floor, as if he is discarding something insignificant. 

You slowly meet his gaze.  He is still assessing you.  You cannot tell if you passed or failed his test.  By the scrutiny of his regard, it seems he does not know either.  All you can do is look at each other while Felix bleeds beside you.

“You may go,” your father says, cold as the ice that locks your limbs.  It takes you a moment to stir life back into them. 

“Felix,” your father says.  “You stay.  We have business to discuss.” 

You do not look at Felix.  You cannot bear to look at him.   On the escorted march back to your room, you are quiet, biting the inside of your cheek to stop any more unwanted reactions.  Only when you are alone in the room do you let it out, an aggravated cry as you rip a pillow off the bed and whip it blindly across the room. 

This was never going to be easy, but now it feels like the ongoing struggle between you and your father has led to an insurmountable deadlock.  He has you enclosed in his fist and he is threatening to crush you in it. 

You do not think he knows about the true nature of your relationship with Felix.  He might suspect anything, an affair the last of it.  Even a menial friendship would be a detrimental betrayal to him.  All he sees is a smudge of a weakness in what should be the strongest cog in his machine. 

He is testing you and tormenting you.  He is perched on his pedestal, waiting for you to throw yourself at his feet in eventual penitence.   

You will not.  Not this time.  Your father is expecting retaliation in the form of equal dramatics and you will not satisfy him.  You will sit quietly.  You will do what you have been doing, stealing pieces of your life in the silence and shadows.  He controls a realm of power, affluence, and violence.  You control yourself.  Love has saved you all this time.  It will be your means of escape for good. 

You sit in quiet repose until Felix returns.  Although you promised to remain calm, you cannot help but fuss over his injured hand.  It has already been stitched and bandaged but you peek beneath the binding, almost gagging at the sight.

“All right, enough,” Felix says.  He lifts your head and guides it onto his shoulder instead.  You are sitting on the small loveseat under the window.  You throw your arms around him and hold tight. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, a tear sliding from your cheek to his shoulder.  You sniffle. 

“Don’t be,” he says.  “I can take the pain.  It means nothing.  Sweetheart, he means nothing.”

“I know,” you say, but you sniffle one more time anyway.  Gathering yourself, you lift your head to look at him.  “What did my father want after I left?” 

“I don’t fully know,” Felix says, the tenderness in his expression giving way to uncertainty.  “He said he wants to continue the job,” Felix says.  “He and Miroh, they’re both chasing these long-term investments in some government building contracts… Miroh has been getting in the way of your father’s deals, so he’s been mostly standing guard.  Then he got intel that a significant asset of Miroh’s would be involved in securing an upcoming bid…  And he thought… he thought with the right team he could… acquire whatever this asset was…” 

“Chris,” you say, a breathless note.  “That’s why he brought you on, isn’t it?  He told you the acquisition was Chris.”

“If Chris was alive, if he was working for Miroh even after everything…”  Felix swallows.  He looks pained, like all these words are hard to say.  His voice is rough and the words scratch like sandpaper as he forces them out.  “Between me, your father’s back-up team, and the element of surprise… We had a chance of stopping Miroh’s subterfuge and getting… rescuing… Chris.  Finally.” 

But Chris might be dead.  Your father might have killed him.  Miroh has a vast artillery and the asset in question could be anyone or anything.  It makes more sense your father was using Felix to eliminate this obstruction.  That is what he always does.  He uses someone like a thing, strengths and weaknesses calculated, and works them into his scheme. 

You look at the bloody bandage, wrapped tight around that wounded hand, and you cannot bring yourself to vocalize these awful, pessimistic thoughts.  You say instead, “But why would he want to continue the job now?  You no longer have the element of surprise.”   

“No,” Felix says.  “We don’t.  That’s because the job is over and your father is lying.” 

“What?”

“Chris is dead.”  Felix says it for you, with a hard set to his jaw that you recognize as a shield against emotion.  He does not look at you because it exposes that vulnerable, human part of him, and right now he is fighting to maintain his composure.  Cool, collected, he plainly states, “There is no chance of this job succeeding anymore.  Miroh caught onto us.  He interrupted us.  Whatever we were after is not there anymore.  Your father is just pulling my leash to see if I fight back.”  He takes a deep breath before saying more.  “He wants an excuse to question my loyalty.” 

“He is provoking us,” you agree.  There is a second of silence, both of you in contemplation, then you say, “We can’t let him.” 

“If I refuse this job, he will just get worse,” Felix says.  “If we try to run right now, we won’t get far.  We need to do this right, we need to—”

“Take the job,” you say.  “You said yourself, the job is over.  My father is a bastard and an idiot but he would never risk sending his best team somewhere dangerous when he has nothing to gain from it.  Call his bluff.  Take the job.” 

“I can’t leave you again,” Felix says, eyes closing as he clenches his good fist.  “I won’t leave you alone with him again.  Not right now, not like this.  Sweetheart, if something happened—”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, wrapping your hand over his fist and gently uncurling his fingers.  You nudge your nose against his chin, coaxing him to turn his head.  He finally does, sighing as he looks down at you.  You smile.  “I’ll be safe in the house.”

“It’s more dangerous in there than out here,” he says. 

“You know he won’t do anything worse than he’s ever done before,” you say.  You look down when you touch the bandage on his hand.  “We can take the cuts and bruises a little longer.  Do the job, then come back to me.  And who knows…”  You kiss his cheek, a touch of comfort.  “Maybe you’ll find the truth about Chris.” 

“I know the truth,” he says, unmoved.  “He’s dead.” 

You do concede it is incredibly likely.  If anything stopped your father from killing Chris, it was not morality, rather the practicality of breaching Miroh’s defences.  But it sounds like Chris was trouble to Miroh, so it is possible there was no pushback.    

It still breaks your heart to see Felix like this.  The burden of this bargain has caused him strife for so long, but you can see how it motivated him too.  As the hope leaves him, a light dims, and even your affection cannot ignite it. 

“How do you know that?” you ask helplessly. 

“I just feel it,” Felix says.  “In my heart.  I guess.  I think, umm.  I think.  I think I’ve known for a long time.  Maybe from the last time I ever saw him.  But I needed to believe in it.  I think I needed to believe Chris could be saved because then maybe—”  He looks down at his injured hand.  His fingers twitch when he fails to close his fist.  “Then I would have done something good,” he says miserably.  “Maybe then I could be worth saving too.”    

“Felix. Baby.”  You touch his face, still minding the bruise that grows more vicious by the second.  It only adds to the ache in your chest as you look at him, beaten and battered for someone else’s sake.  He has been taking hits every day since he was fourteen years old.  Whether it was for you or his friend, he was willing to surrender his life if it meant even a possibility of saving someone else.  “Felix, you have more heart and humanity than anyone I have ever known,” you say.  “Everything you have ever done has been because of love, despite what they tried to make you otherwise.  How can you not see what I see?” 

He looks at you, really looks at you, the way he did this morning.  He traces the curve of your cheek and brushes the subtle pout of your lips. 

“You’ve always seen more than most people do,” he says.  “You give me something else to believe in, you know?”

“Stop flirting,” you tease gently.  “This is serious.”

He laughs, his smile soft but sincere.  You kiss him slowly, until you are breathing the same uneven breaths, your hearts no doubt beating in tandem.  

Then you pick yourselves up and prepare for what comes next.   

-

Your father claims they will be gone for a week but you know it is not true.  There is no real mission so they will return in a few days at the latest.  For your part, you can only wait.  

Even though you have a tenuous plan, it is still hard being separated from Felix.  You remind yourself that you could not protect him in the field anyway, but logic is meaningless to your heart.  You imagine a version of yourself that is possessed of so many skills, she could wipe out every obstacle without breaking a sweat. 

But you are you.  Your skills are more emotional than physical and right now that physicality is even worse than usual.  You are lethargic from a brutal couple days, weak from the drugging, sore all over, and you cannot sleep well in an empty bed. 

You wake repeatedly in the night, startled by a nightmare where you are being taken, where Felix is being beaten, where your father kills him and a dozen boys like him and all you can do is watch.  The nightmares drag you into consciousness where you are barely eased, the reality of the world not so different from your nighttime horrors. 

In the daylight, you maintain the healthiest disposition possible.  You keep your distance from the security team, sitting in your room or quietly on the couch.  You do not engage when they antagonize you.   They grow bored of your presence soon enough, especially when they cannot get a rise out of you, leaving them with nothing to report to your father.

You expect the hours to drone endlessly.

Then you have a visitor. 

You ignore the doorbell.  The security team does not seem surprised by the interruption so you disregard it.  Maybe it is just another member of the team. 

You ignore the bell and the bustle of guards.  You head to the kitchen to scrounge for some lunch instead.  You hum as you chop vegetables, not paying any mind to the footsteps behind you.  You expect it is a member of the security team, stalking you in the name of supervision.  You turn to address him, a saccharine sweet smile at your face and a drole quip on your tongue, but your heart stops at the figure standing across from you. 

“Hyunjin?”

You breathe more than whisper his name, like surprise has winded you. 

You stand there, knife in hand, jaw hanging open as you stare into the face of your old friend.  He is somehow even more handsome than you remember, long dark hair framing his face, eyes fierce and cheekbones sharp.  An expensive blazer hugs his trim form.  His boots resound with a softer thump than combat boots, so you should have realized it was someone else sooner.

You never would have guessed him.  You have not seen Hyunjin in years. 

“Hello, my girlfriend,” Hyunjin says with a smile, dazzling and beautiful and oh-so very fake. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask tentatively, so perplexed by his appearance in your house that you do not know where to begin.  You nearly pinch yourself to make sure you are not dreaming. 

“Your dad called my dad,” Hyunjin says, his voice very light and casual, like he is picking up a conversation you paused an hour ago and not years ago.  “He thought you needed company so you wouldn’t try running away off or something.  So here I am.  Ta-daaa.  Company.” 

Security shuffles past the kitchen.  Hyunjin pauses, listening to the scuttle of their booted feet.  When the din quiets, he smiles at you again.  It does not reach his eyes. 

“Hyunjin,” you whisper, laying the knife down.  “What on earth is happening?  Why are you here right now?”

Voices, laughter, the team in the other room.  You and Hyunjin look at the door.  His smile droops and he leans closer when he says, “Somewhere quieter please.” 

You are still in something of a daze when you lead Hyunjin downstairs to the gym.  A guard departs after giving the room a sweep, as if anyone or anything could have gotten down here with all the security.

Then it is just you and Hyunjin. 

Hyunjin crosses the room, taking in the space and equipment.  He whistles long and low while shaking his head.  It makes you laugh despite everything. 

“No, no, it’s nice,” Hyunjin teases.  “I never saw this room before.  But I always remembered your house was very small and understated.”

It’s a joke but you cannot force a laugh because his reminiscence sends you hurtling through your own memories.  He turns and you see a younger version of him, just for a moment, beaming and bright.  Hyunjin used to be the hopeful one, the person with a plan and ambition.  He believed there was more to life and he believed he could achieve it.  He was so certain that it sparked a flicker of hope in you.  Now your flame is an inferno but there is no light or fire behind his eyes.  He is so cold that it is hard to believe there was ever a flame. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, imploringly.  “What happened?” 

“A lot,” he says.  He puts his hands in his pockets like he feels at ease, but his eyes keep darting around the room, betraying his discomfort.   

Though your friendship was short, it was substantial.  You know him.  Right now he is labouring beneath the weight of his performance, his charming expressions crooked, like poorly fitted clothes.   He looks like an uncanny duplicate of the boy you once knew. 

You step closer to him.  He does not move, frozen in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets.   When he eventually looks at you, it is with a slow lift of the head.  You swear you can see a curtain drawing across his face as it happens.  This close, you realize just how pale and wan he looks.  He is grey at the edges, like he is fading away before your very eyes. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, instinctively reaching out.  He flinches away from your touch, then tries to smile like it didn’t happen.  You do not hide your distress. 

He finally drops the pleasant façade.  His hands fall out of his pockets and swing at his sides.  His countenance is even colder, his striking features sharper than ever as he levels you with a venomous stare. 

“Don’t pity me,” he says.  “I can’t stand it.  I made my choices and I’m living with the consequences.” 

“Consequences?” you ask.  “Did they catch you trying to—”

 “I never left,” he says.  “I never even tried.  I was close.  I had a whole plan.  A way to start over.  But then...”  He turns without any warning and walks to the mirror wall where he looks at himself.  His hand hovers in the air, fingers curling.  “I met someone,” he says.  “And he wasn’t who I thought he was.” 

When he does not elaborate, you step closer.  You reach out to touch his shoulder, a consolation on the tip of your tongue.  Before your touch even lands, he spins around and looks right at you. 

“It turns out he was working for my father,” Hyunjin says.  He speaks in a plain tone, conveying facts without any unnecessary sentiment, but you can see the red in his eyes as he strains to hold back emotion.  “It was my fault for being so stupid.  With the way things were going, I should have seen it coming.  There is no such thing as selfless love.  Everyone serves themselves in the end and I was stupid to compromise my well-being for someone else.  I deserved the betrayal.” 

“That’s not true,” you say without hesitation.  He is talking about someone else but his words feel like a slap against your friendship too.   You grab his hand like you can squeeze sense back into him.  “I’m so sorry you were hurt,” you say.  “But you can’t honestly think—”

“Hurt.”  He chokes on the word and rips his hand back.  “It nearly killed me.  I wish it killed me.  I wish I was anywhere but here.  But I am stuck here because of my stupid feelings.  Everyone has a weakness waiting to be exploited and you can’t trust anyone not to take advantage of yours.”

It sounds so much like your father that you stumble back.  It resonates with a heavy slam against your ribs and the heart beating inside them.   That heart feels so wrung out these days, swollen with so much love one second then shrivelled with pain the next.  It throbs now.  You are hurt just witnessing his pain.  He has been betrayed and broken and he is unreachable in his grief.  You can only imagine what he has endured to end up back here, in this house, with you. 

You cannot blame him for guarding himself, but your combative side rears its stubborn head.

“There are good people,” you say.  “There are people that can be trusted.  You can trust me, after all.” 

“I don’t know that,” he says.  “We don’t know each other anymore.” 

“That is definitely not true,” you say.  You and Hyunjin clicked so well because your circumstances were so similar, your fears and pain the same.  “We know each other perfectly, Hyunjin,” you say. 

He looks away, blinking rapidly.  His shoulders hunch.  It looks so wrong for a man like him to curl in on himself in shame. 

“Fine,” he says.  “One person.  It doesn’t make a difference.”

“One person makes all the difference,” you say.  “Remember Minho?” 

That one really makes him flinch.  You are pretty sure a slap would hurt less. 

“And Felix,” he says, his voice softer now.  He scrunches his eyes shut like he can stop his pain with enough concentration.  He pushes through and says, “He works for your father, doesn’t he?  I remember him at that party.  He was with the security team.” 

“Yes,” you admit.  “He works for him.  In a way.” 

“And you still trust him?”  Hyunjin laughs.  He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.  “That’s just stupidity.”

“It is not.”

“He works for your father and takes his money and you still trust him not to betray you?  That’s stupid.” 

“It’s not.”  Frustration bubbles inside you.  You want to grab him and shake him around, like you can sift through and find the real Hyunjin underneath all this.  “I know I can trust him completely.”

“You can’t possibly know that for sure,” he says.  “He’ll betray you for the right price.  Everyone has a price.  You don’t think there’s something he’d trade you for?” 

That does sting, if only infinitesimally, as you recall Felix and his conflicting desires.  But you do not begrudge Felix for his life choices.  He was an impressionable boy, raised to follow orders with no thoughts of his own.  It made him wise in some ways and naïve in others.  He fell into a bad bargain with a scheming man and found himself trapped.  He was forced to make difficult decisions.  It was not about choosing you or Chris.  You would never make it about that.   

“Felix loves me,” you say.  “And I love him.   You’re right.  There are things he wants desperately.  But he doesn’t have to trade me for it.  He knows I would surrender myself willingly to see him happy.  Just like I know, no matter what else happens, he will always come back for me.  No matter where they hide me.  No matter where I hide myself.  No matter what men like my father do to him.  We choose each other.” 

“Everyone breaks,” Hyunjin says weakly.  “No one’s that strong.” 

“Not on their own, maybe,” you say.  “We’re not alone.”��

There was so much ice in his feigned arrogance that you are startled when Hyunjin starts crying.  He covers his face with his hands.  His shoulders shake and his breath hitches. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, your own voice breaking.  You rush up to him in a flustered hurry.  You touch his head and his shoulders, trying to peer at him through his fingers.  “Hyunjin, talk to me, please,” you beg.  “Something else is wrong, isn’t it?  Hyunjin, why are you here?  Where are your parents?  Why did my father call yours?”

“My parents are dead,” he barely manages to speak, gasping between his hiccupping cries.  “It’s just me.  They came for me and my father was difficult, he asked for too much, and they— and I—”

“They?” you say. 

It is then you see it.  You are clutching his shoulder and it tugs at his blazer.  A shirt button pops open and your eyes drop to the exposed bruises across his collarbone.  You blink in disbelief at the horrible mosaic beaten into his skin, angry welts of red and purple and yellow.  It seems to go all the way down his chest.  When you part the material of his shirt, something else catches your eye. 

You freeze.

“Oh,” you say.  “Hyunjin.” 

He is wired.  Someone is listening.  Your father is listening. 

You stop breathing for a moment.  The world gets quiet.  You look at Hyunjin.  An old friend showing up at your house out of nowhere, presented like an offering.  Jisung was not important enough for your father to remember, but Hyunjin is a different matter.  He is rich if not wealthy.  His parents were upwardly mobile, his father the kind of pathetic rich man who thought he was equal to a man like your father.  Willing to do awful things to his own son to keep him in his clutches, then selling him to the highest bidder if it meant advancement.  His only mistake was asking for too much when he was ultimately expendable.  There are always more where he came from. 

You want to be wrong.  Your father is a busy man.  He would not waste time finding Hyunjin and putting him through so much just for this, just to corner you into a confession.  But you know he did.  This is exactly what he would do.  He moves like a coward, killing civilians and poisoning innocent boys, then he makes a show of throwing it in your face. 

He always told you friendship was beneath you.  What a way to prove it. 

“I think you’ve fallen in with a bad crowd,” you say, forcing a laugh through the gathering tears. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, a tearful whisper.  He touches your arms like he wants to hug you, but holds himself back. 

“Me too,” you say.  You warned him a long time ago that befriending you was dangerous.  You wish you had been wrong. 

You pull him into a hug and he immediately envelopes you, his arms around your shoulders and yours around his waist.   He chokes out a sob and squeezes you so tight that your breath catches.  Then he just holds you there. 

You do not know if it is his cologne or his shampoo, but it smells so familiar.  It takes you back to that treehouse, looking over a glittering neighbourhood as the sun set and he dreamed about the dawn. 

“I still remember that rhyme, you know,” you say.  The address of that cabin, written in a rhyming lilt that you never forgot.  “If you ever have a chance again… promise me you’ll try…” 

He chokes out another sob. 

“How can you still care about what happens to me?” he asks.  “What about you?” 

“I’ll be fine,” you say.  It is spoken calmly, for all that it is a lie.  “Promise me?”

He just nods, then pulls you closer again. 

You cling to him for as long as you can.  It gives you the strength to stay upright despite your shaking legs, even when you hear footsteps coming down the stairs.  You brace yourself for the worst, halfway expecting the whole house to erupt in a violent explosion. 

It is just a guard.  He says, “Time to go, Hwang. Visit’s over.” 

You want to keep hugging.  You feel like you will fall through the floor if he lets you go.  He is just as reluctant, but withdraws when the guard steps into the room.   He does not look at you as he leaves, head down as he trails towards the stairs. 

“Goodbye, Hyunjin,” you say. 

It stops him for a moment.  He nods then continues.  There is nowhere else to go but back up those stairs. 

You are left standing by yourself in the middle of the room.  The mirror wall makes the space feel never-ending.  You look at your reflection.  You look so rough already, scarred from your kidnapping, tear-streaked from crying.  Your hands tremble uncontrollably.  You remember a younger version of yourself sitting in front of this mirror with Felix, for a moment feeling like a normal girl with her boy.  His touch brought you to life.  He made you feels things you thought you would never feel. 

It will be your own voice your father plays back to you, your own confession betraying you. 

You will not be sorry for it.  

You look at yourself and wipe your face.  You take a breath.  You walk to the stairs, one step after another.  There are guards upstairs but they pay you no mind.  They have clearly received no orders, not yet.  You could try to make a run for it, but you would not get far on your own. 

Instead, you go upstairs to your room.  You look around like it is the last time you will ever see it.  You know that is not true, logically.  Your father will not kill you, but there are fates just as devastating. 

You walk through the room.  It is plainly decorated with a mix of things owned by you and Felix.  For all that this house is not a home, you carved a shared space in this room.   You sit on the bed and study everything from discarded clothes to books to computer parts. 

Something compels you to open the drawer on his side of the bed, that same single drawer you allotted when he first moved in.  A ragged old beanie sits at the bottom of it, the first thing he ever owned.  You fold it over in your hand and squeeze it like a talisman, like it will infuse you with some magic to endure whatever storm is blowing your way. 

You cross the room and touch a few more things.  You find some university textbooks and your heart aches with the desire to return to those times.  You lived a fleeting few years like you were completely free, in love and happy and home. 

You will probably never see Seungmin or Jeongin again, but it brings you some peace to know they will live good lives.  You will never forget their willingness to intervene on your behalf despite the odds being so stacked against them.  Maybe they were not very good at it, smacking chairs and throwing drinks, but you will remember them fondly.  You wish you could say goodbye. 

With that thought, you pause.  Your gaze drifts to your computer. 

You cannot say goodbye to Seungmin or Jeongin, but you can say goodbye to someone else. 

You never wanted to risk contacting Jisung from home, just in case your father was found out.  But everything is ending today, one way or another.  There is nothing more you can lose.   You will take some comfort in a final word to an old friend before you are sealed in this gilded mausoleum.

You sit at your computer.  You log into the blank profile you made some time ago.  It is hard to tell if you are nervous because your stomach is so twisted in knots already, but you think there might be some happy anticipation.  You try to manage your expectations because there is a chance Jisung did not read the messages, seeing as they came from a blank account. 

You should have known better than to doubt him.  You log in to several new messages, laughing from the first line.

OH MY GOD!!!!!!!! IT’S YOU????? MY GIRL!!!!!!!

Okay sorry about that I am totally so cool I promise.  I’m just in shock.

I know you told me not to, but just so you know, I spent a year trying to reach you... 

Well, actually, I spent like four months crying my eyes out and being miserable and pathetic first..  On god, I eyed a jar of peanut butter with some serious thought for a minute there!!!  But then no, no way.  I had to keep going. 

I tried to find you.  Your bitch ass dad is famous because he’s an ugly rich loser so his properties are listed all over a million websites.  I found the one in town where you must live and I rode my bike there a bunch of times but uhhhhh yeah much to my eternal disappointment I am not James Bond and that security system was insane.  Don’t even get me started on when all the dudes in the army gear kept showing up.

On an unrelated note it’s way harder to buy explosives than you’d think. 

Just want you to know I did try to get in there.  You were never alone even if you felt like it. 

But it sounds like you’re not alone anyway HELLLL YEAHHHHH she is getting SOOOME.  All jokes aside I am crazy happy for you.  You deserve it for real.  He better be treating you right though or I WILL find a way through that gate and I WILL kick his ass.  Just say the word and I will be there in a heartbeat. 

He goes on for a while, the whole length of his message making you smile.  When you did not respond, he sent a few more, spaced further and further apart from each other.   The last message he sent was just a few days ago.

Hey I don’t know if you’re getting these.  I like to think so.  You don’t have to answer if you are.  I know you are in a dangerous spot.  Or maybe you’re not anymore and you got out.  In that case, I hope you never read these.  I hope you’re out there living your best life.  Maybe we’ll cross paths again but if not, I count myself lucky for knowing you at all.  I think we’re both slightly insane and everyone else I meet is way too normal haha. 

What I’m trying to say is I miss you like crazy.  I hope we can laugh together again someday.  Even if we never do, let’s say we will.   Keep smiling till I’m there.  Catch ya later crazy girl.

You smile.   Then emotion takes over, tears returning as you lay your hands on the keyboard to type a response. 

You have just hit send when there is a knock at your door, then it is opened without your permission.  You turn and look at the stoic guard who beckons you forward. 

“Your father is home,” he says.  “He wants a word.” 

You nod.  You spare one last look at you screen before logging out and shutting down.  You are certain it is the last message you will get to send.   A warmth fills your chest regardless.  You know it will reach Jisung.  His laughter and energy fills you with the strength you need to walk steadily out that door and down the hall.

-

Hi Jisungie. 

Thank you for your messages. I just read them all now. It wasn’t easy for me to check them before, but I did it today because it might be the last time I have an opportunity to do so.  My father found out about my love affair and seeing as it was with the one person he could not afford to lose, I have no doubt that a reckoning is on its way.  I thought he was bad before, but he has only gotten worse over the years.  I am sure this betrayal will put him over the edge.

I do not know what is going to happen.  I was scared until I read your messages.  They truly made me smile.  You have always made me a little braver.  I think I got less rebellious over the years because I got scared, but now… The worst has happened and I’m still here. 

I will figure it out.  But in case I never get the chance to talk to you again, I just wanted to say thank you one more time.  I miss you too, Jisungie.  I think about you so much.  I wish I could laugh with you again, the kind of laughter where nothing is all that funny but we can’t stop anyway.  Thank you for the times we did. 

I am happy to have lived my life because I knew you. I appreciate all the good times so much more because of the hard times.  You were a one-of-a-kind friend.  I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Keep smiling for me.    

Goodbye. 

-

Your father is behind his desk. 

There is no one else in the room.  They close the door behind you.  You walk calmly up to the desk and take a seat in your usual spot.  You sit as straight as you can, perched on the edge of the seat.  You are still lower than him, but you feel bigger and stronger than you have ever felt in your life. 

Your father draws out the silence, perhaps waiting for you to break down.  You stare at each other.  When he opens his mouth to speak, you interrupt him.  You are uninterested in games and dramatic embellishments, which you know he will indulge.  You simply ask, “What did you do to Hyunjin?” 

“I would not worry about the Hwang boy if I was you,” your father says spitefully.  “You have bigger concerns—”

“And yet I am asking about him,” you snap.  “What are you doing with him?”

“What I do with everything when it is no longer useful to me,” he says.

It is the answer you were expecting but it still draws your rage like a magnet.  It punches out of you, your eyes wet with tears when you say, “You’re pathetic.”

“How many times must you suffer humiliation at my enemy’s hands before you understand that none of this is a game?”  His voice rises as he speaks.  “Do you want to be out on the streets?  Do you want to be brutalized?  Do you want—”

“I would rather die rotting in the sewers with Felix than spend even one more minute under your roof,” you say.

You wonder what surprises your father more: the vicious tone or your blatant confession.  It stuns him into silence.  You know you have disrupted his script.  There is little sense in taunting you with your words if you utter them plainly before he can try. 

“I see,” your father settles on saying.  He presses a button on his desk and the buzzer in the corridor resounds.  “Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

The door opens and several guards usher inside.  You spare them a fleeting glance before your attention narrows to the figure between them. 

“Felix!”  You stand but cannot reach him.  He is surrounded by guards and they will not let you touch a hair on his head. 

He moves like he is completely boneless, evidently drugged with something to make him bleary and slow.  He thumps heavily onto his knees when they put him there.  His eyes are hazy as he looks around the office.   They pause on you, flicking up and down, then he smiles through the pain. 

The pain.  It is not just a drug.  He looks like he went a few rounds with a cement wall, his lip split and his jaw bruised.  His bandaged hand is soaked through with blood, the rest him as battered.  His injuries disappear beneath his shirt and pants but you know it is not a pretty sight.  You swallow down the bile in your throat before looking at your father. 

“He’s your best asset,” you say.  “You can’t lose him.” 

“Oh?  Can’t I?” your father asks.  “Can’t I?  Can’t I?  You think you know something?  You think you can tell me what to do?  You, when all you do is destroy what I make?  I give you everything and this—this is how you—”  His yelling sharpens to a shriek before he starts breaking things.  It pulls Felix further out of his haze, his eyes tracking the frantic movements as your father smashes a vase near your feet. 

You think about that tiny shard of glass from last time, the miniscule thing that started it all.   It makes you laugh even though nothing is funny.  Laughter is an emotional output just like crying, so it pours out of you with no regard for the actual gravity of the situation. 

It only worsens your father’s rage. 

“Does something here amuse you?” he asks, but you are laughing too hard to answer.  There is a vein throbbing in his forehead and you imagine it bursting.  You imagine all your problems solving themselves as he drops dead from his own rage.   The image is even funnier because you truly cannot imagine this man dying.  He is a monster.  If you stab him, you fear he will just mutate and come back worse. 

“You want to laugh?” he snaps.  He crosses the room to Felix.  “Laugh.” 

He holds out his hand and someone places a gun in his open palm.  This snaps you out of your delirious giggles, a winded whoosh spilling out of you.  

Your father does not execute action himself.  He always puts the gun in someone else’s hand.  The fact he is pointing it at Felix should tell you that his threat is not serious. 

But he has never been this furious, his anger a white hot cascade of fire.  Felix is just inches from the barrel of the gun.  Even an inexpert marksmen like your father could drive a bullet between his eyes. 

So the moment he grips the weapon, you shout, “Stop!” 

Your father looks at you with a cock of his head, satisfied with your reaction. 

Then he jumps back because Felix rushes to his feet, most of the fog dissipated.  Your father’s stupid men did not think for a moment that Felix would repeat a strategy.  Just days before he allowed himself to be captured so he could rescue you.  It seems he has done that again, feigning the depth of his condition.  He swings to his feet and kicks out. 

His injuries restrict his movement.  He is good at ignoring pain but his body overrides his consciousness.  He fights nonetheless, struggling with the guards while you watch. 

You look around for something that can help.  You snatch a paper weight off the desk  and prepare to throw. 

Your father is a step ahead of you.  Suddenly you are staring down the barrel of a gun, your father on the other end, fuming. 

“No—!”  Felix says before he is beaten down.  With his attention diverted, a guard kicks the back of his legs.  His knees buckle and he goes down with a groan. 

You look at him then flick your eyes back to your father.  You raise both hands and lift a challenging eyebrow. 

“You want to do this?” you ask.  “Really?  After everything?”

“After everything,” your father says.  “Exactly my words.  A house, an education, unending protection.  You want for nothing.  All I ask in return is obedience and you cannot even grant me that.  You have the audacity to betray me for this animal.”  He waves the gun around like the clumsy, ungainly thing he is.  It makes a few heads duck, including yourself.  You fear this man will kill someone without even trying.  It makes it hard to listen, which might be for the best, as he goes on a long tirade about privilege and position and loyalty. 

He starts merely angry but it turns downright diabolical. 

“And you.”  He turns to Felix.  “I dug you out of Miroh’s gutter!  I made you a bargain!  I gave your meaningless life purpose!  You are nothing without me.  How dare you think to take what is mine.  How dare you think you are anything more than a dog.  How long have you kept this secret?  How am I supposed to trust it is the last?  You are a liar.  For all I know you are lying about everything.  Is that it?  Are you a spy, feeding reports back to Miroh?  Is that why I can never succeed in my missions?  Have you been—” 

Felix bursts into laughter.  His face scrunches with delight, his cheeks dimpled. The low rumble of his laughing voice sounds real, honest amusement at the proclamation.  It fades to a sigh, then he looks up.

You have never seen such a dark glare shadow his features, made all the more horrifying thanks to his bloody injuries.  It makes your stomach drop even though it is not directed at you. 

“You fail at all your missions because you’re an incompetent idiot,” Felix says.  “You couldn’t even control two children. What makes you think you can control Miroh?”

“Have you forgotten our bargain?” your father yells, waving the gun towards Felix again.  “You lie and trick your way into my household and still expect—”

“Our bargain,” Felix spits the word and some blood sprays out.  He spits the rest on the floor and shakes his head.  “I know he’s dead.  You killed him a long time ago.”   

The room is quiet for a moment.  Your father is still holding the gun, though it dangles at his side.  He and Felix stare each other down.  Although Felix is kneeling, his sinister stare is far more terrifying than your father’s blank gaze.  But then that empty gaze turns cold and your father smiles, one of those sharp smiles that opens like a slash across his face. 

“Now how would you know that,” your father says, “if you are not a spy for Miroh?”

“One of Miroh’s men told us at the warehouse,” you interrupt.  It earns you nothing but a wrathful glare from your father.  He gestures to you and a guard puts a threatening hand on your shoulder. 

“You will speak when spoken to,” your father snaps.  He looks at Felix again.  “Oh.  Yes.  You.  Whoops.  I very nearly forgot, it was so long ago when I killed your friend.  Does that make you sad?  Poor little boy.  You should have remembered your place.  Your kind are born to die for men like me.”

“Men like you,” Felix says.  Mourning will have to wait so he laughs because he cannot cry.  “You’re pathetic.  Not a surprise, though, yeah?  Since your father took care of everything before I killed him—oh.  Whoops.”  He tilts his head and smiles, speaking with the same saccharine tone your father just used to mock him.  “It was so long ago.  I almost forgot I shot your daddy in the fucking head.  Does that make you sad?  Poor little boy.  You should have remembered your place and stayed behind your walls.  You’ll never be a man like him.” 

Your father has never looked so stricken.  You did not even know his face could contort such a way.   It makes him look very human for the few heartbeats that it lingers.  You can almost picture a younger version of your father, breaking under the fist of his father before him.  

Then he schools himself.  Once more, the untouchable monster stands before you.  The gun wobbles only a little when he raises it, taking aim at Felix. 

“Stop!” you shout.  You were just picturing the passing of generations, so maybe that explains why your panicked brain compels you to blurt, “You can’t kill him! I’m pregnant!” 

This time every head in the room swivels towards you.  Even the other guards do not hide their surprise.  Your father stares, jaw agape, and Felix looks just as bewildered.  You feel bad because you can see thought flickering behind his eyes, wondering if maybe you are telling the truth.  It makes his face change, pain flashing.  Panic seeps into his veins. 

“Excuse me?” your father says. 

You almost trip on the chair.  Your knees knock and your voice shakes when you say, “You heard me.” 

“I know what I heard.”  At least it succeeds in garnering your father’s attention.  He forgets about Felix entirely as he stalks towards you, gun clutched in his undoubtedly sweaty hand.  “My problem lies in understanding how this can be.”

“Well,” you say slowly.  “I can’t imagine you really want me to explain that—”

You father backhands you across the face.  You careen into his desk, barely catching yourself. 

“It could work in my favour yet,” your father says.  “Start fresh.  Fix where I went wrong with you.  Because you are an irredeemable and entirely lost cause.” 

This baby is not even real yet you panic at the thought.  It unspools an infinite and horrifying future, this house an eternal monstrosity birthing a new generation of tyrant and monster.  Hurting and contorting everyone in the family name for the sake of maintaining that vast estate.  

This has to stop. 

“Of course I am,” you say.  You take a long, steadying breath, then you push yourself upright.  You turn to your father and meet his gaze, aware of the gun but feigning complete nonchalance.  “I can’t believe it has taken you this long to realize it,” you say.  “You lost me a long, long time ago.  You want to control everything because you’re scared of losing anything.  But you’ve already lost what you were trying so hard to protect and you can never, ever get it back.  I will not continue what your father started.  I will not be what you have become.  I am not like you and I am proud of that.  I am proud that I love my friends, and Felix, despite how much you tried to stop me. But I am me and I am not scared.” 

You dive at him, a vicious tackle spurred by that hurricane of emotion inside you.  You tackle him so quickly that it takes the guards a second to react.  The gun clatters to the floor as it flies out of his hand.  He throws up his fists to protect his face when you swing down with all your might.  What you lack in physical strength you compensate with drive, slamming your fists down without care for where they land, again and again and again. 

Then someone grabs you by the collar and yanks.  It is one of the guards, pulling you to your feet.  Your father shrieks and hollers like a wounded dog, snarling and frothing like one too.  He gets to his feet and swings at you. 

Felix rises, struggling to reach you.   You stretch out your hand, your fingertips touching before you are yanked apart from each other.  You cry out, struggling in the guard’s death grip to no avail.  Felix is fighting the other guards but his injuries put him at a disadvantage. 

You are dragged away from the chaos.  Your father picks up the discarded gun on his way. 

“Take her outside!” he shouts at the guard, then turns to the mess in his office.  “Don’t waste your energy.  Shoot the boy.”

“No!” you scream, so guttural you hardly recognize the sound.  You cry as gunshots ring in the office, but you lose sight of the skirmish as you are dragged, kicking and screaming, down the stairs and out the front door. 

You curse at your father and the guard, bits of your shirt ripping when you fight to escape.  You are smacked and twisted, your shoulder popping so painfully that it makes you wail. 

“Stop it, stop it!”  You are fully sobbing, either from pain or panic.  It does no good as you are dragged into the night.  The grand driveway is lit like a stage awaiting players, lamps and towers beaming over the pavement.  The gate opens to the street beyond.  It is pitch black.  There are no other houses on this hillside, the estate sprawling across its expanse, so there are no streetlights.  A black car is parked on the curb.  It feels like a chariot to the underworld, black and swallowed by shadow.  You are as good as dead.  Felix might be truly dead. 

You struggle some more but you are in so much pain.  Your father is shouting directions at the guard and it splits his attention.  His grip loosens and you successfully break free. 

You do not hesitate.  You run into the street, straight through the pitch black.  If you run far enough, you will eventually reach a proper street leading into the city.  You do not even care which direction you go.  You just run, ignoring the screaming pain in your muscles as your feet hit the pavement.

A gunshot pierces the quiet night.  You stumble to a stop, throwing your hand up over your heart.  You touch your chest, expecting to find a bloody wound.  But there is nothing, not a single drop.   You were not shot. 

You spin around and watch the guard fall to the ground, a bullet in his head.  Your father turns too, holding his own gun at the approaching figure. 

Your knees almost buckle as relief washes over you, Felix storming down the driveway with a gun of his own raised at your father.  Felix is badly wounded, but even at his worst he is a far better shot than your father.  They both know it too, staring each other down as Felix gets closer and closer. 

“Stop where you are!” your father screams, his voice breaking. 

Felix ignores him, gun still raised.  Your father fires a shot that goes wide.  Felix does not even blink as it ricochets off a wall.  He walks calmly to the sidewalk where your father stands.  He does not smirk or gloat.  He just looks at the frightened man who terrorized the world to make himself feel better, and he lines up a shot. 

Felix pulls the trigger. 

Nothing happens. 

His brow furrows before his face twists with fury.  The gun has jammed or it’s out of bullets, but either way it is useless.  He lowers his arm, the gun dangling from his hand as he stares at your father.

Your father just laughs, a ridiculous and semi-hysterical laugh as he stumbles back but never lowers the gun.  Felix is much closer now.   Even your father could not miss this shot.   

Felix drops his gun and smiles weakly. 

“She’s funny, you know,” Felix says.  “And smarter than anyone I know.  She picks up on things everyone else misses.  It’s too bad you can’t see it.  But then, you’re not like her.” 

“Shut up,” your father snaps.  “You have exceeded your uses, boy.” 

You realize you are running.  Even before the conscious thought reaches your mind, your body spurs you into action.  Instinct commandeers control and you hand yourself over to it.   Felix looks up just as you emerge from the dark.  He sees your face for a split second, enough time for him to realize what you are doing and shout, “Stop!”

Your father’s finger is already on the trigger.  A shot rings out and this time it does hit you, sharp and searing as you dive in front of Felix. 

The gun hits the ground.  Your father looks at you with petrified eyes.  Felix catches you, supporting your weight as he sinks to his knees with you in his arms. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, touching your face, your neck, your chest.  “Sweetheart, look at me.  Stay with me.” 

The pain is excruciating, like nothing you have ever felt before.  You cannot even tell where it is coming from.  It feels like your neck and shoulder and heart all at once.  It radiates and burns.  The pain is so overwhelming that you do not notice the wet, tacky feeling of blood.  You see it before you feel it, all over Felix’s fingers as he finds the bullet wound in your shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” he says, barely more than a gasp.  His chest is rising and falling rapidly.  You scream in agony when he grabs your shoulder and squeezes it hard in his fist.  “I know, I know,” he says.  “It exited clean.  There’s nothing vital there.  You’ll be okay, sweetheart, I got you.  I just have to staunch the blood.  We just have to—”  His voice breaks on a sob and he looks up at your father, his hand covered in your blood and his rage as red on his face.  “We have to get her help.  Now.”  

Your father’s response is to pick up the gun.  He nearly drops it, his shaking hands clammy, but he gets an unsteady grip eventually.  He points it at Felix again.  

“Are you fucking serious?”  Felix shouts in aggravation.  “Your daughter is going to bleed to death if you don’t do something.  Put the fucking gun down!”

“Get away from her,” your father says.  “Get away from her and put your hands up.  I’ll get her help.” 

“No,” you say, shaking your head then crying when pain lances down your neck.  “No, Felix. Don’t.” 

Your father will not take another shot at Felix, not with you in his arms.  Your father might want to control you, but he does not want you dead.  You are the only thing that is protecting Felix now.  If he moves, he dies. 

“Don’t go,” you beg.  “Felix, please.”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” Felix says.  He looks up at your father, venom in his voice as he asks, “Are you really going to stand there and let your daughter die?” 

“Are you going sit there and let her die?” your father retorts.  “Get away from her and I will save her.” 

You feel Felix twitch. He presses his fingers a little harder, stopping a rush of blood.  It makes you weep and you plead, “Felix no.  Please.  I can’t watch that.  I’d rather it end like this.”

“Don’t say that.”  Felix looks down at you.  His bloody hand is shaking, tears spilling down his cheeks as he looks at you.  “Nothing’s ending.  You’re gonna be fine.” 

“It never ends,” your father babbles.  He almost drops the gun when he trips over the lip of the sidewalk, stumbling backwards into the street as he stares at you.  You stare back, wondering if it is your blurry vision or if he is really crying.  All you can see is him wiping his face, the gun trembling in his hand.  “It just keeps going,” he says.  “Only I can end it.” 

He is taking aim again.  You cannot tell if he is aiming for you or Felix, maybe some half-baked delirious plan in his twisted mind to put you out of your misery and take Felix with you. 

Felix does not have time to attack.  He can only curl his body around yours to protect you from the shot. 

Then a beam of light shatters the dark.  It flies up the street, illuminating your father.  He looks in that direction.  Everyone is drowning in their sobs and it is all so loud that it takes a second to hear it: the heavy, growling drone of a speeding car, hurtling ever closer.  The white of a high-beam headlight blinds your father with lightning hot intensity. 

It is the last thing he ever sees. 

Felix is as startled as you.  You both cry out in horrified shock.  He blocks your body to shield you from the sudden and unexpected gore.  Noiseless convulsions tremble through your whole body as you stare up at Felix, not understanding what just happened. 

You both look over as the car rapidly reverses, disappearing just as quickly as it came.  In its wake is your father, or what remains of him.   

Just like that, the whole world tilts on its axis.

You cannot comprehend what you are seeing.  This man was a towering, nightmarish monstrosity, bigger than life and death, holding the world in his fist.  Even he desperately believed in his own mythology.  It seems impossible that he could be that nightmare but also be this, a broken and very human body, muscle and gristle and protruding bone, half flattened to the tarmac.  A sudden and entirely undignified death, comically animal, and as lowly as everything he ever disparaged.   

You and Felix stare at him, at the mess of his ruined dead body on the dark street.  It is so, so quiet.  The house is so still.  The street is empty.  You can hear the soft buzz of the floodlights. 

You make a hurt noise.  Felix looks down with a perplexed shake of his head.  But he only has a moment to mind you, his mouth open with some unspoken thought, when you hear the car again. 

You both look over, your heart racing and your blood spilling over his hand.  He is wearing his most determined face, braced to face an adversary. 

You do not know who to anticipate.  It makes no sense for Miroh to be here.  He would not have known anything unusual was transpiring at this house tonight.  How could he know to send someone?  Yet it is the only thing that makes sense.  The only person who could have taken down someone like your father would be someone just like him. 

You are braced for the worst when the car comes to a stop.  The dead body looks more grotesque as the headlights flash over it. 

The driver does not turn off the engine.  You hear the patter of frantic footsteps before the silhouette is illuminated by the car lights.  Wide eyes meet yours and your heart stutters.  Your tears are halted by the face staring back at you. 

“Oh my god,” Jisung says.  “That was the bad guy, right?” 

Felix reacts first, a bark of laughter made in disbelief as he stares at your startled best friend. 

Han Jisung is both the same and different, with a flop of dark hair and big brown eyes, but years have passed, leaving him bulkier and more mature.  He pushes a pair of glasses up his nose, the wide frames only exaggerating his eyes, making it very easy to hold his gaze when he looks at you. 

“Jisung,” you say, and start crying all over again.  “Jisung.”  You cannot seem to find another word.  You just gasp his name between sobs.

Jisung practically flies towards you, landing on his knees. 

“Hey, stranger,” he says, carefully touching your cheek.  “You’ve looked better, I’m not gonna lie.” 

You laugh even though it hurts, reaching for him with a shaking hand.  He takes it despite it being sticky with blood, cupping it safely in his own. 

“You’re here,” you say.  “How? Why?” 

“Of course I’m here,” he replies in a soft voice.  “I got in my car as soon as I saw that goodbye message.”  He gently squeezes your hand.  “You didn’t think I’d let you get away twice, did you?”        

Your laugh is more of a sob, in too much pain to truly smile.  Felix asks Jisung to help, showing him where to apply pressure.  Jisung complies, holding you while Felix tugs off his shirt.  It leaves him in a tank top, all his scars and bruises on display.  You want to fuss over him too but he gives you no opportunity to linger, using his shirt as a makeshift tourniquet for your wound. 

“So your boyfriend is Felix,” Jisung says while he works.  “That’s great. I was rooting for you two crazy kids.  Felix had a pretty obvious crush on you in high school.  I didn’t say anything because you kinda seemed to hate his guts but I guess that’s not true anymore.  You had some bigger bastards to hate.  Speaking of, that was your dad I got right?  I mean, I didn’t even think, I just saw him waving that gun around and I hit the pedal.  Next thing I knew—ohhh shit, Felix, you’re really strong, what the fuck, man.  Have you been working out—” 

Felix scoops you into his arms and stands.  His usual unwavering strength falters just a little, his injuries protesting his action.  You tell him to put you down because it will do no good for you both to collapse.  Jisung stands and helps steady you.  They both lay a hand on your back, taking some of your weight as your feet touch the ground and you wobble. 

“That’s my girl,” Jisung says.  “Oh man, that’s a lot of blood, ha ha ha – AHH.  No, it’s fine, we’re okay.  Careful—”

“Jisung,” Felix says, looking past you to meet his eye.  “Are you okay?”

A more than fair question considering how fast everything just happened.  Jisung stops rambling and takes a few deep breaths before he answers. 

“Okay, yeah,” he says.  “Totally fine.  For now.” 

“Okay,” Felix says.  “Because I need you to take her while I—”

Your ignore their conversation.  Your eyes are on your father.  You cannot even call it his body; it is a carcass.  His lower half is gored but his face is mostly whole.  You half-expect his mouth to open with a wailing shout.   You are so distracted with the thought, you misstep and your weak ankles give out.  You are spared a kiss with the pavement when Jisung catches you.  It is a haphazard embrace, throwing his arms around you to keep you upright. 

“Can you take care of her until I get back?”  Felix asks. 

“Uh-huh. Yes,” Jisung says.  He puts his growing bulk to use and lifts you into his arms, bridal style.  You cannot move your shoulder to lift your arms around him, but you rest your head in the curve of his neck as he carries you to his car. 

His car.  Hysterical giggles bubble inside you, quashed only by the physical ache of your body.  Han Jisung really raced back into your life and annihilated the worst of your demons by driving right at him.  

Years of nightmares and beatings and pain.  Years of your father lording his power over you and the world.  Years of believing he was terrifying and untouchable.  

Jisung always said it was that easy.  He was just a teenager, lookingat the impossible powers that surrounded his friend but believing whole-heartedly he could save her anyway.  You argued and pushed him away, but he knew better all along.  Jisung was not cowed by money and influence, not impressed or frightened by men like your father who ravaged the world and gloated about it.  Jisung had no power or influence of his own but that didn’t matter.  He saw his friend was in a bad situation and he wanted to save you.   So he did. 

He carefully rests you in the passenger seat.  In the time it takes him to circle to the driver’s side, you break down crying.  The pain exacerbates it, your body seeking release, but it is sentiment that pours out of your heart. 

Jisung gets in, looking very startled.  He adjusts his glasses. 

“Did it get worse?” he asks, reaching for you with a bloody hand.  You look at it, you look at him, very literally stained with blood on your behalf.  He is staying composed but you can see the jitters under his skin.  He just killed someone for you.  It might have been a panicked, spur of the moment decision, but the end result was the same.  Even though your father was not a good man, taking a life is a serious burden. 

And here he is, placing that weight aside so he can check on you. 

“Jisung,” you say.  You wish your hands were not so dirty because you want to touch his face or hold his hand.  You satisfy yourself with leaning towards him, touching your forehead to his cheek as you cry. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jisung says.  He shifts so your foreheads are touching, his clean hand cupping your cheek.  “I got you, okay?  It’s over now.  Felix is gonna take care of it and I’m gonna take care of you.  It’ll be okay.  Don’t be scared, all right?”

“I’m not,” you say.  “What did I do to deserve you?”

“You’re my friend,” Jisung says.  “You don’t have to do anything to deserve it, okay?  Look.  I know what will make you feel better.”  He reaches past you into the glove compartment.  You have no idea what he could possibly have in there that will make you feel better while bleeding out of a bullet wound in the passenger seat of his car, the same car he used to murder your abusive father. 

He fishes around then pulls out a bag of spicy peanuts, the same flavour you used to eat all the time in high school.  Even though he was allergic, he bought them whenever he found them, just because he knew you liked them. 

You take them slowly, staring at the familiar packaging.  You sniffle.    

“It was always going to be you, wasn’t it?” you say softly.  You could cry all over again.   “You really came back.”

Of course Jisung saved you.  You realize now your father could never be bested by Miroh or someone like him.  They would be locked in a perpetual stalemate, predicting each other’s every step, giving and taking and killing in a circle of violence with no end.  But Jisung is not like them. 

Whether the gesture was big or small, whether it was peanuts or a rescue, it was selfless, and someone like your father would never understand that.  He never saw it coming. 

“Well, yeah,” Jisung says.  “My promise was forever, remember?”

You can only nod, bumping your heads together.  Jisung wraps you in a hug then kisses your forehead before buckling in and taking the steering wheel. 

“All right,” he says.  “We can catch up after.  Let’s get away from this place.  It’s giving me the creeps.” 

-

It is strange looking at your house on a news report.  It makes you feel like you are watching someone else’s life. 

You are stitched and showered, sitting on the floor of a twin bed motel room.  You are still damp from the shower but each little trickle feels like blood, your jittery fingers constantly swiping at your skin. 

Jisung sits behind you on the bed, his legs bracketing you, double checking your stitches.  Felix said it was paramount to avoid a hospital or any other institution that would identify you.  He told Jisung to book a room at a motel on the highway and wait for him, that he would stitch you up himself when he arrived.  Jisung took the initiative, boasting some first aid training for his job at the grocery store. 

“Usually I’m putting bandages on a cut finger,” Jisung said, hands covered in blood as he fixed your wound, “but this is, uh, similar I guess.  Sort of.” 

Felix arrived while you were in the shower.  Now he is in there, cleaning himself and minding his own injuries while you and Jisung watch the evening news report.   The blinds are closed, rain pelting the canopy over the balcony, but you are tucked away from the storm, hidden from the world as it mourns you. 

“A devastating house fire is believed to have left no survivors on the premises,” the reporter says, backdropped with a video of an inferno ravaging your father’s house.  “Police are still investigating, but among the suspected dead is a prominent local businessman and his daughter.”  They show a portrait of your father and an old yearbook photo of you.   That girl looks nothing like the battered woman you are now.  You really do feel like you are watching someone’s else story end.

“Wow,” Jisung says, watching too.  “How does it feel to be dead?”

You rest your head against his knee, sighing as you stare at the television. 

“I’m not dead,” you say, staring at the photo of you.  That girl might be dead, but you are very alive. 

Felix accidentally swings the bathroom door too hard, the thud like a gunshot in your mind.  You jump a mile out of your skin, digging your nails into Jisung’s leg unthinkingly. 

“Ah ah ah ah—”  Jisung grabs your wrist to pry you off. 

“Sorry,” Felix says, truly apologetic.  He closes the door with a gentle click then approaches.  He sits beside Jisung on the bed, laying his hand on your head and looking you over.  “How are you?” Felix asks.   He pays no mind to the news report but that is likely because he is responsible for the story they are broadcasting.  You know Felix would tell you every detail if you asked, but you decide you do not want to know how he moved the bodies around.  It is enough to see the walls of that place burning. 

He packed a few things first.  A stuffed duffel bag sits on the other bed.  Perhaps it should feel daunting, that all you have left is a single bag of necessities, but it feels freeing.  You are not burdened by the weight of more.  Your hands might be shaking and you might be hurt in more ways than one, but you can exhale. 

You take Felix’s hands and kiss his scraped knuckles.

“I’m fine,” you say.  “What about you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he says.  He looks more tired than you have ever seen him, but he manages a laugh when you pout at him.  “Don’t do that,” he says, flicking your bottom lip.  “Just some bad bruises, yeah?  I’ll be fine.” 

You know he is not fine but you respect his desire for peace.  You can check his injuries later when he has settled. 

“Well then, what about you, Jisungie?” you ask.  You turn around to face him.  “How are you?”

“Uh, honestly…”  Jisung rakes his fingers through his hair then exhales on a shaky laugh.  “I’ll let you know when I know.  It’s all a bit—uh—”  

“Yeah,” you say, taking his hand.  “I know.” 

You suspect there will be no proper words for a while.  You cannot even think of recovery while your wounds throb.  There are still gunshots firing in your mind.  When you close your eyes, you see a body on the pavement.  You expect a knock at the door and a gun in your face, even though there is no reason for that.  Miroh is probably sitting back and laughing at the detonation of your father’s house.  Your father’s people and investors will scramble over the company tomorrow.  That world will turn without you.  You will not miss it.    

You struggle to sleep that night.  You lay on your back to mind your shoulder but that is not your only grievance.  Felix lays beside you where he belongs and Jisung is in the other bed, so you are not alone anymore, but your adrenaline will not dwindle.  Now that you have a moment of peace, it feels more chaotic than ever. 

When you start breathing harder, Felix wraps an arm around you. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispers.  He does not ask what is wrong.  It is more than self-explanatory.  You do not need to speak. 

You want to roll over and bury your face in his neck, but you cannot move because of your shoulder.  You suffice to hold his arm tight, closing your eyes as his protective embrace surrounds you.  His heart beats against your body and you let it lull you into a gentle repose. 

You do not sleep for long.  There is morning light when you wake but it is a bleary, early grey light.  Everything smells a little damp from the rain.  This is a small motel, meant to serve as a momentary respite for passing travellers.  You cannot stay here. 

Felix wakes when you do.  After a few morning kisses, he rises to use the washroom.  Jisung is still fast asleep in his bed, his cheek squished and his hair a shaggy mess on the pillow.   You smile, looking at him.  There is a gap between the beds but he is close enough to touch if you stretch.  You content yourself with looking, thinking about how lucky you are to have him again.  It is a light and happy thought, but it darkens very swiftly when you recall what he did to save you.  It is going to weigh on him, whether all at once or in pieces. 

The weight of trauma will be a heavy burden, but you are alive to carry it.  There are others who are less lucky.  You think about Hyunjin and your heart strains, recalling his final miserable departure.  Your father implied he had Hyunjin killed.  If he was not bluffing to antagonize you, then Hyunjin did not stand a chance.    

You are sniffling with tears when Jisung blinks awake.  He mutters in groggy gibberish before reaching for his glasses.    His tired voice is tinged with concern when he asks, “What is it?  Do you need something?” 

“No,” you say, wiping your tears.  “I was just thinking I know where I want to go next.” 

It is hard to talk about Hyunjin so you opt for vagueness over specificity.  The boys do not question the subject of the cabin when you mention his name.  You do not tell them he might be dead.  You feel like if you speak it out loud, it will make it true. 

It will take a week to reach the cabin by car.  Jisung helps you loads the necessities into the back a truck that Felix procured, only questioning its seeming manifestation after the fact. 

“I stole it,” Felix answers. 

“You stole a car?” Jisung asks.  It is a good thing the motel parking lot is empty because he practically shouts it, like stealing a car is the most horrifying thing he has ever heard.  You remember how you had the same reaction the first time Felix stole a vehicle. 

It makes you laugh when Felix draws his lips into a thin line, shaking his head at Jisung.  He turns to you and says, “You two really are identical, you know?”  

“What does that mean?”  Jisung asks. 

“I said the same thing the last time he stole a car,” you say.

“Dude!”  Jisung whips around.  “You stole two cars?”

“You know I’ve killed people, right?” Felix says dryly. 

“Well yeah, I mean, who hasn’t,” Jisung says with a nervous giggle. 

You whack him on the arm and shake your head.   “That’s not funny,” you say. 

“It’s a little funny,” he whispers while you roll your eyes. 

Though you want to keep him at your side, it feels selfish to ask Jisung to come with you.  He has a life here and he has already done so much to help you.  But he surprises you by emphatically volunteering himself, saying he at least wants to help get you there. 

“I don’t think I could just walk back into my normal life tomorrow like nothing happened,” Jisung says, tucking you under one arm.  “I don’t know what’s gonna happen next.  Can’t control it.  But I know where I want to be right now.  I’ll figure out the rest after.” 

So you take to the road, your destination a small cabin far away from your old life.  You stop along the way, at first for food and other necessities, mostly stolen by Felix, but then for pleasure when you drive through towns with interesting landmarks.   On the clearer nights, you sleep in the bed of the truck. 

You still do not stop for a real discussion.  You indulge the mental break while you can, all three of you taking the time to literally stop and smell the flowers on the journey. 

Bandages still need changing.  Stitches need minding.  The night before your anticipated arrival, you are in another motel room.  You and Felix sit in the small kitchenette, playing cards at the tiny table, while Jisung showers and goes about his nightly routine. 

You throw down a couple cards.  You look at Felix while he studies his hand.  The swelling on his face has gone down which is good for numerous reasons.  He has been wearing a baseball cap everywhere, the brim pulled low, to stop people from staring. 

There is a hard set to his shoulders.  It has been like that for a few days.  Even in your father’s house, there were moments Felix would soften, namely when he was curled up in your shared bed and the world seemed far away.  Maybe he cannot relax because the world is so immediate now.  It is strange that potential happiness can cause as much anxiety as its opposite.  Perhaps it is because it is so unfamiliar.  Your body only knows how to brace itself. 

Felix was raised for that express purpose.  Road trips and gardens and motel rooms was not in his training.  High school corridors and uniforms once baffled him, the mundanity of everyday life more exhilarating and frightening than a battlefield. 

You want to smooth his brow and soften his shoulders.  He sits like he is holding a breath and you want to draw it out of him.  A part of your stirs with arousal at the consideration, thinking how you could do that.  You have always found your humanity in that intimate space.  But you are both much too injured to try anything heavier than a kiss right now. 

This time, you reach across the table and touch his cheek, with no intention but a soft caress.  He blinks up at you, the cards forgotten.  You do not know what to say.  You just touch him.

He cups his hand over yours, holding it to his cheek.  He looks at your shoulder and other bruises.  It will take you a long time to heal, but nothing is infected.  You do not know how his injuries are faring because he will not let anyone look at them.  He claims he is fine.  You know he is not. 

“I love you,” you say.  “I swear it gets stronger every day.  Is that crazy?  Not a day goes by where I am not grateful for you, just as you are.”

He closes his eyes and swallows.  He nods. 

“I love you too,” he says in a soft, low voice. 

When Jisung leaves to get some dinner, Felix proves you wrong about lovemaking.  You are too injured for anything vigorous, but he can still lay you down, can still stretch alongside you.  He slips his hand beneath your waistband and touches you with long, careful strokes.   You unravel in his arms, your sore spots aching but the pain worth the pleasure.  You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and tug him down for a kiss.  You kiss him until he sighs and rests his forehead to yours. 

“Can I please see?” you ask. 

He finally acquiesces.  His scars are not too bad, more plentiful than painful.  He hisses but exhales when you kiss your way across a couple worse marks. 

“We’ll find a way to feel better,” you say, grazing your fingertips along his skin.  You recall what Jisung said, about how you did not have to deserve love, you just had to accept it.  “You don’t need to prove yourself anymore, Felix,” you say.  You dance your fingers down his bare chest to his waistband, kissing his shoulder as he sucks in a breath.  “Just be with me.  Let me love you.” 

“Always,” he says, dropping his head back as you touch him.  He cups the nape of your neck, squeezing lightly as you flick your wrist and stroke. 

You reach the cabin the next day.  It is late afternoon when you find the right place, passing a few other cabins before you find a quaint but charming one in the midst of a meadow.   The cabin itself does not flaunt much excess, but the meadow is flooded with flowers, a carpet of colour in the late afternoon light that makes it look like a something out of a fairy tale. 

The only problem is the smoke in the chimney.  The cabin is clearly occupied. 

“Is this the right place?”  Felix asks.  He and Jisung were admiring the meadow while you stared at the cabin, heart palpitating when you realized it was not empty. 

“It is,” you say. 

“Maybe it’s Hyunjin,” Jisung says. 

“It’s not.”  You close your eyes.  Hyunjin did not say anything about selling the property when you brought it up.  But, then again, there was a lot happening in that final exchange.  You made him promise he would try to get away if he could, but it might have been an empty platitude.  He knew he was going to die.  He knew you would never find out anyway. 

The distractions of the past week flutter into nothingness as you reckon with the grim reality of the world your father left behind.  You hang your head, swallowing hard. 

Jisung and Felix stare at you, their faces falling when they realize what you mean. 

“How?” Jisung asks. 

“My father chased him down,” you say.  “He used him.  He discarded him.  It’s what he does.” 

“What he did,” Jisung reminds you.  “And maybe Hyunjin got away.  We did!  That stupid hot weasel was a bitch but he was resourceful as fuck.” 

“Jisuuung,” you say, smacking his arm.

“What? I’m not speaking ill of the dead because he’s not dead,” Jisung argues.  “And if he was, he wouldn’t want me to suddenly be all fake and nice to him.   I annoy him.  That’s how I show my love.”  He kisses two fingers and waves it at the sky, then flips his middle finger too.  You laugh in spite of yourself, shaking your head.

Felix steps behind you and takes your hand.  He kisses your cheek. A breeze blows through his hair, his hat in his other hand. The three of you stand in the meadow for a time, looking at the flowers as you contemplate what to do next. 

The front door of the cabin opens.  You all turn.   An apology sits on your tongue, sorry for trespassing on someone else’s property.  The sight of you is no doubt disconcerting. Despite showers and meticulous first aid, you all look very rough, three obviously tired and run down people, a little dusty from the road and streaked with dirt from your hike to the cabin. 

You look at the person as they stand on the front stoop.  Your brow furrows and the apology disintegrates on your tongue, a bemused question poised to take it’s place.

“Minho?” is all you manage. 

You have not seen your first teenage crush in many, many years.  He looks older but not too different overall.  He is still very striking, even in his homey flannel and jeans, standing on the cabin stoop and looking at you with equal confusion. 

“Do I know you?” he asks, which makes sense.  You might have had a crush on him, but so did half the school.  He was a popular guy.  He knew Hyunjin but he only met you briefly. 

You want to tell him that.  You want to say you are friends with Hyunjin but you find it hard to say his name, especially with Minho gazing at you so innocently.  Why is he at the cabin?  Was he still friends with Hyunjin?  He likely does not know he is dead. 

You are spared your turmoil when Felix tugs on your arm, a sharp bid for attention.  You look at him, bemused, and he nods his head forward.  You look past Minho to the open cabin door as another figure steps into view. 

All that twisted pain unspools in your chest.  You nearly start sobbing in relief.

“Hyunjin!”  You ignore the surprised look on Minho’s face and run right past him.

Hyunjin is standing in the doorway, looking wary until he recognizes you.  Then his face breaks into a smile and those long limbs jump the porch steps.  You trample a few flowers that have grown over the path, meeting in an embrace amidst sprigs of lavender and vibrant hyacinths.   It is a very messy embrace, you and Hyunjin both forgetting you are injured.  You crash together only to yelp, your shoulder smarting and his bruised chest just as tender.  You laugh at each other then hug gently.  When your cheek touches his chest, your eyes water. 

“Am I dead after all?” you ask thoughtlessly, the beauty of the terrain and the embrace of your friend momentarily making you think so.    

Hyunjin laughs and shakes his head.  “I thought you were,” he says.  “It was all over the news.  I thought for sure—”

“I thought for sure you—”  You overlap with him, both of you laughing again.  “How did you get away?” 

“Nothing special,” Hyunjin says.  “I was being watched but they were waiting for final orders from your father.  Then word got out that he was dead so they just left.  I don’t know if they went to investigate or just abandoned post.  I didn’t stick around to find out. I packed my things and disappeared the first chance I got.” 

“We made a few stops on the journey over,” you say.  “I’m not surprised you beat us.” 

“I really thought you were—”  Hyunjin shakes his head.  “And that it was my—”

“It wouldn’t have been your fault anyway,” you say. 

“That’s what I told him,” Minho interrupts, his tone quippy but his lips quirked up in a smile.  He wiggles his fingers in a wave when you look at him.  “So you’re the friend,” he says.  “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m the friend’s friend,” Jisung says, skipping into the scene and waving at Hyunjin.  “Hey, man.  Missed me?” 

He is being playful but Hyunjin pulls him into a hug, very obviously surprising Jisung who almost falls right over.  Poor Jisung’s face goes red as a rose.  You remember his video about having a crush on his high school rival and can’t help but giggle into your palms. 

Felix puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling cordially at Minho.  “Hi,” he says. 

“This is Felix, my—”  You look at each other.  You lips move as you look for the right word.  Bodyguard is not strictly true anymore.  Boyfriend and partner sound so very mundane, but you realize that is what you are now.  “Boyfriend,” you say, feeling hot with embarrassment for no good reason.  You suspect the little things will have you flustered for some time. 

“Boyfriend,” Felix repeats, looking quite delighted for a second.  You are certain only you see the flicker of sadness that follows.  He blinks, his gaze faraway, but he covers it with another smile quickly enough.  “Nice to meet you,” he says. 

“I guess I’ll have to make a bigger dinner,” Minho says, playfully dry like the idea is a hardship, but smiling a knowing smile at Hyunjin, clearly very happy for him.  “Come on then.  Get inside already.  You’re crushing the tulips.” 

The cabin is one floor with a loft.  The main bedroom, kitchen and facilities are downstairs, some extra makeshift bedding thrown together in the small sitting area by the fireplace.  The upstairs loft is a small second bedroom, sparsely furnished with a mattress and blankets and little else.  The ceilings are low but the space is blessedly private.  You think it is some of the finest accommodations you have ever stayed in.   

You throw yourself on the mattress, curling up with a pillow and blanket.  Felix smiles and leans down to kiss the top of your head.  When he pulls away, you take his hand, regarding him imploringly. 

“Just gonna take a shower,” he says.  “Wanna clean up, yeah.”

You nod.  Even though you can see he is struggling with something, you let him go.  If he is not in the mood to talk, you will wait.  A shower will help him feel better.

He takes his bag and climbs back down the ladder.  You mean to wait for his return, but you feel such calm at finally reaching your destination.  The laughing voices of your friends float up to the loft, putting you even more at ease.  You release a breath and lay your head on a pillow.  The next thing you know, you are blinking awake.  The sky is a purpling pink, the day drawing to a close.  You can smell something cooking downstairs.  Your friends are still yammering away.  Hyunjin’s relentless giggles at Jisung’s goofy jokes makes you smile. 

You climb down the ladder and wander into the main room.  Felix was not upstairs but he is not with the others either.  He must have finished his shower a long time ago now. 

“Where’s Felix?” you ask, an edge of panic in your voice. 

“He’s just outside,” Minho says from behind the kitchen counter.  “He said he just wanted some air.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling a little foolish for panicking without reason.  “Right. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry,” Minho says, winking to comfort you.  You smile but nonetheless wrap your cardigan tighter around you, feeling a little embarrassed. 

Felix has been glued to your side for ten years.  Your instinct now panics in his absence, but you realize his absence is a good thing.  He does not need to be beside you at all times.  He is free to wander if that is what he wants.  You are glad he stepped outside for some air, rather than sitting over you. 

You step onto the small porch and look across the meadow.  You can see a shape sitting among the flowers at the edge of the field, looking down the slope to the park valley below.  You cross the flowers, minding where you step.  The breeze parts your cardigan and you tug it closed.  It is a somewhat clumsy walk overall.  Your last few steps are a proper stumble over a rock.  You miss it completely, distracted with what you find. 

Felix sits with his back to you.  You thought he was wearing a hat, but now you can see it is his hair.  He dyed it a shock of pitch black and trimmed the edges.  It is a messy, jagged cut that you will certainly have to fix later.  You suspect he did not spend much time looking in the mirror. 

“What’s this?” you ask.  “Is this why you wanted to stop at that drug store?”

Felix looks up at you.  The dark hair somehow makes his freckles stand out more.  He looks different but still very handsome.  You think you might be falling in love all over again, a little flushed inside as you sit beside him on the grass. 

“Yeah,” he says.  He runs his fingers through his hair, glancing up at the dark locks from beneath his lashes.  He sighs.  “And I don’t know why.  I just…” 

You put your arm around him, drawing him close to rest his head on your good shoulder.  He falls against you, breathing out again.  His shoulders droop, losing some of the tension that has plagued him. 

“I don’t know what to do now,” he says.  “I know this is all good, but I feel like I’ve done something wrong.  Like I’m not supposed to be here.  And I keep thinking about Chris.  How I—”  He rubs his face, then chokes tears.  “What am I supposed to do with all this life, especially when I couldn’t give him back his?” 

He cries properly now and you let him.  There is no right thing to say, not that you can think of, so you just hold him until he has expended the worst of his pain through his tears.  He takes a few shaking breaths before he sits upright, wiping his face.  You rub a circle on his back. 

“And you,” he whispers.  “It’s like, I feel everything all at once.  You call me your boyfriend and I’m happy, then I see you hugging Hyunjin and I think—he knows how to be a person.  I don’t know how to be anything.”

“Felix, you know Hyunjin is gay, right?” you ask.  You guarded that secret before but seeing as Minho is here at the cabin, you suspect Hyunjin is not keeping it secret anymore. 

Felix stutters on a shaking breath, looking momentarily confused. 

“Huh?  He is?” he asks, then gets a little weepy again, saying, “That’s nice for him.”

“Oh, baby,” you say.  You kiss his cheek and snuggle close to him, resting your head on his shoulder.  “I don’t know what to say.  I’m a mess too.  I don’t know how to do any of this right.  But I’m pretty sure grieving your friend makes you more of a person, not less.”  You look at each other.  You touch his cheek and stroke a thumb over his freckles.  You think you have them mapped by memory, every last dot.  “You’re not alone,” you say.  “I want to be with you when things are bad, not just when they’re good.  And you and me, we’ve known a lot of bad.” 

He laughs, his breath dancing over your lips with your proximity.  You smile fondly. 

“I think it’s time we feel some good,” you say.  “We’ll figure out what that means eventually.  Together.” 

He draws you close and kisses you, a sweet kiss that deepens.  You cuddle when the breeze blows a little harder, the evening chill creeping into the sunset.  Still, you do not move, sharing heat between you and sitting among the flowers until the pink has left the sky and a blue evening blurs into the purple wash. 

Minho sticks his head out the door to call you in for dinner.  You stand first and offer your hand.  Felix takes it, then kisses you one more time.  You walk back to the cabin, hand in hand.

Warmth wraps around you like a fuzzy blanket when you step inside from the cold.  Hyunjin and Jisung are playfully arguing at the table, Minho standing over them and yammering some nonsense back.  You and Felix smile at each other before joining them all at the table.  After he has served the portions, Minho sits as well. 

There is a moment of silence, everyone looking around the table at everyone else.  They all looked flushed with warmth and life, Hyunjin smiling and Jisung beaming at you.  Felix puts his hand on your knee under the table, squeezing softly.  You look at him with another smile, then a laugh, a sound of disbelief that resonates with everyone.  You are here, impossibly but truly.  You have no idea what happens now.   

“I’ll break the ice,” Jisung says.  “Because I have a confession, while we’re all here, and Hyunjin has his hot boyfriend cooking us a meal.  Hyunjin, my man, I’m sorry for being the dick of all dicks when we were in high school.”  Jisung lays a hand on his heart and dramatically makes his confession.  Hyunjin’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as your goofy friend continues, “Turns out having an arch nemesis is super gay.  And I was a stupid repressed bisexual who thought furiously staring at you for seven hours a day was a totally normal thing to do.  Sorry, man.  Congrats on the hot boyfriend, though.” 

“I’m not his boyfriend,” Minho says.  His elbow is on the table, chin in his hand.  He is grinning at Jisung. 

“Come again?” Jisung says. 

“Not his boyfriend,” Minho says, laughing.  “I’m his friend.  He was in trouble and asked for my help.  I’m a good friend so here I am, helping him get settled.  I’m actually married.”  He holds up his hand, proudly displaying a wedding band.  He giggles some more.  “He’s single, though.”  He gestures to Hyunjin. 

Jisung looks at Hyunjin who has gone very pink in the face.  He glances at Jisung and laughs, covering his mouth to try and contain it. 

“Oh.  Oh.  Oh.  Yeah.  Cool.”  Jisung scratches the back of his neck, then his brow, then his chin.  He taps the table and nods his head rapidly.  “Awesome,” he says.  “Well, I’m really glad we clarified that before I made a really ridiculous confession in front of everyone.  That would have been super embarrassing for me.”

You all laugh, genuinely as Jisung soaks it in with a silly little grin.  The sound of your collective delight fills the cabin before chatter begins again and you start eating. 

You glance around the table while taking a bite.  Your shoulder aches, and Felix’s bruises are still healing, and you will not be surprised if a nightmare jolts one of you out of sleep tonight.  But you will wake beside Felix, you will comfort each other, and you will fall back asleep.  You will wake up tomorrow and try it all again. 

You know the times ahead will not always be easy.   You are ready to make mistakes and try.

It is not a perfect ending, but it is a perfect beginning.   

[newobsessionweekly]

Breaking boundaries

Main masterlist | The Rookie masterlist

Tim Bradford x Grey!reader Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: You are Sergeant Grey's daughter and despite the reservations about your relationship with Tim, he still found out. And not only that.

A/N: Here it is, another request. Thank you so much for your support and patience. I appreciate all of you and thank you all for reading my stuff. Requests are still open, so feel free to send them! Have a nice day, bubs! Lots of love and take care of you! ❤️

Fluff

Warnings: None. Pure fluff. Not proofread

Requested: Yes Words: 4.3k GIF not mine, credits to the owner.

From a young age, you were mesmerized by the world of law enforcement, inspired by your father's dedication to serving and protecting the community. Growing up, his commitment to justice and his unwavering dedication to his job as a police officer shaped your perception of the world. You wanted to walk into his footsteps, to make a change into the world and protect what's right.

As a child, you often accompanied your father to the station, fascinated by the inner workings of the police department. You idolized the officers you met, dreaming of one day following in their footsteps. But your father, ever protective, urged you to pursue a different path, fearing for your safety in such a dangerous career.

Sergeant Grey had seen the dangers of the job firsthand and was determined to shield you from its perils. You followed your father's advice, channeling your passion for helping others into a career focused on caring for children in need. Yet, the allure of the police force never truly faded.

It was during one of your cases involving a troubled teenager caught in the cycle of crime and neglect that you first crossed paths with Tim Bradford.

Assigned to assist with the case by providing support to the juvenile offender, you found yourself face to face with him. His stern expression and no-nonsense approach initially intimidated you, but beneath his tough exterior, you sensed a depth of compassion that intrigued you.

For Tim, meeting you was unexpected. He had grown accustomed to the routine of his job, keeping his emotions tightly guarded behind the badge. But there was something about your presence – the way you approached your work with a combination of empathy and determination – that drew him in.

As you worked together on the case, you couldn't help but be drawn to Tim's dedication. His unwavering commitment to making a difference resonated with you, igniting a spark of admiration that gradually grew into something more.

But it wasn't until an intense moment during the case – when Tim risked his own safety to protect you from harm – that you realized the depth of your feelings for him. In that moment of vulnerability and shared danger, a connection formed between you that transcended the boundaries of professionalism.

Tim found himself opening up to you in ways he never had with anyone else. He shared his fears and doubts, his hopes and dreams, knowing that you would understand in a way that few others could. And as the walls he had built around his heart began to crumble, he realized that he was falling for you – hard and fast.

As your relationship with Tim evolved, you found yourself falling deeper in love with him, drawn to his unwavering support, his selflessness, and the way he made you feel seen and understood. And though the risks of starting a relationship with a police officer, especially one who worked closely with your father, weighed heavily on your mind, the love you shared with Tim was worth any sacrifice.

As you sat in your apartment with Tim, the sound of the football game running in the background, you couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over you. For days, you had been complaining to your father about something that desperately needed fixing – a broken water pipe that's been flooding your apartment every time you took a shower. Despite his promises to help, his busy schedule always seemed to get in the way, overtime hours exhausting him while working on a crucial case about some serial killer. From as far as you know, police didn't have enough evidence to knot the suspect to the killings and your dad was working on that.

But Tim had managed to squeeze in some time between his own hectic schedule to come to your rescue. For him, the water pipe was only an excuse to get some more time with you, enjoying your presence. With his sleeves rolled up and a determined look on his face, he had tackled the problem head-on.

As the soft glow of the evening sun filtered through the curtains, you can't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over you. The day had been long, filled with the usual chaos of work, but now, with Tim by your side, everything seems to fall into place. It's rare to have these moments of tranquility amidst the chaos of your lives.

"What's on your mind?" Tim asks, his gaze soft as his attention focused solely on you.

His heart swells with adoration, his eyes tracing the contours of your face with reverence. You possess an ethereal beauty, captivating him with every glance.

You lean back against the cushions, contemplating for a moment before replying, "Just... work, I guess. It's been crazy lately. And then there's this pipe," you say, gesturing to the bathroom. "It's been driving me crazy."

Tim chuckles, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I feel you. But hey, at least the pipe's fixed now."

But it's his smile that truly melts your heart – warm and genuine, it lights up his face and fills you with a sense of comfort and belonging. And when his eyes crinkle at the corners with laughter, you find yourself falling even deeper under his spell.

"Yeah, thanks to you," you reply, smiling gratefully at him, leaning over him, your lips touching his as you spoke, but maintaining a teasing distance "I don't know what I would have done without you, handyman."

Tim's gaze softens at your touch, a warmth spreading through him as he intertwines his fingers with yours. "Just doing my part to keep the peace," he says, his voice tender as he leans in closer to you.

Your stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud growl, breaking the serene atmosphere. You chuckle nervously, shooting Tim a sheepish grin.

"Looks like someone's hungry," you tease, trying to divert attention away from your rumbling stomach.

Tim raises an eyebrow, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, was that you, or was it me?" he quips, his own stomach joining in with a grumble of its own.

You laugh, feeling the tension ease as you engage in playful banter. "Well, I suppose we're both in the same boat then," you remark, nudging him playfully with your elbow.

Tim grins, leaning closer. "I guess so. What can I say? All this exhausting work relied on my appetite."

"You know," you say casually, glancing over at Tim, "I can help you with dinner, but only if you promise to stay the night."

Every time he flashes you that crooked grin, your heart flutters, and you can't help but feel a surge of warmth spread through you. Despite his tough exterior, there's a gentleness in his eyes when he looks at you, a tenderness that makes you feel safe and cherished.

Tim's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, a playful glint in his eyes. "Oh, is that so?" he replies, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "And here I thought you were just being nice."

You shrug nonchalantly, a smirk of your own playing on your lips. "Well, I am nice. But a little incentive never hurt anyone."

Tim laughs, shaking his head in amusement. "Alright, you've got yourself a deal," he says, holding out his hand for a playful handshake. "But only if you promise to make that famous dessert of yours."

You chuckle, shaking his hand firmly. "Deal," you say, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at the thought of spending the night with Tim.

"I need to grab something from store." you told Tim as you grabbed your jacket. "Want something?"

"Nah, I'm fine. Want me to come with you?"

Your figure, graceful and lithe, moves with a natural elegance that leaves him breathless. Your presence commands attention, drawing him in like a magnet.

"No, no, I'll be back before you can enjoy the game too much." you teased, leaning in to press a quick kiss on his lips before heading towards the door.

As you return to the apartment, expecting to find Tim lounging on the couch, you're taken aback by the scene that unfolds before you.

Your father stands in the center of the room, his expression severe and unyielding. And standing beside him is Tim, his usual confident expression replaced by a hint of discomfort and shock.

"Dad, what's going on?" you ask, confusion lacing your voice as you set the bags of groceries down on the counter.

Sergeant Grey's gaze shifts to the door, his expression softening slightly at the sight of you. "Thought I'd stop by and help you with that pipe as I have some time to spare tonight." But the sternness remains as he gestures towards Tim. "Care to explain why one of my officers is in your apartment, Y/N?"

You feel a pang of anxiety at the disapproving tone in your father's voice. "Dad, it's not what it looks like," you begin, scrambling to find the right words to explain the situation.

Tim steps forward, his gaze meeting yours briefly before turning back to Sergeant Grey. "I stopped by to help Y/N with the pipe," he explains, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. "I didn't mean to overstep any boundaries, sir."

Sergeant Grey's lips curl into a sarcastic smile. "Ah, so you're a handyman on your free time now, Bradford?" he quips, his tone laced with sarcasm.

You jump in quickly, hoping to diffuse the tension. "Dad... Tim just offered to help me fix it. It's nothing more than that," you explain, your voice earnest as you meet your father's gaze.

Sergeant Grey's expression softens slightly as he regards you, but the disapproval still lingers in his eyes. "Well, next time, maybe call a professional if I can't come help you," he says, his tone gruff. "And as for you," he adds, turning his attention back to Tim, "I expect better judgment from my officers."

Tim nods, his jaw tight with tension. "Yes, sir," he replies, his voice respectful but tinged with frustration.

As Tim sits at his desk in the station, his fingers absently tracing patterns on the file in front of him, his mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Thoughts of you swirl through his mind like a storm, each one more tumultuous than the last.

He likes you, he really does. From the moment he first met you, he was drawn to your kindness, your strength, your unwavering dedication to helping others. But now, knowing that you're Sergeant Grey's daughter, his superior, it feels like his world is crashing down around him.

As the days pass and Tim's attitude towards you shifts, you can't help but feel a heavy weight settle in your chest. At first, you brushed it off as work-related stress or simply a busy schedule, but as his interactions with you become increasingly distant, you can't ignore the sinking feeling in your gut.

The thought of him getting involved with you, of crossing that line between personal and professional, fills him with a sense of dread. It feels wrong, somehow, to entertain the idea of a relationship with you, to risk complicating both your lives and careers.

But despite his best efforts to push you away, to bury his feelings deep down where they can't hurt him, he can't shake the thought of you. Your smile, your laugh, the way your eyes light up when he's around– they haunt him, tormenting him with the fact that it's almost impossible to have you.

And as he sits there, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of the station, he can't help but feel a sense of isolation. It's as if he's trapped in a cage of his own making, unable to escape the turmoil of his own mind.

Even as he struggles with his inner demons, one thing remains clear – his feelings for you are real, undeniable, and all-consuming. And no matter how much it tortures him to admit it, he knows that he can't walk away. Because in you, he's found something he never knew he was missing – a connection that transcends the boundaries of duty, a love that refuses to be ignored.

You've always admired Tim, and when your professional relationship with him blossomed into something more, you felt like you had found someone who understood you in a way that no one else ever had.

Now, as you watch him from across the station, his attention focused elsewhere, you can't help but feel a sense of betrayal. It's as if he's pulling away from you, retreating into himself, and you're left wondering what you did wrong.

Lost in his thoughts, Tim doesn't notice Angela and Nyla approaching until they take the chairs next to him, their voices pulling him back to reality.

"Hey there, Bradford," Angela says with a playful smirk, nudging him lightly with her elbow. "Got a moment to spare for a little gossip?"

Tim looks up, forcing a smile despite the turmoil churning inside him. "What's up, ladies?" he asks, trying to keep his tone light.

Nyla gives him a knowing look, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "So, we heard through the grapevine that you've got a thing for someone special," she says, her voice teasing.

Tim's heart skips a beat, a flush creeping up his neck as he tries to play it cool. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replies, his voice betraying his nervousness.

Angela raises an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. "Oh, come on, Tim. We're not blind," she says, leaning in closer. "We've seen the way you look at Y/N, the little touches, just like you're some high school kid with an enormous crush on her."

Tim sighs, knowing there's no use denying it. "Yeah, okay, maybe I do," he admits reluctantly, his gaze flickering back to the file on his desk. "But it's complicated."

Nyla and Angela exchange a knowing glance before turning their attention back to Tim. "Complicated how?" Angela asks, her curiosity piqued.

Tim hesitates, his throat feeling dry as he struggles to find the words. "She's... she's Grey's daughter," he finally admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

As Angela and Nyla's laughter fades, their expressions shift from amusement to shock as Tim's revelation sinks in. Their eyes widen in disbelief, and Angela's playful demeanor turns serious.

"What?" Angela exclaims, her voice laced with concern. "Grey as in Sergeant Grey's daughter?"

Tim nods, feeling a knot form in his stomach at their reaction. "Yeah," he admits reluctantly, his gaze dropping to his hands. "I only found out recently, and Serg... well, he wasn't exactly thrilled when he found me at her place."

Angela and Nyla exchange another glance, this time their expressions softened with sympathy. "Oh, man, that's rough," Nyla says. "You should talk to her, Tim. Clear the air, figure things out."

You've found yourself standing in the centre of the chaos after an unexpected call. The Mid-Wilshire unit were in the middle of an operation to apprehend some serious drug dealers when they discovered a little girl involved in the mess.

Sasha, an adorable and very smart four years old, was one of your social services cases. You had a bond with the little one as she's seen you dozens of times for the past year, after the neighbours called in repeatedly to report her parents for negligence. You knew they weren't the best, but they tried to keep their daughter safe from some business you suspected wasn't holy in the first place. But the parents to be traffickers, you didn't expect that.

As the operation unfolds, tension hangs heavy in the air, thick with the sense of imminent danger. The street buzzes with activity as officers prepare to execute the carefully planned raid on the operation.

Your father approaches you with a stern expression. "I want you to stay close to Bradford," he instructs, his tone firm, then he turned his attention to Tim. "Keep her safe."

Tim nods, his jaw set with determination. "Yes, sir."

You find yourself captivated by the way he carries himself, with an aura of quiet confidence that sets him apart from the rest.

"Just make sure you both come back in one piece," your father says quietly, his voice tinged with concern.

You nod as well at your father's words, though frustration simmers beneath the surface,a pang of resentment at being treated like a helpless child.

With a deep breath, you waited for the officers to break into the house, securing the perimeter, before you stepped inside, your senses on high alert as you navigate the dimly lit corridors of the house.

Tim follows closely behind you, his presence a comforting anchor in the storm. "Stay close," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You find yourself mesmerized by the way his muscles flex beneath his uniform, his every movement commanding attention.

You searched for the young girl, your heart pounds in your chest with each passing moment. Finally, you spot her huddled in a corner, her eyes wide with fear as she clutches a stuffed toy to her chest.

"It's okay, sweetheart," you say gently, crouching down beside her. "We're here to make sure you're safe, okay?"

Tim pushes forward, his determination unwavering as he focuses on the mission at hand. With each passing moment, his love for you burns brighter, a beacon of hope in the darkness that surrounds him.

The girl nodded in understanding, a smile covered in fear playing on her lips at the sight of you. But as you scoop her into your arms and turn to leave, a sudden shout echoes through the house, followed by the sound of gunfire. Sasha starts to cry, scared by the loud noise, your heart pounding in your chest just as scared when you covered the little girl's ears. Panic surges through you, but Tim is quick to react, his voice steady and reassuring as he guides you towards the exit.

Tim stands by your side, his presence a steady anchor in the storm as he watches over you both with a protective gaze. "We gotta move," he says, his voice firm but gentle as he offers the girl a reassuring smile. "You're going to be okay."

But amidst the chaos and uncertainty, doubts gnaw at him, threatening to undermine his resolve. The knowledge that your father, Sergeant Grey, is also present adds an extra layer of pressure, his disapproval a constant weight on Tim's shoulders.

As he moves through the house, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger, he can't help but feel a surge of protectiveness towards you. Every instinct he has screams at him to keep you safe, to shield you from harm at all costs.

As you emerge from the house, the weight of the young girl in your arms a tangible reminder of the danger you both faced, you take a moment to ensure she's okay. Gently stroking her hair, you whisper words of reassurance, promising to keep her safe as you guide her towards safety.

Once you've settled the girl in a secure location, you turn to Tim, your heart heavy with the weight of unspoken words and unresolved tension. "We need to talk," you say, your voice tinged with a mix of frustration and hurt.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the confrontation that's been building since his distant behavior began. "Why have you been avoiding me, Tim?" you demand, the hurt evident in your tone. "Ever since you met my father, you've been acting like I'm some kind of liability."

Tim's jaw tightens, his gaze flickering with a mix of guilt and frustration. "No and it's not that simple, Y/N," he starts, his voice strained. "I didn't realize... I mean, finding out your father is Sergeant Grey, it changes things."

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with unspoken emotion. This hurt you like hell, all you could understand is that if he'd have known from the start you are the daughter of Wade Grey, he wouldn't have approached you.

You puffed as a response. "Why didn't you tell me sooner, Y/N?" he asks, his voice tinged with a mix of hurt and exasperation. "Keeping something like this from me... it's not fair."

Your heart sinks, the sting of betrayal sharp and raw. "I didn't think it mattered, Tim. I didn't think it would change how you feel about me." you retort, your voice tinged with anger.

Tim's expression softens, regret flashing in his eyes. "It's not about that, Y/N, it didn't change my feelings for you." he insists, his voice pleading. "I care about you, I do. But with everything that's at stake... I didn't know how to handle it."

"You want to know what really changes things, Tim?" you seethe, your voice trembling with emotion. "I'm pregnant."

Tim's eyes widen in shock, his mind reeling as he struggles to process the bombshell you've just dropped. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words elude him, lost in the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him.

For a moment, silence hangs heavy in the air, the weight of your revelation sinking in between you. Tim's expression is a mix of confusion and uncertainty, his thoughts a jumble of conflicting emotions.

Seeing his bewildered expression, you can't help but feel a surge of doubt creeping into your own heart.

You had expected shock, perhaps even anger, but Tim's response leaves you feeling adrift, unsure of where you stand with him. His lack of a clear reaction leaves you feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn't anticipated.

He's not sad that you're pregnant, nor is he angry. But it's not exactly the news he imagined. He finds himself grappling with a complex array of feelings – fear, apprehension, and a deep-seated sense of responsibility that tugs at his heart.

As the weight of your words sinks in, Tim's expression softens, his eyes reflecting a mixture of surprise and tenderness. "You're pregnant?" he repeats, his voice laced with disbelief.

Tim's features break into a gentle smile. "Wow," he breathes, his voice filled with awe. "I mean... wow."

Your heart skips a beat at the warmth in his voice, a flicker of hope igniting within you. "I know it's a lot to take in," you say softly, your voice trembling with emotion. "But I wanted you to know..."

Tim's smile widens, his gaze locking with yours in a silent exchange of understanding. "I'm... I'm happy, Y/N," he admits, his tone hesitant but sincere. "I mean, I'm thrilled, really. But..."

You nod, your own smile faltering slightly as you sense the weight of his unspoken concerns. "But it's complicated," you finish for him, your voice tinged with sadness.

Tim's expression softens, a silent acknowledgment of the challenges that lie ahead. "Yeah," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "But we'll figure it out.

As Sergeant Grey approaches, his eyes narrowing with curiosity and concern, he addresses you with a stern tone. "What did you say?" he demands, his gaze shifting between you and Tim.

You hesitate for a moment, the weight of your words heavy on your tongue. But then, with a resolve born of love and determination, you meet your father's gaze head-on. "I said I'm pregnant, Dad," you admit, your voice tinged with nervousness.

Sergeant Grey's eyes widen in shock, his features contorting with a mixture of surprise and concern. "Pregnant?" he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest as you brace yourself for his reaction. "Yes, Dad," you say firmly, your voice unwavering. "And I love him."

As Sergeant Grey processes the news of your pregnancy, his expression darkens with a mixture of disappointment and frustration. He turns his gaze towards Tim, his eyes narrowing with a steely determination.

"Officer Bradford," he begins, his voice low and stern, "I'll make this very clear. My daughter's well-being comes first, above all else. And if you think for one moment that you can waltz into her life and disrupt everything she's worked so hard for, you're sorely mistaken."

Tim meets Sergeant Grey's gaze head-on, his jaw set with determination. "With all due respect, sir, I care for her. I would never do anything to hurt her," he says, his voice unwavering despite the tension in the air.

Sergeant Grey's eyes narrow further, his resolve hardening with each passing moment. "I don't care how you feel, Bradford," he says, his voice cold and unforgiving. "I'm her father, and I'll do whatever it takes to protect her."

Tim's expression softens slightly, a hint of sadness creeping into his eyes. "I understand, sir. But you have to know that my feelings for Y/N are real. I won't apologize for that."

As the tension between them reaches a boiling point, Tim takes a step back, his gaze flickering towards you standing nearby. "I love her, Sergeant Grey," he says, his voice filled with sincerity. "And I won't let anyone stand in the way of that."

Sergeant Grey's features soften slightly at Tim's words, a flicker of understanding passing between them. But his expression remains guarded as he regards Tim with a sense of caution.

"You may think you know what's best for her, Bradford," he says, his voice softer now but no less firm, "but I'll be watching you. Don't make me regret this."

With that, Sergeant Grey turns on his heel and strides away, leaving Tim and you standing alone in the fading light of the evening. And as you watch him go, a sense of determination washes over you, knowing that no matter what challenges lie ahead, as long as you have each other, you'll find a way to overcome them.

[essenceeater]

Erron black trying to court s/o headcanons? 🫡

Erron Black Courting HC's

I LITERALLY LOVE YOU FINALLY SOMEONE REQUESTS ERRON! I love him so much, cowboys are just AUGHHHH 😫😫😫 This is probably the fastest request I've written!

Character: Erron Black.

Triggers: Mentions of guns, lmk if I missed anything.

Requested: Yes

🔓 Requests are open at the moment🔓

Link to rules

🐎 Erron Black would maintain his mysterious aura but gradually reveal his softer side to his S/O. He might leave little gifts or hidden notes around to pique his S/O's curiosity. He leaves small, enigmatic notes with cryptic messages, encouraging the reader to solve them, leading to secret meetups.

🐎 Occasionally, he sends them rare desert flowers or unique trinkets as tokens of his affection.

🐎 Erron challenges you occasionally to a shooting competition in a secluded area, setting up targets in creative and challenging ways.

🐎 He'd provide shooting lessons, standing closely behind the reader to guide their aim, creating a romantic tension. He just wants to impress you with his sharp shooting skills

"Let me show you how it's done," Erron stands behind, guiding his S/O's arm, both focusing their vision on the target in front of them. "Now, squeeze the trigger gently."

🐎 An adventure might involve a surprise horseback ride to a hidden oasis, complete with a picnic he prepared. I know this is Erron we are talking about but he's gonna try his damn best to make you happy.

🐎In perilous situations, Erron would shield the reader, using his skills to ensure their safety. He'd be damned if something happened to you. He'd go to great lengths to ensure his S/O's safety, showing his commitment and care.

"I can't stand to see anyone threaten you. I'll always keep you safe, no matter what."

🐎 Erron's morally ambiguous nature might lead to inner conflicts, as he tries to balance his loyalty to Outworld with his feelings for his lover. He doesn't want to scare you away or think he'd hurt you, but he's not going to give up his outlaw life, just keep you away from the dangers.

🐎 During quiet nights by a campfire, he definitely would tell you stories, some goofy, some intense. He might gradually open up to you about his past and the reasons for his outlaw lifestyle, creating a bond of trust and intimacy.

🐎 YOU CAN'T TELL ME HE WOULDN'T TRY TO CHARM HIS S/O WHILE COURTING THEMMMMM!! HE SO WOULDDDD.

🐎 Expect lots of playful banter and teasing from Erron as he tries to charm you. His wit and humor would be part of his courtship strategy. HOWEVER THEY ARE ALL SUPER CHEESY AND FUNNY. I love him but I feel like he'd be saying some of the most goofy shit possible with someone he genuinely likes.

🐎He would tease the reader with witty one-liners, creating a playful yet flirtatious dynamic.

🐎 Banter between them would be a recurring theme, adding humor to their interactions.

"You might want to be careful, sweetheart. I've been known to steal hearts." Erron said as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer to him as the two of you watched the stars.

"Oh really?" S/O chuckles as they rest their head against his shoulder. Rolling their eyes at his cheesy attempt to charm.

🐎This man is an outlaw, he's unpredictable.

🐎 What does this lead to?

🐎He might surprise the reader with unexpected acts of kindness or show up when they least expect it, keeping them on their toes. All of a sudden he's appearing at their doorstep with a homemade dinner and flowers in hand.

🐎 Unexpected visits during storms, when the reader least expects it, would be Erron's way of expressing his affection.

"I brought dinner. Hope you like it."

"You can cook?"

"A little something I picked up over the years. Just for you."

🐎 Erron Black would likely be a fan of slow burn, gradually building a connection and chemistry with his S/O, making the eventual romance more rewarding from his courting.

"I reckon I want to savor every moment with you, darlin'. No rush."

Essenceeater © 2023 ┃ do not copy, modify, steal, repost ANY of my content.

[teyamsilly]

big baby and bigger baby

pairing neteyam x mom! oc, lo'ak x mom! oc, slight neytiri x mom! oc tags & warning i'm so down bad for neytiri, slight romance with wifey, lo'ak and neteyam are def mamas boys, mentions of blood and violence summary preparing for another raid, jake finally let his sons take part in it. veronica was proud but her concerns never left her.  word count 2.6k index skxawng [idiot], ma'itan [my son], prrnen [baby]

teyamsilly speaking ✩ idk if i'll ever be satisfied with how my stories are cause i keep coming back to it and it feels like there is something lacking :') hope you enjoy it !

"We hit them here. Assuming they will be waiting for us to hit them earlier in the transport because of our surprise attack last time, let's wait a bit more until they cross this-" Veronica circled an area on the map with red paint using her finger, "to attack them. Like we discussed before, Tarsem will place the bombs by the tracks and activate them. The track gets destroyed and the train breaks. Na'vi on ground will collect all the goods in the train. Everything that is of use to us. Na'vi on sky will handle the helicopters."

She observed all the warriors. "Am I clear?"

They all answered with a firm yes, a nod of respect sent her way. Veronica looked at Jake and nodded. The simple gesture from her told him that the brief was done.

"Warriors, get ready!" announced Jake. The tent was instantly filled war cries, filling each na'vi inside with determination. The RDA destroyed their home once, they wont allow it to happen again. One by one, they left. 

The Olo'eyktan watched as each of them exited the tent until his gaze stopped on two distinctive figures. He sighed, "Neteyam and Lo'ak, stay for a moment."

Veronica and Neytiri shared a knowing look. Their two sons weren't meant to be part of the raid because it was too dangerous. The first raid took five of their warriors lives and many injured, and fortunately Neteyam and Lo'ak weren't too stubborn about joining. This time they begged days on end about being a part of it. 

Every time, Jake replied no without hesitation. He might claim they weren't prepared or that it was too perilous, but his two wives understood deep down that it was just because he didn't want the sight of their blood out there. Heck, he was already worried about Veronica and Neytiri being part of the raid. Thinking about his sons in the field will give him a headache.

The brothers glanced at each other before standing in front of him. Jake eyed them intensely as he spoke. "You're spotters, you got it? Spot bogeys and alert us if there are any," he reminded.

They nodded. "Yes, sir."

Their response didn't ease him, however. Jake knew it was an automatic response just for them to be granted permission. He stared at his younger son a bit longer before he nudged his head to the door. The boys walked away from their position and exited the tent. Their absence filled the place with silence as the adults just stood there and watched where they left.

Veronica lay her hand on his shoulder, and squeezed them gently. She smiled, "They will be fine."

"Yeah, I hope so," he mumbled, his head down.

"I am still against it," said Neytiri. 

Veronica snapped her gaze towards her with furrowed brows. If there was one thing she knew about Neteyam and Lo'ak, it was that they would start to defy them little by little if they shielded them for too long.

"But," Neytiri continued, "our sons are strong. They know what to do."

Jake pursed his lips, his only response being a nod. The boys were too young for this in his eyes. Just because he wasn't human anymore, it didn't mean that he has forgotten his culture and beliefs. Neteyam's age may be considered the age of maturity, but to Jake he is still a kid.

Veronica tucked her knife in her sheath that was tied around her lower back above her tail. It was hard to stay positive in this situation because it seemed like Jake's anxiety passed to her. He isn't wrong to feel that way, no. She tried to overlook negative thoughts about them being there because the two were looking forward to this. They were driven to protect their home, and she doesn't blame them for that.

All the warriors crowded around the egde of High Camp with their ikrans. Vera, her ikran, stood out to her the most just because her colours are her favourite. She was painted with a mix of white, light blue, and green— colours that reminded her of the ocean.

"Can't believe we're spotters," Lo'ak grumbled. He shook the locks of the saddle on his ikran, making sure that it is fastened.

Neteyam sighed as he shook his head. "Be grateful. This is better than nothing."

The younger brother rolled his eyes. "Bet he only said yes cause Mama said so."

Lo'ak was sure that his life would have been more difficult if his mother wasn't there. She was the only person who understood him, who wouldn't yell at him for his mistakes and instead talk to him in a manner that he would understand what he did was wrong. His father's scoldings does give him a wake up call, but not enough to make him stop.

"And what about me?" Veronica arched an eyebrow as she approached them.

Neteyam smirked when he heard his brother curse under his breath as he was caught in the act.

"Nothing, mama."

"This skxawng said father only said yes because you said so, mom," said Neteyam. Lo'ak sent him a glare but he could care less. His baby brother was harmless as long as their mom was there.

Since the children have two mothers, they called them with different names to not confuse the women.There were too many instances when they were babies crying out for their mothers, but the mothers would always attend to them simultaneously. So, Neytiri was mother, while Veronica was mom. Although, Lo'ak called Veronica mama since he was little and he didn't grow away from that habit.

"Just so you know, I don't feel as confident anymore for letting the two of you out there. There are still ways you could help the clan and I would gladly find them," she said. Her words alerted the two teenagers immediately. Veronica smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "However, I trust you not to do anything stupid. Am I right to do so?"

Lo'ak nodded, his boyish grin stretched on his lips. "Mama, please, as if I would do something stupid at a time like this."

"You don't really have a good record for showing obedience in the worst times, ma'itan."

Neteyam chuckled, "Don't worry, mom. I will make sure he will stay put."

Somehow, I doubt that, she thought. The eldest son always managed to be tangled in his mess even if he doesn't want to, but she felt reassured that Lo'ak wasn't alone. 

Looking at them stood at each others side made Veronica feel nostalgic. The image of them as children flashed through her head. They were yelling for her and running towards her with cheeky smiles, jumping into her arms. It seemed like time flew too fast. Now, they had matured and had a sense of responsibility. 

"When did you grow so big?" Veronica sighed, tears welling up in her eyes. She drew Lo'ak into her embrace.

"Mom, stop," Lo'ak whined. His eyes looked around frantically with his cheeks flushed. He did not want to be treated like a prrnen in front of so many people.

"Hm, why?" she teased. "Do you have a girl I don't know about?"

"No, but-"

"I thought so." Veronica tightened her arms around her son, planting a kiss on his temple with a loud sound effect just to embarrass him more. She laughed as she heard him groan against her.  "My baby is so big now!"

"Mom!" he complained. Veronica laughed as she took a step away from her son, seeing his cheeks flushed from embarrassment entertained her. 

She turned to Neteyam. "Ah, my bigger baby." Her arms were stretched away from her sides, an invitation. Unlike Lo'ak, Neteyam didn't shy away from her affection. 

He felt so nervous about the raid that his hands started to sweat, but his nerves weren't enough to scare him away. He wondered how Lo'ak looked so calm, excited even. They were actually going to witness up close the damages the RDA could bring. But being wrapped around his mom's warmth relaxed him, even if it was just for a little while.

"Mom, are you in sky team?" he asked.

Veronica shook her head. "No, I am part of the ground team. Your mother is the one in sky team."

Neteyam felt a gentle kiss against his temple. She stepped back, her hands squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. "Everything will be fine, Teyam."

He thought hearing those words again would make him feel better, but it didn't.

Veronica wondered if her mother ever felt this way: her heart racing from anxiety, a knot in her stomach, and the palms of her hands sweaty just for being worried for her own daughters' safety. Although the chances are highley unlikely, it didn't hurt to wonder. She would consider her mother lucky if she had never felt that way because then she had nothing to fear.

The moment she didn't see her two sons in the sky like they were supposed to, panic started to kick in. She spotted their ikrans staying on the ground, their riders nowhere to be seen. Just as she was about to alarm Jake, gun ships came and fired at them. 

Veronica hurried to take cover, not leaving her any time to search for her sons. She prayed that they were safe, and that everyone managed to escape the shots. She only felt her worries fade away when she saw Lo'ak flew away on his ikran, but it soon came back when Neteyam was being carried by Jake. He had scratches on his back, blood seeping out from it. Did every mother experience this?

They were currently at High Camp. She carressed Vera's head before approaching the boys. 

"Mom! Mama!" Tuk ran towards the two women and tried to hug them both with her small arms. The youngest Sully would often call either of the mothers with different names, not that they mind. Like Lo'ak, Tuk didn't stray away from her habit in calling Veronica mama, but she does call Neytiri this sometimes.

Veronica smiled and pinched her cheek gently. She patted the small girl's back when she moved away, and continued to walk towards the boys. Neteyam stood in front of his father, his head hung low as he held his injured arm. Lo'ak stood still by his ikran, nervous for what's to come. How ironic.

"You're supposed to be spotters. You spot bogeys, and you call 'em in," Jake scolded furiously, his eyes dancing between them. "From a distance!" he emphasised. "Does any of this sound familiar? Get here!" 

Lo'ak obeyed and stood beside his brother, ashamed. Veronica observed her youngest sons' back before she went to Neteyam who was injured. She clicked her tongue gently as she surveyed his injuries. There were numerous scratches on his back, but some cut deeper than the others. Kiri rushed to her side once she saw the condition her brother was in.

"Jesus. I let you two geniuses fly a mission, and you disobey direct orders." Jake sighed, "Kiri, can you go help your grandmother with the wounded? Please?"

"My brother is wounded," she pointed out.

"Baby girl, please. Tuk, go with her. Go."

Kiri sighed as she shook her head, walking away with Tuk.

"Dad�� sir. I take full responsibility," said Neteyam, his head hung low still.

"Yeah, you do. That's right. 'Cause you're the older brother, you gotta act like it."

Neytiri gave her husband a pointed look. "MaJake. Your son is actually bleeding."

Neteyam shook his head. "Mother, it's fine. I-"

"No, it's not," Veronica cut him off. She looked at Jake with an arched eyebrow.

His gaze shifted between Neteyam's face and his injured body. For a moment, his anger diminished. "Just go and get patched up. Go on, dismissed."

"Come," she whispered for the young boy to hear. Her hand held his bicep as they walked past Jake. She shot Jake a knowing look before walking further, passing by warriors who were getting situated.

They walked in silence, and Neteyam was not sure if it was comfortable or not. He hadn't experienced getting a scolding from his mom, it would either be from his mother or father. Usually Jake on rare occurrences. 

Neteyam pursed his lips. "Mom," he called weakly.

"How many times did you save your brothers back?" she asked softly.

He stayed silent.

"I know you are doing your job as the older brother, and you are doing it really well. But, a time will come when Lo'ak will have to grow too. He has to learn how to own up to his mistakes." Veronica held his shoulders, stopping him from entering the Tsahik's hut. She moved in front of him, cupping his cheek gently and made him look at her. "You do not have to try so hard. You are just a kid."

Neteyam's eyes widened, his eyes turning glossy. He wasn't so sure why his chest started to hurt. Maybe it was because his hard work was being acknowledged, or maybe it was because someone saw that he was trying. Couldn't his dad see that too?

As Veronica patted his cheek gently, she smiled, "Go on. I'll be right with you."

The boy only nodded, he feared that if he tried to speak, his voice would crack and tears would start spilling from his eyes. Her eyes searched for Lo'ak through the crowd and spotted him with the ikrans, removing the saddles. The upset look on his face made her sigh.

Mo'at crouched behind Neteyam's back as she applied medicine on his injuries. He would either yelp or hiss at the contact of his wounds. Spider was in the hut too, he would make jokes here and then about how Neteyam was acting like a baby out of it just to make him feel better. Veronica laughed quietly at his words. She was relieved that the tension wasn't there anymore, she didn't know if she could bare it.

Her eyes trailed from Neteyam's back then outside the hut, sensing a presence. She locked gazes with Neytiri before it shifted to Jake's back, busying himself with his gun. Veronica excused herself and told Kiri to take over, approaching Neytiri. The hair at the end of her tail brushed against her wife's thigh as she gave her a peck on the lips. 

Neytiri's hand caressed her arm, but her eyes stayed on the boys. Neteyam's grunts of pain could still be heard from where they're standing. He never had injuries like this, never this worse. Her tail swished behind her like something was on her mind.

Jake glanced behind him. He sighed, "What?"

"Neteyam and Lo'ak try to live up to you. It is very hard on them," said Neytiri. She faced her husband expectantly.

"I know." He refused to meet their eyes and focused on the weapon in his hand.

Neytiri kneeled beside him. "You are very hard on them." 

Veronica sat beside the other side of Jake to hear their conversation better. Their voices were low to ensure that none of the children heard it.

"I'm their father. It's my job," he pressed.

"This is not a squad. It is a family." Her voice remained soft, and it was enough to break his walls down.

Jake placed his gun on the ground, clenching his fist on his knees. "I thought we'd lost them," he whispered. Tears glossed into his eyes as he looked at the two women, the only people who he could feel vulnerable around with.

It was difficult to stay away from long-term habits. Being a marine meant seeing a lot of difficult situations, he was forced to keep it together and be tough. Seeing his sons affected by the explosion made him lose all of his composure and he didn't know how to deal with it. He was still learning, but everytime he felt like he was getting better, his progress ruins.

Neytiri's expression softened, her eyebrows slightly furrowed as she held his hand. Veronica placed her hand on his thigh, squeezing it gently. No word was said to one another except giving each other comfort. Each parents feared the same thing: losing their child. Parenthood was difficult, but if the three of them were in it together, Jake felt like he will be fine.

banner by @cafekitsune

[howtofightwrite]

Sorry if this has been answered before. Would it be possible to have a character who learns how to use a sword skillfully in less than a few years (if taught by an expert)? If not, what are some alternatives for a protagonist who needs to learn swordfighting for plot reasons?

Yes, but...

So, this is a little harder to answer than it initially sounds, because there's a few extra things to consider.

I'm going to spitball this, but I suspect you could get someone up to speed with a sword in a few months, probably less than that, depending on how much time they spent training, and how seriously they committed to it.

The issue is, combat training isn't (usually) about getting to baseline proficiency, it's about being more effective than your opponent. So, if your character spent a couple years learning to fight with a sword, and they're taking on soldiers or other characters who didn't spent that much time training, or learning, they'll probably have an advantage. If they're training to go after an enemy swordmaster who spent decades matching wits and blades with their expert mentor, their skills not going to be sufficient. (Though, to be fair, if someone spent most of those two years in intense training, their skills would be pretty formidable.)

One exception here is that soldiers are often trained to proficiency, and nothing further. It doesn't mean they're not dangerous, and their ability to work together can quickly turn them into an insurmountable threat for your character, but, you're not going to be finding a lot of swordmasters mixed in with the rank and file infantry, even if they've spent longer training.

Combat experience is (generally) more valuable than training. So, if your character's been practicing to use their skills, but never been in a real fight, that's going to hamper them. Now, it's likely that their mentor would be fully aware of that, and those years of training should probably include some practical experience of some variety.

It's also likely that if your characters is engaged in intense training for that long, there may be other skills getting mixed in, to give them a better combat base. It's hard to say exactly what those skills would be, though depending on the setting it may include things like armor, or the use of alternative weapons such as daggers and cloaks. (I realize, we haven't talked about this in a moment, but a heavy cloak can be an extremely effective parrying tool when dueling, particularly against light blades like the epee or rapier. Once the blade is wrapped in a heavy fabric or leather, it can take a bit of effort to get it free again. It's not a huge detriment, but it will leave the sword's owner without the use of their weapon for a few critical moments, which is the perfect time to end them.)

Of course, if you're training a Zorro style pseudo-superhero, then things like acrobatics and (anachronistic) parkour are also options.

Depending on the era you're going for (particularly 17th and 18th century) do not overlook the effectiveness of opening a fight by pumping a musket ball into your opponent. Early, smooth-bore, pistols weren't particularly accurate at range, and were downright anemic in comparison to modern bullets, but it will still seriously mess up an unarmored fighter. Similarly, in a situation like that, your character would have to be pretty careful about not getting shot. It certainly doesn't invalidate the sword (that would come later with repeating firearms), but it will make their life a lot more perilous. (Read: interesting.)

So, could someone take a couple years to train with a sword? Yeah, absolutely, and if they committed to it, and had a good instructor, they could come out the other side of that with some fairly significant skills, and as a legitimate threat.

-Starke

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[sweetvoidstuff]

Hi, how’s your day going ? I wanted to know if you could do Cha Hyun Su x Thick Black fem or Black Fem reader , they are in a relationship since high school (season 2) after Hyun su left/turned his self in reader thought he was dead but he was watching over her and their son (he thinks it’s a random child) but one day reader is in danger (monster , creeps , honestly up to you ) and Kong (son) cries which Hyun su (and ah yu) hear and follow only to be met with a kid that looks like he’s on fire as he’s cracking a guys neck causing him to burn up and reader who’s trying to calm down son

Reunited II Cha Hyun Su x Reader Request

Summary: After Cha Hyun Su, thought to be lost, secretly watches over his love and their son, from the shadows, a perilous night unfolds.

Disclaimer:

Life ist good, work is stressful but fulfilling. I hope you have a nice day as well.

I must admit, writing for a specific skin tone has proven to be quite a challenge for me, so I've intentionally left it vague to ensure that readers of all backgrounds can enjoy the story. It's a delicate balance, and I want everyone to feel included in the narrative.

Additionally, I want to express that delving into the topic of teen pregnancies is something I don't feel entirely comfortable writing about. I appreciate the request to explore various themes, but i had to acknowledge my own boundaries. Despite these challenges and reservations, I sincerely hope the story resonates well with you. Writing can be a journey of growth and learning, and I hope readers appreciate the request and my way of storytelling while staying true to my comfort zone. I'm grateful for the opportunity to try something new.

Hyun Su had always admired the strength of your character and the resilience of your skin. He often whispered sweet compliments about your enduring beauty, leaving you with a blush that betrayed the turmoil within his own heart.

After losing his memories, he turned himself in, leaving you with the heavy burden of grief. Upon regaining his memories and taking care of Ah Yi, he distanced himself to keep you safe. Unaware of his fate, you believed for a while that the love of your life was lost forever, carrying the secret of your unborn child.

Unbeknownst to you, Hyun Su kept a vigilant eye on you and the son you both shared, Kong. He observed your lives unfolding from the shadows, a mix of pride and pain welling up within him as he saw you evolve into a strong, capable mother in this unforgiving world.

One fateful night, as you and Kong walked home, danger lurked in the shadows. Unseen scavengers closed in, their intentions sinister. Ex-military individuals with a dangerous interest in a young mother and her child.

Kong, sensing the impending danger, began to cry. As cries echoed through the night, a fiery presence emerged. Hyun Su and Ah Yi, on one of their nightly walks, heard the commotion close to where Hyun Su expected you to rest for the night. They followed the screams, only to witness a scene that defied explanation.

Kong, surrounded by an otherworldly flame, held a man who had threatened you. The assailant's neck cracked, and he burned up from the inside.

You stood nearby, attempting to calm Kong and your own racing heart down, having seen this sight once before. The flames surrounding him subsided as he looked up, his eyes mirroring the intensity of the fire—too angry for such a young child.

"Y/N!" Hyun Su called out, his voice filled with a mix of shock and relief. "Are you okay?" Hyun Su asked, his voice filled with concern as he approached. You were surprised to see him, but also sooo very relieved.

"He saved me, Hyun Su. Say hello, Cha Kong," you explained, still processing the surreal events and nudging your son to be polite.

After reciving a short shy nod from the boy Hyun Su looked at Kong, a mix of confusion and realization crossing his face. "Cha? Is that... our son?"

You nodded gently, "Yes, Cha Hyun Su. This is Cha Kong."

The weight of the revelation hit him, and he knelt beside Kong, embracing both of you. The family was reunited, and though the circumstances were bizarre, Hyun Su was grateful to be back with you.

"I'm sorry for not returning sooner," he apologized, his voice choked with emotion. "But I'm here now. And I won't leave you again."

As you held onto each other in the midst of the unexpected chaos, Hyun Su showered you with compliments about your enduring beauty, vowing to protect both you and Kong from whatever dangers lurked in the shadows.

[therealvinelle]

You mentioned Love never dies in one of your recent podcast episodes. I would love to hear if you have any more thoughts about that you would like to share here?

Oh little do you know.

@theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin and I first watched Love Never Dies when Andrew Lloyd Webber released musicals for COVID, it was instantly the most incredible thing either of us had ever seen and we watched it again as soon as Muffin came online the next day.

We have since rented it, rewatched it before the 48 hour rent period expired, and I think watched it a fifth time somehow though I don't recall the details for it. It's... very possible we watched it thrice that rent period. One of them was broadcast to the Rank Heresy discord server, so it did have a purpose, we just... also rewatched it...

Love Never Dies is the single funniest, most delightful, most entertaining and glorious musical we have ever seen. Everything about it, from the uncomfortable incest anthem, to TEN YEARS OOOOOOOOLD, to the nonsensical "Devil takes the hindmost!" leitmotif (thought I was having an English fail, but no, Muffin had no idea what that meant either), to the Phantom's great artistic vision being a Coney Island circus extravaganza where girls sing about swimsuits, to said extravaganza hemorrhaging money so Meg has to prostitute herself to keep the lights on, to Christine dying at the end and Ralph says to the child he raised, "Aight son, hope you like phantoms because you'll be living with one from now on. Kk bye", to ALW being so mad the ugly guy he projected on lost the girl that he wrote the whole thing in the first place (um actually Christine loved the Phantom so after the ending scene where she chose Raoul she actually ran back into the opera basement, made love to the Phantom, then ran back again to Ralph. It was a night of passion and the song about it will take ten minutes. Beneath a Moonless Sky, my beloved. Also Raoul is a stupid idiot who spent all his money and Christine regrets everything).

And yes, the above list was only going to be a few lines long but I couln't stop naming beautiful things I loved.

Oh my goodness, another thing I almost forgot (which is sayign something!): the Phantom finds out Christine and Raoul have a child, his immediate response is "Ah, yes, it would be a shame if something... happened... to that child..."

Proceeds to get the child on his own while his parents are distracted, only the child starts playing the piano... my god... the child is ten years old... MY GOD...

This is where we get the incest anthem, the Phantom drops the infanticide plans and starts serenading his son about the beauty underneath, a terrible intense impulse you must follow, and desires we deny ourselves, how his son will accept and embrace it, and... the lyrics are just so bad, alright, and the acting somehow made it worse. Watch at your own peril.

Wild fucking ride.

[ltash]

You are arrested by Ghost for taking the law in your hands.

In the mortal world, when I thought you were my enemy, I still missed you." "My sweet nemesis, how glad I am that you returned."

The terrorists approached me with their guns in hand.

I closed my eyes, bracing for the inevitable, my heart pounded with dread. The sound of gunfire shattered the tense silence, and I flinched instinctively, but the expected impact never came.

Slowly, I dared to open my eyes, and there, amidst the chaos, stood the fallen terrorists, their bodies sprawled on the ground. And in that moment of surreal clarity,

I saw him.

Simon "Ghost" Riley.

Heart pounding, I peered through the darkness, and my breath caught in my throat as I recognized him - Simon Riley, Ghost, the enigmatic operative I had been assigned to track. The famous skull mask decorating his face.

What was he doing here? And more importantly, how had he found himself in the crosshairs of these terrorists?

As Ghost swiftly dispatched the attackers, I couldn't help but feel a surge of curiosity mingled with apprehension. What secrets did he hold? And why had our paths crossed in such a perilous moment?

And in those thoughts my gaze never left him.

I took out my gun and pointed towards him. He was fallen on the floor probably after fighting the terrorists.

Before I could gather my thoughts, Ghost's piercing gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. Did he recognize me? Panic threatened to consume me, but I forced myself to maintain a facade of composure as I walked towards him.

I braced myself for the inevitable confrontation.

His gaze locked onto mine with a flicker of recognition as he had his gun pointed towards me too.

"You?" he uttered, his voice mingling with the lingering echoes of gunfire.

Caught off guard by his reaction, I couldn't help but feel a surge of panic. How did he know me? And more importantly, what did he want?

"Do I know you?" I replied, my voice tinged with uncertainty.

For a moment, Ghost's expression wavered, his features contorted in a mask of confusion. But his skull mask suceeded in hiding his facial features from me.

It was as if he didn't recognize me at all. Had I imagined the flicker of recognition in his eyes?

As I stood there, he reached out to the radio with purpose.

His voice, rich with a British accent, resonated melodiously in the empty parking lot.

"Bravo 7 reporting to Soap. Do you copy?"

Another voice, faint but clear, echoed from the other end of the intercom, affirming their acknowledgment. "Yes, sir."

He stood up from the ground.

I felt a sense of anticipation building as Ghost issued his next directive. "Meet me on the first floor of the parking lot. Over." His commanding tone left no room for hesitation.

Turning back to face me, his eyes, concealed behind a skull mask, bore into mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Who are you again?". He persisted with his question all while his gun pointed at me.

With his tactical gear and the M14 assualt rifle clinged to his back it looked like he was standing in the battlefield.

A battlefield with only me and him.

I maintained my defiant stance, folding my arms across my chest. "None of your business," I retorted firmly, refusing to yield to his probing inquiries.

"American aye. Are you related to the Shadow Company?"He pressed further,

"What the fuck is a Shadow Company?" I countered, seeking to divert the conversation.

Yet, instead of an answer, his imposing figure drew closer, his towering 6 ft 3 frame casting a daunting shadow over my modest 5'5" stature.

"I asked you a question." He said by leaning closer. His voice intimidating as fuck.

Despite the vast difference in height, I met his gaze with unwavering determination, staring up into his piercing brown eyes.

"I already answered that," I stated firmly, refusing to be intimidated by his imposing presence.

"Use your words, that is not the answer to my question." he tried to intimidate me, his voice laced with a hint of menace. But I remained resolute, refusing to yield.

Tension building up between us.

"Drop your weapon." he ordered, his tone probing.

"No," I replied simply.

In a second he grabbed my pistol and yanked it out of my hand. Taking out the magazine he threw my pistol away.

"Anymore weapons on you?" He growled.

"No." I spat.

"We'll find out about that in a moment," he said ominously, his words hinting at a forthcoming search.

"Turn around," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.

"I won't," I said defiantly.

"Don't make me force you, miss," he ordered sternly, his tone now tinged with a hint of threat. I felt a surge of fear, realizing I had no choice. Reluctantly, I turned around, submitting to his command.

His leather-gloved hands made contact with my shoulders turning me around, sending a shiver down my spine.

Who the hell was he to search me like that. I wanted to turn around and punch his skull mask breaking it into pieces.

I felt his gaze fixate on the knife tucked into my back pocket. With a swift motion, he yanked it out.

"What is that? You told me you didn't have a weapon," he growled, his tone laced with accusation.

"It's just a knife," I blurted out, swallowing hard as a lump formed in my throat.

"Just a knife, laced with blood, eh? Don't you dare tell me you use it for cutting fruits," his voice now tinged with amusement.

He retrieved a tissue from the pocket of his cargo pants and expertly wiped the blood off the blade before nonchalantly tucking the knife into the side pocket of his pants.

A devilish smile crept across my face as I confessed,

"Instead, I've just finished slitting throats with it."

His eyes widened in surprise, a subtle change of expression visible beneath his mask.

"I see," he said evenly, though I detected a hint of admiration in his tone.

"Sir! We have cleared the area," a soldier approached from behind Ghost, clad in tactical gear with a rifle in hand.

I could see him now. A handome face with a mohawk on his head. He had blue eyes.

His steps faltered as he caught sight of me, clearly surprised by my presence.

"Who is she Lieutenant?" He asked with a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"We're going to find out soon, Johnny," Ghost replied, his attention still focused on me.

"You're coming with us," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Good luck with that, 'cause I am not," I declared firmly, standing my ground.

"Johnny did you bring the zip ties with you?" He asked with his devilish gaze still focused on me.

"Yes Sir." He said while taking out a black ziptie from a pocket of his tactical gear and handing it to Ghost.

"What are you doing?" My throat became dry when I saw him approaching mewith ziptie in his hand.

"Don't make it hard for me and yourself, love," he exclaimed, his patience wearing thin.

"I said I am not coming," I nearly yelled, refusing to budge.

With determination, he stepped forward and grabbed my wrists, his hand enveloping both of my wrists completely. He slipped the zip tie in my wrists and locked it tightly.

I winced in pain as he began to drag me along with him holding me by my arm. Zip tie cutting through my wrists.

"Ouch! I cannot walk. You are hurting me," I whimpered, trying to resist. "My foot is hurt. I cannot walk," I pleaded, attempting to deter him.

He released my arm and instead wrapped his hand around my waist, effortlessly lifting me onto his shoulder.

"Hey! Sir, put me down right now. You cannot take me without my consent," I protested, struggling against his hold. But his firm grip on my thighs left me unable to move.

"Keep up, Soap," Ghost nodded to the soldier, indicating for him to follow as he strode towards the roof of the parking lot.

I continued to resist every step of the way, pushing against Ghost's sturdy frame in a desperate attempt to free myself.

"What the fuck?" I yelled in frustration, my voice echoing through the empty parking lot.

"Shut up," Ghost ordered sharply, his tone brooking no argument.

Despite his command, I saw a smirk flicker across Soap's face as he followed behind us.

In the distance, the sound of a helicopter grew louder, indicating that it was ready to take off, adding urgency to our situation.

As the chaos unfolded around me, a surreal feeling washed over me. "This can't be real. It cannot be happening right now," I thought to myself, desperately trying to convince myself that it was all just a dream. But as Ghost's firm grip tightened around me and the sound of the helicopter grew louder, I realized that this was indeed happening, and there was no escaping it.

[electronickingdomfox]

Excerpt from "The Entropy Effect" by Vonda N. McIntyre

McCoy flung himself around, swinging his fist in a clumsy roundhouse punch. “Damn you, Spock! Damn you, damn you—” Spock grabbed his hand easily. McCoy kept on trying to hit him, flailing ineffectually against the science officer’s restraining strength. “Dr. McCoy, you know that I am right.” McCoy slumped, defeated. “You cannot hold him any longer. You did your best to save him, but from the moment he was wounded he could not be saved. This failure holds no shame for you, unless you prolong a travesty of life. Let him go, doctor, I beg you. Let him go.” The Vulcan spoke with penetrating intensity. McCoy looked up at him, and Spock pulled away, struggling to hide the powerful feelings of grief and despair that had come perilously close to overwhelming him. “Yes, Mr. Spock,” McCoy said, “you are right.” He opened the door of the quarantine chamber. Air sighed past him into the negative-pressure room, and he went inside. Spock followed. McCoy examined the EEG one last time, but he knew better than to hope for any change. The signal remained flat and colorless; all the tracings sounded the same dull tone. McCoy brushed a lock of hair from Jim’s forehead. He could hardly bear to look at his friend’s face anymore, because of the eyes. Precisely, deliberately, he went to work. Once he had made up his mind, his hands moved surely, unaffected by the liquor he had drunk. He withdrew the needles from Jim’s arm. The chemistry signals started changing their harmonies immediately. The oxygen tones fell, carbon dioxide rose; nothing filtered out the products of metabolic activity. The signal deteriorated from perfect harmony to minor chords, then to complete discord. McCoy removed the connections that would have restarted Jim’s heart when inevitably it failed. Finally, his teeth clenched hard, McCoy disconnected the respirator. Jim Kirk’s heart kept on beating, because the heart will keep on beating even if it is cut out of the chest; the muscle will contract rhythmically till the individual cells fall out of sync, the heart slips into fibrillation, and the cells die one by one. But the breathing reflex requires a nerve impulse. When McCoy turned off the respirator, Jim’s body never even tried to draw another breath. After the final, involuntary exhalation there was no struggle at all, and that, far more than the evidence of the machines, the persuasion of Spock, or his own intellectual certainty, finally convinced McCoy that every spark or whisper of his friend was dead. All the life-signs stabilized at zero, and the tones faded to silence. The doctor pulled a sheet over Jim’s face, over the dead gray eyes. McCoy broke down. Sobs racked him and he staggered, suddenly aware of just how much he had drunk. He nearly fell, but Spock caught him, and supported him in the nearest thing to an embrace that the Vulcan could endure. “Oh, god, Spock, how could this happen?” McCoy sank gratefully into darkness. Spock caught McCoy as he fell, and lifted him easily. Loss and regret pulled at Spock so strongly that he could not deny their existence; all he could do was keep them from showing outwardly. That did not lessen his private shame. His face set, he carried McCoy to one of the cubicles and eased him onto a bunk. He removed McCoy’s boots and loosened the fastenings of his sweat-stained uniform shirt, covered him with a blanket, and lowered the lights. Then, recalling the single, humiliating, inadvertent time he himself had become inebriated, Spock decided to stay until he was certain the doctor had not ingested enough ethanol to endanger his life. Spock sat in a chair near McCoy’s bed and rested his forehead against his hand.

Punch me right in the feelings. 😥

[sleepie-birdie]

Monsieur Knight

Rating: Gen Summary: A dashing knight dares to save the trapped princess from the clutches of a vile dragon.

As I, the illustrious and indomitable Monsieur Filibert the Magnificent rode forth upon my noble steed, Dame Blanc, the very earth trembled beneath the weight of my valor as sand marked my travels in its golden glow.  Its bright hue was almost as valiant as my task. What is my mission, you ask? To liberate the fair Princess Furina from the clutches of a fearsome dragon that had plagued the land for centuries, of course! Who else but I, the epitome of chivalry and gallantry, the most dashing in the land could undertake such a perilous quest and win the heart of the fair maiden? A maiden I have seen from afar months ago. With her delicate hand pressed against her delicate brow, she heaved a dainty sigh at her plight. I knew then what I must do. A woman so beautiful, so kind, that was worthy to stand next to someone such as me. 

With my sword in hand and the sun beating upon my broad manly back, I the esteemed and unrivaled Monsieur Filibert the Unyielding, ventured forth into the quaint little town on the outskirts of the kingdom for Fontaine I could feel the weight of their gazes upon me as I strut to town. Oh yes, the good people of this hamlet had no doubt heard of my valiant quest to vanquish the dragon and rescue the fair Princess Furina. Yet, instead of the admiration and awe I had grown accustomed to, I was met with... incredulity. Nay, it could not be! Perhaps these natives know not the language on my tongue? For why else would they shake their head when I divulge to them my noble calling? Or perhaps this is their earnest attempt to save me from what they assume is my untimely demise.

These sweet citizens need not fear, for I am the best there is. The top of my rotation, the titled knight crowned by the gods themselves! A mere dragon will not kill me. No. It is his fate to die! Undeterred by the skeptical glances and murmurs that followed in my wake, I strode through the cobblestone streets with all the confidence befitting a knight of my caliber. "Fear not, good people!" I proclaimed, my voice ringing out like a lion’s roar. "For I, Knight Filibert the Fearless shall rid your lands of the dreaded dragon that plagues you and your beautiful princess!" But instead of cheers and applause, all I received were raised eyebrows and exchanged glances. Puzzled, I forged ahead, convinced that my noble cause would surely win over the hearts of these simple folk. Their poor hearts must have been clouded by their worry.

As I approached the local stall, I was met with a sight that nearly gave me pause. The innkeeper, a burly fellow with a bushy beard, regarded me with a mixture of amusement and concern. "Sir Knight," he said, his tone laced with a hint of skepticism, "are you quite sure about this... mission of yours?"

"Of course, good sir! Fret not for my safety." I replied, clapping him on the back with a hearty thud. "Why, it is my sworn duty to protect the kingdom and its fair maidens from all manner of perilous beasts!"

The storekeeper exchanged a knowing glance with his wife, who shook her head in disbelief. "Very well, Sir Knight," he said with a shrug, "but I must warn you, no one has ever returned from the dragon's tower without a harrowing tale to share." 

These sweet souls! “No creature, no matter how fearsome, shall stand in the way of my quest!”

“It’s not the dragon you need to fear.” The man’s wife muttered. My brow rose.

“Ah, are there perhaps traps?” I was trained to best them!

“Ye can say something like that.”

“Then no trap shall best me. For I have labored intensively beneath the tutelage of Archduke Barthmeow the Excellent, my skill and agility know no bounds. For I am the great wind.”

With a hearty chuckle, I bid adieu to the skeptical couple, their doubts no match for the radiance of my noble spirit. With every stride of my steed and every glint of my armor, I forged ahead, my heart brimming with determination and my head held so high I feared it might scrape the sky! For I, the one and only Sir Filibert, the Unwavering had a dragon to tickle and a princess to rescue, and not even the wildest doubts of a few misguided peasants could dampen my fiery resolve!

And so, before long, my trusty mount had whisked me away to the dark and eerie forest of Erryines. Why, you might ask? Because nestled within its twisted embrace lay the very tower where our fair maiden was imprisoned! The dastardly dragon had sequestered the princess by a lake, no doubt hoping to keep her from the world's gaze. But fear not, for where others saw darkness, I saw the opportunity for valor! As I ventured deeper into the forest, the dappled sunlight filtering through the emerald canopy above, I couldn't help but marvel at the tranquility that surrounded me. The gentle rustle of leaves, the melodic chirping of birds - surely, these woodland creatures recognized the presence of a true hero in their midst and bowed to my unmatched prowess.

At long last, I reached the edge of the lake, the calm waters mirroring the azure sky above. There, standing tall and foreboding against the horizon, was the dragon's tower. Its ancient stones seemed to groan with malice, warning any foolish enough to approach. But I, Sir Filibert the Unflinching, was not one to heed warnings - for my courage was a blazing fire that consumed all doubt in its path! With a steely glint in my eye and Dame Blanc snorting with determination beneath me, I urged her forward toward the tower.

As we drew nearer, a sudden movement caught my eye - a glimmer of white scales and a glow of blue mane. It was the dragon! It emerged from the shadows of the tower, its massive form casting a daunting shadow over the landscape. But I did not falter. With a swift flourish of my sword, I called out to the beast in a voice that rang out like thunder.

"FOUL MONSTER! I demand you release your maiden captive and face me like a man!”

The beast eyed me, its amethyst eyes glowed with malice.

“Begone human, there is no maiden that needs saving here.” It huffed at me a watery plume which I dodged with utmost grace.

“Wretched creature. I believe not your utter lies.” The beast dared snort at me.

Undeterred by the dragon's dismissive attitude, I squared my shoulders and raised my sword high, the light glinting off its finely honed blade.

"I care not for your trickery, foul, ugly, beast! For I have seen the tears of the fair Princess Furina and heard her cries for freedom. It is I, Sir Filibert the Valiant, who shall vanquish you and set her free and win her hand!"

The dragon let out a low rumble, its eyes narrowing in an icy glare that sent shivers down my spine. But I stood my ground, unwavering in my resolve to rescue the princess and bring justice to this cursed land.

Just as the tension between us reached its peak, a melodious voice rang out from the top of the tower. All eyes turned to behold the sight of Princess Furina herself, her pale hair cascading like a waterfall down her svelte form.

"Cease this senseless quarrel at once!" she commanded, her voice laced with authority. She disappeared from my sight for a mere moment but as she reemerged from the tower of stone, she rushed to my arms in eagerness! Yet propriety won as she skidded to a stop, her gaze burned me with its intensity.

“How dare you call my dragon a foul, ugly, beast! His name is Neuvillette and you will leave us alone.” I was aghast! The princess had been bewitched by this sinful creature.

“But princess! He is a beast!”

“He is my friend !” What kind of sorcery is this?! I raised my sword as the dragon huffed.

"Put your sword away, Sir Knight," Princess Furina commanded, her eyes flashing with fierce determination. But I did not allow myself to be swayed by her false and honeyed words. I had to find a way to sway the creature’s hold on her.

“But how can he be a friend! This senseless creature with no thoughts. Think my lady, would a friend kidnap you and —”

I could only gasp as the princess raised her dainty feet and pressed them to the ground. Her sacred ankles!

“I insist that you stop your insolent mouth right this instant. I do not stand for any slander against Neuvillette and he did not kidnap me. I walked here.” How strong was this hold on her mind? My heart ached for her as I raised my sword.

“Fret not dear maiden, this curse on your mind will cease once he is slain. It is my honor-bound duty to slay this wretched creature.” My words seemed to have an effect as a shadow crossed the pale-haired princess's visage.

“Then you must go through me if you want to hurt Neuvillette.”

The dragon in its arrogance did not deign to look at me! Instead, it turned towards the princess and opened its giant maw. To my horror she reached inside and pulled out…a blade, fashioned from the very fang of the dragon! I feel sweat bead on the back of my neck as she stabs her blade towards me. I take the blow with my chest held up high. Unwavering is her hit but I must bear it.

“If you do not cease this foolishness, I will be forced to hit—”

()xxxxx[[{:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::>

“I swear, is it because it is summer, there are quite a lot more knights coming our way.” Furina huffed as she brushed away the dirt on her favorite dress. When she woke up early this morning, fighting dotty boys sent her way was not on her list of to-dos. Alas, that had been her task ever since she moved into the tower with her dearest Neuvillette.

Speaking of her dragon…

The petite princess rounded on her heels as she watched him uncover the stone slab they had engraved just a week ago. The smile on her face grew as she watched him pick up the knocked-out knight like he was a moldy dish and toss him through the newly activated portal. The dragon was silent, tail dragging across the loamy soil of the lakeside as he moved to cover the stone once more.

“Neuvillette?” There was a huff and a low hum as the hulking creature slunk closer to the water's edge.

“Neuvillette, what’s wrong? Did what the knight say affect you?” Even as she spoke, she knew it was not true. Neuvillette cared not for what the humans thought about him. He never had and he never would. It was simply how he was. Her feet tapped along the ground as she scuttled after him. Her short legs had to work double just to keep up with his longer stride. Just what had gotten him into such a huff. If she recalled, the last few times they had dealt with an interloper he had been quite…enthusiastic after. She watched as he slipped into the lake with a wet plop. Her mind coursed through their recent scuffle.

Just what had upset him? Normally, they would have been bantering by now. Normally he would have lauded her skills just a tad but today…today was different.

The knight had been just like any other. She had defended her dragon once more…like always.

He had let her handle it herself too! It was just like always.

So what? What had upset her dragon so? Her love. Her frien–

Furina’s cheeks warmed. Her silly, silly, sweet, dragon. Giggling, the princess stepped off the shore and waded deeper into their lake.

“Neuvillette…are you upset that I called you a friend? ” Was that all? He was after all her friend first and foremost but…

A scaled tail wrapped around her waist. “But you are my friend.” There was another chuckle as she felt his hold loosen enough for her to wade waist-deep into their lake. “My best friend~”  She watched as the lake rippled. “My f r i e n d–”

As Furina recovered from the unexpected plunge into the cool waters of the lake, she couldn't help but emit a dramatic gasp, followed by a less-than-dignified whine as she elbowed the dragon responsible for her aquatic surprise. The dragon, Neuvillette, emitted a gruff chuckle as he wrapped his sturdy claws around her, holding her close with a strength that could crush boulders... but gently, of course.

"I am not just your friend," Neuvillette growled, his voice a curious mix of stubbornness and affection that only Furina could decipher after years of companionship. And without missing a beat, Furina relaxed into his embrace, a smile spreading across her face, bright like the sunrise.

"No... no you are not," Furina replied with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "You are my dearest love, my heart. My husband. My mate."

She laughed as he purred. This silly, silly, heart of hers. Furina's eyes, mismatched in color but perfectly matched in adoration, softened as she ran her palms against his scales, feeling the beat of his pulse beneath her touch. She truly loved this dragon of hers so much. He was the one who understood her the most, the one who held her hand and let her escape the stifling world that was her royal position. Here in their watery home, she had never been happier. The world around her disappeared, replaced by a curtain of silky grey. Blue tinged and much more human hands slid between hers.

Blue eyes met amethyst ones. She felt the pressure of his lips on her forehead. “You’re are my heart.” His voice rang clear. Furina’s heart squeezed. His lips ghosted over the bridge of her nose, “my dearest,” her eyes closed as he pressed his mouth across her brows, “my princess,” across her cheek, “my all.” She felt herself melt as she continued to pepper adoration across every inch of her face before settling over her lips. “My life, my mate.” Her cheeks hurt from the force of her smile. The world once more spun for her. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing.

“Eek! W-wait put me down!”

“I will when we reach our nest.”

In the heart of the lake, laughter rang clear. In the glimmer of the summer sun, their rings shone.

()xxxxx[[{:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::>

“Ah…you should have stayed away. Everyone here knows Monsieur Neuvillette and Princess Furina are very much in love!” The barkeeper slid the pint of whiskey over to the hunched form of a once brave knight.

“B-but he’s a dragon!” There was an empathetic nod and a round of snickers.

“He is, that is probably why the princess fancys him. What was the popular saying last year? A beast in the sheets or sum’n like that?” A drunken man slurred somewhere to the bruised knight's left.

Sir Filibert heaved a sigh as he inhaled his liquor. Nothing in his long arduous practices had prepared him for that. The utter humiliation dealt.

“Lemme guess, ya got your face pummeled and coat sliced by the princey herself?”

He did not answer but that was all the crowd of the bar needed.

“Ay, add another tally to the chart! The princess is on a streak.” Confusion filled his gaze as he watched them slide coins across the table.

A warm hand smacked against his back. The armor echoed, low and hollow like his soul.

“Cheer up, yous neva coulda beat ‘em anyways.” The comfort was not felt by the knight. The bartender snorted before handing him another pint.

“She’s right, chin-up, look eh, if it's any consolation, another poor soul is bout to take yer place.” He turned towards the door, where a hooded figure barely hid the gleam of armor.

A chipper voice echoed through the tavern.

“Excuse me! I, Dame Birdie would like to attempt my luck at wresting Princess Furina away from the evil dragon. Please direct me to the lake.”

This poor, poor…soul.

He turned back to the bartender as he slid him a worn-out sheet.

“Wanna bet, who she’ll get beat up by? Dragon or Princess.” He turned his head to listen to the absolute ardor in the woman’s voice as she twirled her hair. His mind drifted back to the flicker of ice in draconic eyes.

“Dragon. Place my mora on the dragon.”

[mermaidsirennikita]

I read both contemporary and historical romances and I feel like ice queen heroines are extremely underrated. Do you have any recommendations? Thank you!

I loooove an ice queen! Like, I honestly prefer ice queen heroines to sweet heroines.

Historical:

When a Duke Loves a Woman by Lorraine Heath. This heroine isn't so icy to her family, but she is icy to men otherwise because she basically thinks they're trouble who just want to love 'em and leave 'em (often with consequences for the woman) and tbh? She ain't wrong. But then she rescued the hero after he's mugged and cares for him and he sees her tits and the rest is history

Any Duke in a Storm by Amalie Howard. This is a PIRATICAL ICE QUEEN (but she's also a spy). She has a hero who's like a dangerous rakish borderline himbo and he's like "yes? we do sex? we do sex and kiss and things?" and she's like "NO WE DO NOT" (they do)

Lord of Temptation by Lorraine Heath. This is of the "aloof because she's trying to be a lady and also her heart is hurt" variety. She meets the hero (another borderline pirate but also a lord) when she's on a trip to visit her fiancee and he's VERY rakish and VERY seductive and yes there is sex on a boat and later a lot of scenes where he climbs into her room to tear it up by via a tree.

Joss and The Countess by S.M. LaVioelette. One of my favorite ice queen heroines! Alicia is twice-widowed and is exploring London to try to find a lover who actually pleases her (because neither of her husbands did). She's basically been fucking the wrong dudes and so she thinks she's frigid, until the servant she's been using as a bodyguard, Joss (who is a former sex worker) basically sticks his hand up there one night and is like "YOU WANT A BIT O' ROUGH?" because Joss is very dominant and can sense that what Alicia really wants is to be tossed around a bit. (How true of her.) It's actually kinda tense at first because he thinks she just wants him to service her and he's catching feelings but gasp she's catching them too. Also an older heroine/younger hero book (she's 39 I believe and he's around 27). Melissa and The Vicar comes before this and also features a frosty heroine (who is older than her virgin hero) but Magnus is more sweet and Melissa isn't quite as icy as Alicia, just super jaded. Both books, I should add, have discussion of past sexual abuse.

For My Lady's Heart by Laura Kinsale. And WHAT an icy heroine. Melanthe is a widowed princess who's known for having a heart of stone (and being a manipulative backstabber). She ends up being escorted on a perilous journey by a knight who idolized her for 13 years and developed this romanticized idea of her from afar and is quite... disappointed in her true personality lol. At first. Until he gets to know THE REAL HER. TW for medieval-accurate discussions of sexual assault, etc. Kinsale makes her characters have very accurate attitudes, and that can be intense but it's SO worth it.

The Dueling Duchess by Minerva Spencer. This heroine, who is a sharpshooter in a circus of women, has a very traumatic French Revolution-related backstory that leads her to being super aloof and jaded, which is hard because the hero, with whom she used to have a casual situationship, is a lovable rogue who reeeeally wants her back and For Srs.

Private Arrangements by Sherry Thomas. This heroine is known as this sort of jaded icy vamp, and she and her husband have been separated for ten years (basically since the day after the wedding). She asks for a divorce so that she can marry her lover, and he's like "hmmm give me an heir first", so they agree to fuck it out until she's pregnant and the baby is born. Very emotional.

Once More, My Darling Rogue by Lorraine Heath. This book has an ice queen who's really also just a brat lol. She treats the hero like shit because he's a former street kid who was adopted by a duke and duchess. Then he fishes her out of a river and she has amnesia, and he has the bright idea to wreak revenge by telling her she's his housekeeper lmao and making her wash his back and shit. But it's only supposed to be for a week! Then he'll tell her the truth... (If you've seen Overboard, this is that but historical.) TW for past sexual abuse.

The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes by Cat Sebastian. This heroine is aloof and icy because she was married to an asshole. Little does she know that the guy sending her blackmail letters is that asshole's secret son. Also, she doesn't realize that the blackmailer is falling in love with her through their back and forth letters (because she's like nice try dumbass and it turns into a correspondence). Adventure ensues. She also has a baby, and I like that though she loves the baby, it doesn't diminish her ice queen-ness? Like, she is still rather aloof and caring but not cuddly.

Waking Up with the Duke by Lorraine Heath. Lorraine does love an ice queen and Jayne is one of her best. She's kind but has sort of been made frosty by trauma. Her husband had a carriage accident that rendered him impotent, and she miscarried shortly after and has been caring for him since. The issue is that he doesn't give her any romance or really affection. But then he asks his best friend, a NOTORIOUSLY GREAT IN BED MAN to sleep with Jayne and get her pregnant so that he can have an heir and Jayne can have the baby she's always wanted. She agrees reluctantly... BUT NO KISSING. Such an amazing melting ice queen book.

Between the Devil and Desire by Lorraine Heath. Another all time favorite, and another fabulous heroine. Really, one of my top heroines. Olivia is another one whose husband was nice but not emotionally or physically there for her, and now she's widowed with a young son. But then, notorious gambling hell owner Jack Dodger is named as her son's guardian in her husband's will, even though he barely knew this man! It's so great to see this haughty ice queen get turned into an emotional mess by like, the first man who's ever gotten her going. It's really a sexual awakening book in a lot of ways because Olivia goes from being "GET AWAY FROM ME POOR" to drunkenly telling him that HE MUST NOT KISS HER knowing that her always does the opposite of what she asks lmao

When a Rogue Meets His Match by Elizabeth Hoyt. This heroine, who I kid you not is named Messalina, hates the hero a lot because he's her evil uncle's fixer. The evil uncle knows he wants her, so he's like "do this last job and you can have her". But she's determined to have her revenge. I read this when I was first getting back into romance and I really need to reread because I remember it being bonkers lol

Duchess by Day, Mistress by Night by Stacy Reid. Icy renowned widowed duchess with a young son hires this lowborn fixer type to find her son's governess after she goes missing. And he's like "okay.... but I don't want money in return....." Cue BIG awakening.

Sweetest Scoundrel by Elizabeth Hoyt. TW big time because the heroine is known as an ice queen and this is part due to her trauma surrounding childhood abuse. It is another huge favorite of mine, however. The hero is trying to start a pleasure garden, and the heroine basically sweeps in like "oh no you fucking don't" because her brother is his patron (I think) and she's handling her brother's affairs. The hero, a major rake type, is like "you bitch" but gradually gets to know her and realizes what's going on and starts helping her get comfortable with sex and men. It's honestly both very hot and VERY sweet, and it's this very gradual escalation that begins with a lot of mutual masturbation lol. And also a scene in which they're in a moving carriage and he realizes she's looking at his dick and he's like "I mean I can jack off in front of you if you want" and she's like "I WANT". One of the hottest scenes I've ever read tbh.

Contemporary:

The Hot Shot by Kristen Callihan. The hero is a rookie phenom quarterback, and the heroine is the photographer in charge of shooting this nude calendar starring the team. She's very frosty to him, but they become friends and then ROOMMATES and then slowly they work towards acknowledging their own trauma and stuff. TW because this is one deals with things like infertility, and especially his own trauma about a later-term pregnancy loss he experienced with another woman. I was actually really impressed with it tbh, because you rarely see pregnancy loss discussed from a hero's POV.

Salt in the Wound/Salt Kiss by Sierra Simone. Salt in the Wound is the prequel novella (kind of a long novella lol) from the heroine's POV, whereas she's majorly present in the back third of Salt Kiss but it's from the hero's POV. Would recommend reading in order. Isolde is a total ice queen, but she has this secret dark side... and a kinky, masochistic side. This is MMF, I discuss it a lot lol, but I really like the contrasting sides of her with Mark, who's similarly icy and very dominant, and Tristan, who's submissive with Mark but kinda like... dominant in the bedroom with Isolde, and soft out of the bedroom with her. Tristan also calls her "honey" DURING. A lot. And boy did that unexpectedly work for me.

Jana Goes Wild by Farah Heron. Love this one, the heroine had a fling with the hero in the past before finding out he was married (!) and then she turns out to be pregnant. Flash forward five years and they're polite coparents who end up in the same destination wedding party. She's understandably QUITE cold to him, but.... feelings arise.........

Lush Money by Angelina M. Lopez. This is the one with the billionaire heroine who offers to bail out the prince hero's tiny country in exchange for him marrying and impregnating her. Roxanne is a fabulously difficult, icy heroine who slooowly begins to melt.

[missrosiesworld]

Embraced in the Shadows

In the shadowy streets, Elara and Pinocchio tread cautiously, their senses heightened by the lurking danger. The growls of puppet dogs echoed ominously in the distance, a grim reminder of the threats hidden in the darkness. With each step, Elara's alert gaze scanned the surroundings, wary of any sudden movement.

Pinocchio, a remarkable blend of metal and mechanics, kept a watchful eye over Elara, his unique capabilities allowing him to detect danger with uncanny precision. His deep blue eyes, reflecting the night sky, moved ceaselessly, surveying their path for potential threats.

The growls grew louder, the unmistakable sound of puppet dogs drawing near. Elara's pulse quickened, the realization of their pursuit sending a chill down her spine. In an instant, Pinocchio's mechanical arms wrapped around her, his grip firm yet gentle. He swiftly guided her towards a nearby building, seeking a haven from the imminent danger.

Once inside, the confines of a narrow hallway offered temporary shelter. Pinocchio's intense gaze never wavered from Elara, his face etched with concern and resolve. "Be careful," he whispered urgently, his eyes softening as they met hers. His commitment to protecting her was evident in his every action, a silent pledge.

Keeping her close, Pinocchio pressed her gently against the door, his desire to maintain their intimate connection clear. His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, a gesture that, despite the urgency of the situation, was tender and caring. Elara, feeling the security and warmth of Pinocchio's embrace, looked up into his eyes, a mixture of gratitude and concern etching her features. The closeness in the confined space of the small room heightened the intensity of the moment.

"Thank you, Pino," she whispered, her voice steady despite the underlying tension of their situation. The threat of the puppet dogs loomed outside, reminding her that they were far from the safety of Hotel Krat. Her hand reached up to gently touch the hand he had placed on her waist, a silent acknowledgment of his protective gesture. She leaned into him slightly, seeking comfort in his presence amidst the danger that surrounded them.

"Are you all right?" Pinocchio's voice, tinged with concern, cut through the tense silence as he remained close to Elara. His tender touch and the earnest look in his eyes enveloped her in a sense of safety, echoing the promise of protection he had made during their first encounter.

Elara met Pinocchio's gaze, her eyes a mix of relief and lingering concern, reflective of the peril they were still in. "Yes, I'm okay," she assured him, her voice steady, imbued with a sense of gratitude for his presence. Pinocchio's hold on her tightened slightly, a gesture that spoke of his reluctance to let her go, of his commitment to her safety. As he leaned in closer, their eyes remained locked in a silent exchange, his gaze momentarily drifting towards her lips, signaling the depth of their relationship.

Elara's pulse quickened under the intensity of Pinocchio's gaze as she placed her hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his mechanical heart under her fingertips, a poignant reminder of his unique existence.

Pinocchio studied Elara intently, his breathing deep and rhythmic, a sign of the heightened emotions stirring within him. Not just due to the situation's gravity, but also from the closeness they shared. The contact of her hand against his chest, so light yet profound, resonated with him, urging him to lessen the space between them. However, he hesitated, acutely aware of the lingering danger just beyond their sanctuary.

"Don’t worry," he assured her gently, his deep blue eyes locking with hers, radiating a mix of assurance and depth. "I'll protect you." His words were more than a promise; they were a reflection of his commitment and the emotions he harbored for her.

Elara's eyes conveyed a blend of appreciation and a deep understanding of the complexity of emotions Pinocchio was grappling with. "Thank you, Pinocchio," she responded, her voice imbued with a heartfelt gratitude. She sensed his internal conflict, the struggle to balance the expression of his feelings with the need to remain alert to the dangers that surrounded them.

As Pinocchio leaned closer, the space between them charged with a palpable tension. His gaze, a dance of emotions, alternated between Elara's eyes and lips, signifying the depth of his feelings. Carefully, he raised his hand, his fingers tenderly cradling Elara's chin. His decision to bridge the gap between them was made with both caution and determination. "I think we ought to keep close," he whispered, his deep blue eyes intensely searching hers for understanding and consent.

Elara's pulse quickened under his gentle touch. The nearness of Pinocchio, the warmth of his breath, and the earnest look in his eyes stirred a fluttering sensation within her. His gaze, intermingled with apprehension and resolve, mirrored the complexity of emotions that Pinocchio grappled with in his journey toward humanity.

"I agree," Elara responded, her voice a soft echo of her growing affection. Her words, while acknowledging the danger of their situation, also held an unspoken acknowledgment of the deepening bond between them. The electric air around them seemed to vibrate with the intensity of their connection, a testament to their relationship that had flourished over time.

Leaning slightly into his touch, Elara's hand reached up to gently rest atop his, a gesture of comfort and solidarity. In the safety of Pinocchio's embrace, she found a sanctuary, a haven amidst the chaos of their circumstances. Pinocchio's inclination towards Elara was a delicate balance of longing and restraint. The warmth emanating from their proximity and the intimacy of the moment enveloped him. He yearned to close the distance, to feel the softness of her lips, yet he hesitated, savoring the anticipation.

Hovering just an inch away, his gaze was firmly fixed on her lips, revealing an intense desire tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "Promise me one thing," he whispered, his voice a tender murmur barely audible over the rhythm of his heart.

With their lips tantalizingly close, Elara was captivated by the earnestness in Pinocchio's gaze, a mirror to her deep-seated feelings. Time seemed to stand still, creating a bubble of longing around them. Lifting her eyes to meet his, Elara's expression blended curiosity with deep-seated affection. "Anything," she responded in a breathless whisper, her voice conveying the depth of her emotions. Her heartbeat resonated with the unique tempo of Pinocchio's mechanical heart, a symphony of their shared nervousness and affection.

Pinocchio's gaze held a depth of seriousness, a reflection of the emotional storm brewing within him. "Promise me," he implored in a hushed whisper, his eyes momentarily drifting to her lips before returning to meet hers with a profound intensity. "Stay with me, no matter what happens." Elara felt the sincerity and urgency of his plea resonate within her, stirring a blend of emotions and a firm resolution. She gazed into his eyes, seeing the raw vulnerability and the earnestness that underscored his request.

With a firm nod, she spoke with heartfelt conviction. "I promise, Pinocchio. I'll stay with you through everything." Her words were more than a mere assurance; they were a pledge, a deep commitment to remain by his side against all odds. Her hand gently caressed his face, a tender gesture that symbolized her commitment. But their moment of deep connection was abruptly interrupted. The distant but unmistakable growls of the puppet dogs, accompanied by the clanking of other mechanical foes, broke the silence.

The abrupt intrusion of danger snapped Pinocchio into action, his body coiling with tension and readiness. His eyes, previously soft with affection, sharpened into a vigilant gaze as he quickly assessed the threat. With a protective instinct as fierce as it was swift, he maneuvered Elara behind him, placing himself as a shield between her and the lurking danger.

"Stay behind me," Pinocchio commanded in a low, urgent whisper, his eyes darting around the room, seeking any form of cover or barricade. His mind, a whirlwind of tactical thoughts, worked rapidly to devise the safest course of action to shield Elara.

Elara, sensing the gravity of their predicament, gave a silent nod, her pulse racing with the surge of adrenaline. She remained close, trusting Pinocchio's judgment implicitly, her faith in his protective capabilities lending her a quiet strength.

In a fluid motion, Pinocchio grasped his sword, its familiar heft offering a small comfort amidst the chaos. His legion arm, a testament to intricate mechanical prowess, stood ready, its soft hum a subtle promise of defense. Standing firm, Pinocchio embodied the stance of a seasoned warrior, his resolve fortified by the imperative to protect Elara at all costs.

The growling and clanking of the puppet dogs grew ominously closer, each sound a warning of the impending confrontation. Pinocchio stood resolute, his senses heightened, ready for whatever approached. As the tension escalated, the door suddenly burst open. The puppet dogs, with their glowing red eyes and oil-dripping jaws, lunged menacingly into the room. Pinocchio, with his sharp reflexes, was ready to defend.

The battle was fierce and swift. Pinocchio's sword clashed against the metallic bodies of the puppet dogs, each strike precise and effective. Amidst the chaos, one of the dogs made a sudden leap towards Elara. Without hesitation, Pinocchio threw himself between them, a protective barrier against the attack.

At that moment, a fierce protectiveness overcame Pinocchio. His movements became more aggressive, his strikes more forceful. As he fought off the attacking dogs, his voice reached Elara through the cacophony of metal against metal. "Hide now!" he commanded, the urgency in his voice unmistakable.

Elara, her heart racing, quickly found a place to conceal herself, watching as Pinocchio continued to battle the mechanical beasts with a newfound intensity. One by one, the puppet dogs were disabled, their mechanical bodies collapsing to the ground in heaps of inoperative metal and leaking oil.

With the last of the attackers defeated, Pinocchio turned to find Elara, his expression a mix of concern and relief. He quickly approached her, being careful not to get any oil on her from his hands and clothes.

As Pinocchio carefully lifted Elara into his arms, she instinctively curled her arms around his neck, her gaze locking onto his with a blend of relief and deep appreciation. The recent turmoil they had endured seemed distant now, overshadowed by the security she found in his embrace. His robust, yet tender hold provided her with a haven, a contrast to the chaos that had just engulfed them.

Elara's senses were acutely attuned to the rhythmic beating of Pinocchio's mechanical heart as he carried her. His movements were a harmonious blend of elegance and strength, each stride purposefully distancing them from the peril they had escaped. She nestled her head against the comforting curve of his shoulder, allowing herself a momentary respite, enveloped in the sanctuary of his protective arms.

The crispness of the night air caressed her face as they progressed, offering a refreshing counterpoint to the stifling tension of the alley. While Elara's mind was still processing their close escape, within the circle of Pinocchio's arms, those anxieties seemed to dissolve, becoming distant echoes. Surrendering to the moment, she relaxed in his care, her trust in his guidance unwavering as they made their way to the safety of Hotel Krat.

Navigating through the dimly lit alleyway, Pinocchio remained vigilant, his eyes darting to every shadow and corner. The quiet of the night was deceptive, masking the possibility of lurking dangers. His steps were measured and swift, each one a calculated move to ensure their safety.

Elara, nestled securely in Pinocchio's arms, tightened her grip around his neck, her senses heightened by their precarious situation. The cold night air brushed against her skin, a stark reminder of the reality beyond the comfort of Pinocchio's embrace. Despite the potential threats that loomed in the darkness, Elara found a reassuring calm in Pinocchio's steady gait and unwavering focus.

As they turned a corner, Pinocchio's voice, low and steady, reached her ears. “Hold onto me,” he murmured, a gentle command infused with concern. His protective instinct was evident in his tone, a silent pledge to guard her against any harm.

As they neared Hotel Krat, the familiar structure emerged from the darkness like a beacon of safety. Elara's grip on Pinocchio's neck tightened, a silent expression of gratitude and relief. The dangers of the night seemed to recede as they approached the hotel, its warm lights offering a stark contrast to the shadows they had traversed.

Pinocchio's movements, while still quick, gradually relaxed as they closed the distance to the hotel. His mechanized heart, a steady pulse throughout their journey, now seemed to resonate with a sense of accomplishment. He had successfully navigated the treacherous streets and protected Elara from harm. The sounds of the city at night, once a backdrop to their tense escape, now faded into a distant murmur as they reached the safety of Hotel Krat. Elara's eyes, which had been fixed on Pinocchio with a mix of concern and admiration, now reflected a deep sense of relief and gratitude.

As they stepped into the hotel, the contrast between the chaos of the streets and the calmness of the lobby was palpable. The familiar surroundings enveloped them, offering a respite from the night's ordeal. Elara's reliance on Pinocchio, evident in her unwavering trust throughout their escape, was a testament to the bond they shared.

Once inside Hotel Krat, a sense of safety enveloped Elara and Pinocchio, a stark contrast to the perilous streets they had just left behind. The hotel's lobby, with its warm lighting, provided a tranquil haven, a much-needed reprieve from the night's adrenaline-fueled escapade.

Pinocchio, feeling the quiet calm of the hotel, set Elara gently on her feet. Yet, he maintained a comforting connection, taking her hand in his. His grip was firm yet gentle, a silent promise of continued protection and care. The lobby's hushed ambiance was a soothing balm to their frayed nerves, a peaceful interlude after their harrowing journey.

Together, they stepped into the small elevator, the quiet space amplifying the sense of intimacy between them. Pinocchio's hand, enveloping Elara's, offered reassurance and solidarity. The soft hum of the elevator ascending was the only sound breaking the silence, emphasizing the tranquility that now surrounded them.

The elevator's arrival on their desired floor was marked by a quiet ding, the doors sliding open to reveal the serene hotel corridor. Pinocchio, leading the way, did not let go of Elara's hand, his protective presence a comforting constant. Their footsteps were soft against the carpet, each step deliberate and measured, as they moved down the hallway.

Approaching his room, Pinocchio paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on Elara. In his eyes, there was a depth of emotion, a silent communication of all they had shared and survived together. Gently, he ushered her into the room, his actions conveying both care and a desire for privacy, away from the world outside. Pinocchio's room, bathed in the soft glow from the streetlights outside, exuded a sense of calm and simplicity. The minimalist furnishings included a bed with a dark blue comforter, a desk tucked in the corner, and a scattering of books that hinted at a quiet intellect.

As they entered, Pinocchio's attentiveness never wavered. His hand gently transitioned from holding Elara's to resting on her arm, an instinctual gesture of care. His eyes, filled with a mix of concern and relief, searched her face. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry. Elara responded with a reassuring smile, conveying her well-being. "I'm fine, thanks to you," she replied, her tone laced with gratitude. She placed her hand over his, a gentle touch that spoke volumes of the trust and affection between them.

Pinocchio's gaze, soft and appreciative, met hers. "You're welcome," he murmured, his thumb caressing her knuckles in a tender gesture. His protective nature was evident in every action, from his watchful gaze to the way he secured the door behind them, ensuring their privacy.

Elara moved swiftly, yet with a gentle grace that spoke of her deep concern for Pinocchio. She was quick to notice the traces of oil that tarnished his appearance. Retrieving a towel, she kept her attentive eyes on him, ensuring he was unharmed. With deliberate care, Elara approached Pinocchio and cradled his face in her hands. The towel glided softly over his skin, her movements tender and reassuring. 

Throughout the process, Elara's gaze frequently locked with Pinocchio's, her eyes a mirror of concern and fondness. In this quiet moment, her actions conveyed more than words could — a gesture of affection and understanding in a world often harsh and unyielding. Pinocchio's response to her touch was visceral, a shiver coursing through him as her hands traced the contours of his face. Accustomed to being the guardian, the protector, he found solace in this role reversal, cherishing the sensation of being cared for by someone as dear to him as Elara.

A soft smile graced his lips as he leaned into her touch, surrendering to the moment. His gaze held hers, communicating a blend of gratitude and affection. In Elara's gentle hands, Pinocchio experienced a rare and precious feeling of being nurtured and cherished. Elara was keenly aware of the subtle shiver that coursed through Pinocchio, a testament to his deepening sensitivity and his journey towards a more human experience. Each gentle touch seemed to resonate with him, reflecting his growing ability to feel and respond to the nuances of human interaction.

After she had carefully removed all traces of the battle from his face, Elara paused, her hands gently framing his cheeks. She took a moment to appreciate not just the cleanliness of his appearance, but the remarkable transformation in the man before her. The external signs of the skirmish might have been wiped away, yet the experience had woven a new thread into the fabric of their relationship.

"There, much better," she said softly, a hint of playfulness in her tone. Her smile, warm and affectionate, conveyed her approval and admiration. "Now, you truly look like yourself again." Her hands remained cupped around his face for a few seconds more, a silent reluctance to end the closeness they shared in that moment. As the last traces of oil were cleared from his face, Pinocchio's gaze became fixated on Elara's hands. The soft, deliberate motions of her fingers as they traced the contours of his skin were captivating. Her gentle care was a haven, a stark contrast to the brutal reality that loomed outside their moment of tranquility.

Drawing closer, the warmth in Pinocchio's voice was unmistakable. "May I ask you something?" he inquired, his tone carrying an undercurrent of earnestness. Elara turned her full attention to Pinocchio, her eyes locking onto his with an expression that blended curiosity with a profound openness. "Of course," she replied, her voice conveying both steadiness and encouragement.

"What's on your mind?" Elara asked softly, her voice tinged with genuine interest, eager to understand the thoughts and emotions simmering within him. In the brief silence that followed, Pinocchio gathered his thoughts, the intensity of his emotions simmering beneath the surface. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, yet it resonated with depth and vulnerability.

"When you look at me," he asked softly, the words seemingly drawn out by the gravity of his feelings, "what do you see?" His question hung in the air, laden with significance, his eyes searching Elara's for a glimpse into her perception of him.

Elara paused, the weight of Pinocchio's question settling in her heart. She looked into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability and earnestness that resided there. She understood the importance of her response, aware of how it could affect him. "I see someone extraordinary," she began slowly, her voice soft yet filled with sincerity. "Someone who's more than just the sum of their parts. You're Pinocchio, someone who feels, who cares, who's learning and growing every day."

Her eyes held his gaze steadily, conveying the depth of her feelings. "I see someone who's brave, who's been through so much yet still has the capacity for kindness and wonder. And," she added, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I see someone I love so deeply, more than I've ever thought possible."

Listening to her, Pinocchio felt her words echo within him, touching a part of him that had become increasingly human. Her declaration of love enveloped him in a warmth he cherished. With an unwavering gaze, he locked eyes with her, an intensity and depth of emotion reflecting in his own. A gentle warmth radiated from his expression; his smile soft yet full of unspoken love. "Elara," he spoke softly, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable, "hearing you say that means everything to me."

Closing the gap between them, he stepped forward. Confidently, his hands reached out, cradling her face with a tenderness that spoke volumes of their shared affection. "I love you too, Elara, deeply and truly. You've opened up a world to me I never knew existed, a world rich with emotions I never thought I'd experience."

In his eyes, a mixture of happiness and appreciation shone brightly. "In your eyes, I see myself not just as I am, but as I can be," he continued, his touch gentle yet filled with emotion. "Being with you, feeling this love, makes me feel more human, more alive." Pinocchio, feeling the depth of their shared emotion, moved even closer to Elara. His hands, still cradling her face, pulled her gently toward him. Their eyes remained locked, a silent conversation flowing between them, speaking of love, trust, and a deep-seated connection.

"Elara," he whispered, his voice a soft caress against her skin. "Being with you is where I truly belong."

Their lips connected, a soft yet electrifying touch that set off a flood of emotions. This kiss, familiar yet always new, started as a gentle exploration, affirming the deep bond they shared. But soon, it deepened, becoming more urgent, more passionate. Elara's hands found their way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, while Pinocchio's arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her in. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving nothing but the two of them and the intensity of their kiss.

As they continued to kiss, their bodies found a natural, synchronized rhythm. They moved together, effortlessly stepping back until Elara felt the edge of the bed against her legs. Without breaking their kiss, they found themselves lying down, Pinocchio's body hovering over hers, their hearts beating in unison. Each caress, each movement was filled with a sense of longing and desire.

Their kissing grew more fervent, a dance of lips and tongues, an expression of their deepening love. Whispered declarations of love intermingled with their breaths, each word reinforcing their deep commitment. "I love you," Elara murmured between kisses, her fingers tangled in his hair.

"I love you more than words can say," Pinocchio replied, his voice muffled against her lips, his heart thrumming against her.

In this intimate embrace, something extraordinary happened. Unbeknownst to them, Pinocchio's mechanical heart began to transform amidst the passion and love. It was subtle at first, but with each beat, it became more like that of a human. It was as if the love they shared was rewriting the very essence of his being.

As they continued to kiss, lost in each other, Pinocchio's heartbeat with a new rhythm, one that echoed the depth of his feelings for Elara. It was a sign of a remarkable change, a shift toward humanity fueled by the power of love and connection.