Your Black Big Sis ¦CLE¦ I'm Grown. Come back when you're 18 or older. All writing tagged #Lotusss Writes. This app often confuses me. I give good advice sometimes. Story Time.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Kim Gun-woo x Female Reader (! includes suggestive mature content)
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: ~4k
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: With the championship fight only hours away, Gun-woo’s determination to follow a ridiculous boxing superstition begins to crack under the weight of missing his girlfriend. As nerves, pressure, and expectations build, he starts questioning whether avoiding her is actually helping at all. Thankfully, she knows exactly how to remind him where his strength truly comes from.
Read Part 1 here
-
By the day before the fight, Woo-jin had become completely insufferable.
He followed Gun-woo around the gym like a cursed conscience, appearing at the worst possible moments to whisper warnings that sounded increasingly made up.
“Remember,” he said while Gun-woo taped his wrists, “clear mind, strong fists.”
Gun-woo didn’t look at him. “Go away.”
“Temptation is temporary. Victory is forever.”
“You read that on a bathroom wall.”
“Wisdom can come from anywhere.”
Later, when you arrived with a fresh smoothie and a bag of snacks, Woo-jin physically stepped between you and Gun-woo like a security guard protecting national treasure.
You stopped in front of him. Here comes the root cause of our blue balls.
Woo-jin held up both hands. “No sudden movements.”
You stared. “Move, or I’ll kick your balls.”
“I can’t. I am protecting the future of Korean boxing.”
Gun-woo sighed behind him. “Woo-jin.”
“She is dangerous,” Woo-jin insisted, pointing at you without looking away. “Look at her. She knows what she’s doing.”
You tilted your head innocently. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
You smiled slowly. “Interesting.”
Woo-jin immediately regretted giving you ideas.
Gun-woo saw the smile and visibly panicked.
“No.”
You took one small step forward, and Woo-jin made a strangled noise while Gun-woo looked like he was considering jumping out the window.
The entire gym watched with the kind of attention usually reserved for championship rounds.
You lifted the smoothie. “I brought him fruit.”
Woo-jin narrowed his eyes. “What kind of fruit?”
“Banana.”
Half the gym lost it.
Gun-woo turned away, ears burning red, while you stood there pretending not to understand why everyone was howling with laughter.
The coach had to intervene before Woo-jin collapsed.
“Enough,” he said, though he was laughing too. “Let the man drink his smoothie.”
Woo-jin stepped aside with great reluctance, watching the exchange like a suspicious parent. Gun-woo took the smoothie from you, his fingers brushing yours for one small second, and somehow that was enough to make both of you quiet.
You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “You okay, Woo?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Hmm.” You nodded, unconvinced.
His mouth curved slightly. “A little nervous.”
“I know.”
You wanted to touch his face, but you knew the gym was watching. So instead, you squeezed his hand once, quick and hidden between your bodies.
Gun-woo’s expression softened so much that Woo-jin groaned behind you.
“This is worse than sex,” he complained. “They’re emotionally intimate.”
Gun-woo nearly choked on the smoothie.
—
The night before the match, Gun-woo couldn’t sleep. You knew before he told you.
He always got quiet when worry found him. Not cold, not distant, just quiet in that heavy way where his thoughts seemed to sink into his bones. He had tried pretending everything was fine during dinner, had nodded through your stories, had even smiled when you stole food from his plate, but his hand kept finding yours under the table and holding on a little too tightly.
So when midnight came and he still hadn’t answered your text, you went to him.
He opened the apartment door wearing sweatpants and a loose white shirt, hair messy, eyes tired, expression guilty.
Then he knowingly and quietly stepped aside for you to come in.
His apartment was dim, the city lights slipping through the curtains in pale streaks. The place smelled faintly like detergent, rice, and the liniment he used after training. It was so painfully him that your chest ached a little.
How alone he must’ve felt.
He followed you to the couch but didn’t sit right away.
“I didn’t call because I didn’t want to bother you,” he admitted.
You turned to face him. “Bother me? Baby, you’re my boyfriend. You’re allowed to bother me.”
His mouth twitched slightly, but the tiredness in his eyes stayed.
You reached for his hand. “Talk to me, Woo.”
Gun-woo looked down at your fingers intertwined with his. For all his strength, for all the intimidation his body could carry in a ring, there were moments like this where he seemed almost too gentle for the world he had been put in.
“I keep thinking about the fight,” he said. “What if I get too slow? What if I disappoint everyone?”
“You won’t disappoint us.”
“What if I disappoint myself?”
That one sat between you for a while. You squeezed his hand.
“Then you’ll come home, rest, and start again. Because that’s what you do.”
He let out a breath, looking away as if the simplicity of it hurt. You stepped closer, placing your free hand against his chest. His heartbeat was strong beneath your palm, steady but fast.
“You don’t have to be perfect tomorrow.”
His eyes returned to yours.
“You just have to fight like you.”
Something in him cracked open quietly then. Gun-woo never needed drama to be vulnerable. It was in the small things, in the way his shoulders lowered, in the way his hand covered yours against his chest, in the way he finally allowed himself to look scared.
“I really want to win,” he whispered.
“I know, love.” His eyes softened at that.
“And you can want that without punishing yourself for being human.”
He laughed faintly, embarrassed. “I’m not punishing myself.”
“Boooo. You haven’t kissed me properly in three days.”
His ears reddened immediately. “That’s discipline.”
“That’s emotional violence.”
He actually laughed then, a real one, the sound low and warm in the quiet apartment.
You smiled, relief blooming inside you, as you nudged his side.
“There he is.”
Gun-woo looked at you for a long moment. Then, carefully, like he had been waiting for permission from himself more than anyone else, he leaned down and kissed your forehead.
You closed your eyes as his lips lingered. When he pulled back, you caught the front of his shirt and tugged lightly. “Nooo, that’s it?”
He looked pained again, nodding disappointingly.
“You’re evil.”
He sighed at your pained expression, defeated by his own choices, then cupped your face with both hands and kissed you properly.
It was soft, aching, full of everything he had been too nervous to say. You melted into him immediately, hands sliding up his arms, feeling the warmth of him, the strength, the exhaustion, the love.
When he pulled away, his forehead stayed against yours.
“You make it hard to focus,” he murmured.
You smiled. “Good. Very good.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling too now.
You stayed that night, though nothing happened beyond the kind of closeness Gun-woo had been starving himself of. You lay together on his bed, your head on his chest, his arm around your waist, his breathing slowly evening out beneath your ear. Every now and then, his fingers moved gently along your back like he was reminding himself you were there.
Before he fell asleep, he whispered your name.
“Mm?”
“If I win tomorrow…”
“You will.”
“If I win,” he repeated, stubborn, “I’m compensating you.”
You lifted your head, amused. “Hmm? How so?”
He smirked knowingly, staring at the ceiling. “You’ll see.”
“What will you do?” you asked, excitement stirring as you leaned on his chest, trying to get him to look at you.
“Maybe I will first carry you around the arena.”
“You’ll be sweaty.”
“I don’t care.”
“There will be cameras.”
“I don’t care.”
“Woo-jin will never shut up.”
“He already doesn’t.” You laughed and stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.
Then you dropped your head back onto his chest, laughing softly.
“Fine. Win first.”
His arm tightened around you. “I will.”
—
The arena on fight night felt alive.
Every sound seemed larger than it should have been. The roar of the crowd, the slap of gloves, the announcer’s voice rolling through the speakers, the camera flashes bursting like lightning over the ring. You had watched Gun-woo fight before, but never like this. Never with this much on the line. Never with his entire future sitting somewhere beneath the lights.
Woo-jin sat beside you and had not been still for a single second.
“I feel sick,” he muttered.
“You’re not the one fighting.”
“I know. That’s why I feel sick. If I were fighting, I would be focused. Right now I’m just suffering.”
You glanced at him. “You look like you’re about to throw up. Are you good?”
“I might.”
Before the conversation could continue, Gun-woo walked out, and the arena shifted.
It was not just that people cheered. They did, loudly, but that wasn’t what made your throat tighten. It was the way he looked under the lights, calm and focused, shoulders loose, gaze forward, every inch of him carrying the discipline he had built over years. He looked intimidating in a way that still sometimes startled you, because you knew the man beneath it. You knew the man who blushed when you teased him, who listened when you reminded him to eat, who held your hand in his sleep, who you so eagerly wanted to devour as soon as you got back home.
But in the ring, he became something else.
Woo-jin leaned toward you without taking his eyes off him. “He looks good.”
You swallowed, eyes drying from ogling at him. “My man sure does.”
The first round began fast. You understood that Gun-woo liked pressure. He absorbed it differently than other people. He watched, adjusted, measured the rhythm of the man in front of him until the fight began revealing itself. Still, every punch that landed against his guard made your body tense. Every time his opponent pushed forward, your fingers curled around the edge of your seat.
Woo-jin noticed. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Good. Me too.”
The second round was worse. Gun-woo took a hit near the ribs that made the crowd gasp, and your heart nearly climbed out of your chest. He recovered quickly, but you saw the tiny shift in his expression. You knew when something hurt him. He always tried hiding it, but his mouth tightened in a certain way.
“Come on,” you whispered, barely aware you had said it aloud.
And he heard you.
You didn’t know how. The arena was too loud, the lights too bright, the entire world too chaotic. But for one impossible second, Gun-woo’s eyes flickered toward your side of the crowd.
Then he moved.
The next combination was beautiful. Sharp, clean, disciplined. His fist found the opening like he had been waiting for it all night, and the sound of the hit cracked through the arena. His opponent stumbled back. Gun-woo followed, controlled but relentless, every movement carrying the weight of the months he had poured into this moment.
By the final round, the whole arena was on its feet. You barely remembered standing. Woo-jin was shouting something beside you, voice breaking. Your hands were shaking. The final bell rang, and for a moment, nobody breathed.
Then the announcer called his name.
Gun-woo won.
The gym team exploded around you. Woo-jin practically jumped over a chair. Cameras flashed from every direction as Gun-woo’s arm was lifted, his face stunned for half a second before joy finally broke through.
You pressed both hands over your mouth.
He had done it. He had actually done it.
Everyone rushed toward him afterward. Coaches, staff, reporters, people who wanted interviews and photos and quotes before he had even caught his breath. Woo-jin made it into the ring somehow and nearly tackled him, shouting directly into his face while Gun-woo laughed, dazed and sweaty and glowing with victory.
But even through all of it, his eyes were searching.
You saw the moment he found you.
Everything else disappeared from his face. The cameras, the reporters, the team, the noise, all gone.
He moved before anyone could stop him. Down from the ring, through the swarm of people, past hands trying to grab his attention. You barely had time to step forward before he reached you, arms wrapping around your body and pulling you so tightly against him that your feet almost left the floor.
“Gun-woo,” you laughed, breathless.
His face pressed into your neck. You felt his breathing, heavy and uneven, felt the damp warmth of him, the tremor still running through his body from adrenaline and disbelief.
“You won, Woo!” you whispered against him as his arms tightened.
“You saw that?!” The simplicity of his excitement ruined you.
You pulled back just enough to hold his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. He was sweaty, bruised, exhausted, and the happiest you had ever seen him.
“I told you!!” you said softly.
His smile grew, slow and bright and entirely yours. Then suddenly his expression shifted.
You knew that look and smirk too well.
“No.”
Gun-woo bent.
“Gun-woo, no.”
He lifted you over his shoulder in one smooth motion, and the arena erupted. From afar, you could distinguish Woo-jin hollering.
You slapped Gun-woo’s back, laughing so hard you could barely breathe. “Put me down!”
“No.”
“There are cameras!”
“I know.”
“You’re insane!”
“I don’t care. I won!”
He carried you straight past the team, past his coach who looked both proud and exhausted, past Woo-jin who was laughing too hard to stand properly. You hid your burning face against Gun-woo’s back while he walked out like this was the most normal celebration in the world.
Only when he finally reached the quiet hallway outside the locker rooms did he set you down.
The noise of the arena faded behind the door, muffled now, distant. For the first time all night, it was just the two of you in the dim corridor, his body still close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.
You looked up at him, still smiling. “You are ridiculous. Outing me publicly like that?”
He stepped closer. “You teased me all week.”
“You deserved it.”
“But I missed you.” That softened you instantly.
His voice had changed, no longer playful. Beneath the sweat and victory and adrenaline, there was still that same softness from the night before. That same need to come back to you first.
You touched his chest gently. “I was right there.”
“But not close enough.” Your breath caught a little.
Gun-woo noticed. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then returned to your eyes, asking without saying it. Even after years together, he still searched your face for consent first.
You stepped closer and kissed him.
The moment your lips met, the last of his restraint disappeared. His hands found your waist, pulling you in with the kind of relieved desperation that made your knees feel weak. You smiled against his mouth, and he made a small sound like that alone offended him.
“You’re laughing?” he murmured.
“You’re so sweaty,” you giggled mid-kiss.
He kissed you firmly, deeper this time, pressing you gently back until your shoulders met the locker room door. Somewhere down the hall, people were still shouting his name, but he didn’t move. His forehead rested against yours for a second, breathing uneven, smile tugging at his mouth despite the hunger in his eyes.
You couldn’t take it anymore, the heat already pooling.
“Woo, open the door,” you whispered.
Gun-woo froze, then looked at you like he needed to make sure he heard correctly.
You raised an eyebrow, gaze finding his eyes. “Does your superstition still apply after the fight?”
His entire face changed. The shy part of him surfaced first, ears flushing red immediately, but it barely lasted before something warmer and more confident replaced it. He yanked the locker room door open without taking his eyes off you and guided you inside, shutting out the noise behind you.
The room was empty for now, lit by harsh overhead lights and smelling faintly of leather, soap, and victory. His gloves were still somewhere outside. His wraps were half undone. His hair clung damply to his forehead.
You barely had time to take him in before he kissed you again. This time there was no superstition to hide behind, no fight to protect, and finally no Woo-jin lurking around with unwanted wisdom. There was only a needy Gun-woo, warm and solid and finally letting himself have what he had been missing all week.
His hands were careful when taking off your clothes, even when the kiss became less careful. That was always him. Strong enough to break bones, gentle enough to make you ache. You laughed softly when he picked you up against him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you farther inside before sitting on the bench in the middle of the room.
“Still think I ruined your stamina?” you whispered against his mouth, breaking the kiss.
He huffed out a laugh, breathless. “You’re never going to let this go.”
“Never.”
His lips brushed against your jaw. “I won.”
“You did.”
“So I was right.”
You pulled back, offended. “About what?”
“Waiting.”
You stared at him, then he smiled, sweet and shameless in a way that made you want to scream.
“You’re annoying me now.”
“You love me.”
Your answer came immediately. “So much.”
The teasing left his face for a second, replaced by something quieter. His thumb brushed along your cheek, eyes soft and impossibly fond.
“I love you too,” he softly reminded you as he slowly inserted himself in.
The celebration outside continued without him for a while. Woo-jin probably looked for him. His coach probably sighed. Someone definitely made a joke about the superstition finally being broken. But Gun-woo didn’t seem to care, especially not when your hands were tugging his hair and your laugh kept catching against his mouth.
He had won the biggest fight of his career and still looked at you like coming back to you was the part that mattered most.
Later, when the noise finally found its way closer and Woo-jin banged on the locker room door with absolutely no respect for romance, Gun-woo pulled back just enough to glare at the door.
“Yo! Are you alive in there?”
You buried your face against Gun-woo’s shoulder, trying to bite your moans and laughing silently.
Woo-jin knocked again. “If you broke the superstition, that’s allowed, but we have reporters waiting!”
Gun-woo closed his eyes impatiently. “I’m going to kill him.”
You kissed his cheek, and just like that, his anger disappeared. Outside, Woo-jin groaned dramatically. “I heard that silence! Disgusting!”
Gun-woo looked at you, tired and happy and still flushed, and all you could do was smile back.
He had been wrong all week. You were never the thing that would ruin him.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Kim Gun-woo x Female Reader (! includes suggestive mature content)
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: ~4k
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A few days before the most important fight of his career, Gun-woo hears about an old boxing superstition claiming fighters should avoid romantic distractions before a match. He thinks it’s ridiculous… until everyone at the gym keeps bringing it up, Woo-jin makes it worse, and suddenly being around his own girlfriend becomes the hardest test of discipline he has ever faced.
Enjoy!
-
The whole thing started because Gun-woo smiled at his phone. That was it.
Nothing suspicious, nothing dramatic, nothing even worth paying attention to under normal circumstances. He had just finished three rounds of bag work, sweat dripping from his hair and down the side of his neck, chest rising and falling steadily as he reached for the towel thrown over the ropes. His coach had been yelling something about footwork, Woo-jin had been making unnecessary comments from the corner as usual, and the entire gym smelled like old leather, sweat, disinfectant, and ambition.
Then his phone rang. The moment your name lit up on the screen, Gun-woo’s entire face changed. The hard focus in his eyes softened first, his shoulders relaxed, and the tension in his jaw eased like somebody had reached into him and loosened a knot. He picked up the call with one hand still wrapped, turning slightly away from the others as if that would somehow make him less obvious.
“Did you eat?” you asked him through the phone before he even got the chance to say hello.
Gun-woo’s shy smile appeared immediately. “Yes.”
“You’re lying.”
His smile widened as he fiddled with the end of the towel draped around his neck. “I ate.”
“Gun-woo.”
“I had rice.”
“With what?” He paused, and that pause betrayed him completely.
From across the ring, Woo-jin’s eyes narrowed like he had just witnessed a crime.
Gun-woo cleared his throat. “Egg.”
“One egg?”
“It was big.”
“Kim Gun-woo!”
He lowered his gaze to the floor, looking almost ashamed, while still smiling like an idiot. “I’ll eat properly after training.”
“You better. And don’t skip stretching just because you’re tired. Your shoulder was stiff yesterday.”
“I know sweetheart.”
“And don’t let Woo-jin convince you convenience-store noodles count as dinner!”
Gun-woo glanced toward Woo-jin, who immediately mouthed, rude.
“I won’t.”
“Good. I miss you, baby. Come back early.”
That did it. The smile he had been trying to control finally broke across his face, soft and helpless and so painfully fond that even the coach stopped pretending not to watch.
“I miss you too,” he said quietly.
The gym fell into a kind of horrible silence. Woo-jin slowly turned toward the closest older fighter beside him, eyes wide with pure delight.
“Oh,” he whispered. “He’s cooked.”
Gun-woo ended the call a minute later after promising, twice, that he would eat real food, stretch properly, and not overtrain. He slipped the phone back into his bag, still wearing that small leftover smile, only to turn around and find half the gym staring at him like he had walked into a trap.
His smile disappeared. “What?”
Woo-jin leaned against the ropes, arms crossed, looking far too pleased for someone who had done nothing productive all morning.
“How many days until the match?”
Gun-woo frowned slightly. “Four.”
Woo-jin nodded gravely. “Dangerous.”
Gun-woo stared at him. “What is?”
“That.”
“What?”
Woo-jin gestured vaguely toward the phone, then toward Gun-woo’s face, then toward his entire existence with theatrical disappointment.
“Love.”
The old boxer sitting near the fan snorted into his coffee. To Gun-woo, he was a retired boxer who had no business being anywhere near the gym, yet somehow appeared every afternoon with a coffee in one hand and unwanted wisdom in the other.
Gun-woo looked between them, confused, while his coach rubbed his forehead as if already regretting the conversation before it had even started.
“What are you talking about?” Gun-woo asked.
Woo-jin pushed himself off the ropes and walked closer, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal government secrets. “You know the rule, right?”
“What rule?”
“The rule.”
Gun-woo blinked. “That does not explain anything.”
“The girlfriend rule,” Woo-jin said, and suddenly half the gym erupted into laughter.
Gun-woo looked even more confused, which only made it worse. One of the assistant trainers shook his head with pity.
“Ah, he doesn’t know.”
The retired boxer near the fan sighed dramatically, setting down his coffee. “Kids these days. No respect for tradition.”
Gun-woo slowly looked at his coach. “What rule?”
His coach tried not to smile and failed. “There is an old boxing superstition.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard it yet.”
“If Woo-jin is smiling like that, I already know it’s stupid.”
“It is not stupid,” Woo-jin argued immediately, offended on behalf of nonsense. “This is ancient wisdom.”
“It’s nonsense,” the coach said, then paused, looking at Gun-woo with the kind of expression older men used when they were pretending to be reasonable but still wanted to scare you. “But some fighters do follow it.”
Gun-woo’s eyes narrowed. “Follow what?”
The retired boxer lifted one finger. “Before an important match, no romantic distractions.”
Another fighter added, “No late nights.”
“No alcohol.”
“No changing routine.”
“No girlfriend.”
Woo-jin leaned in with the most punchable grin Gun-woo had ever seen. “And definitely no sex.”
Gun-woo stared at him. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed disbelievingly, shaking his head as if the entire gym had collectively lost its mind.
“You guys are serious?”
“Very serious,” Woo-jin said.
“That makes no sense.”
“Tell that to all the fighters who lost because they got weak legs.”
Gun-woo’s smile fell instantly. “That is not how legs work.”
The old boxer pointed at him. “You laugh now. But I knew a lightweight in Busan who ignored the rule before finals. Got knocked down in the second round.”
“Maybe he just fought badly.”
“Maybe,” the old man said, shrugging. “Or maybe his girlfriend destroyed his spirit.”
Woo-jin almost collapsed from laughter.
Gun-woo looked like he regretted waking up that morning.
For the rest of training, they did not let it go. Every time he took a sip of water, someone told him to stay hydrated because he would “need the strength.” Every time his phone buzzed, Woo-jin gasped like he had caught him committing treason. When Gun-woo was stretching, the assistant trainer passed by and muttered, “Flexibility is dangerous at this stage,” before walking away with a straight face.
At first, Gun-woo ignored them.
He knew himself. He knew his body. He knew discipline better than almost anyone in that room. He had spent months preparing for this fight, waking up before sunrise, running until his lungs burned, repeating combinations until his shoulders felt made of stone. He had earned this match through work, not luck, and the idea that being close to his own girlfriend could somehow erase that was so ridiculous that he didn’t even know how to take it seriously.
Then his coach stopped him before he left.
“Gun-woo.”
Gun-woo turned, gym bag slung over one shoulder. “Yes?”
His coach looked amused, but there was something careful beneath it too. “Don’t listen to them too much. But also, don’t lose focus these next few days.”
That was the part that stayed.
Don’t lose focus.
By the time Gun-woo left the gym that night, the superstition had crawled into the back of his mind and sat there comfortably like it had been invited.
Which was unfortunate, because you were waiting outside.
You stood near the streetlamp in one of his hoodies, arms crossed against the evening cold, looking slightly annoyed in that way you always did when he made you wait. The moment you saw him, your expression softened automatically.
Gun-woo stopped walking for half a second. He had seen you a thousand times. Barefaced in the morning, sleepy on his couch, laughing with Woo-jin, stealing fries from his plate, wearing his shirts like you had legal ownership over them. Still, somehow, every time he saw you after training, his chest did something stupid.
You looked up at him. “You’re late.”
“Sorry.”
“Did you stretch?”
He nodded too quickly.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re lying again.”
“I stretched.”
“For how long?”
He hesitated.
You sighed, reaching for his wrist and pulling him gently toward you. “Come here.”
Normally, Gun-woo would have gone without thinking. He would have bent down when you tugged him closer, accepted the kiss you always pressed against his cheek after training, and wrapped an arm around your shoulders as you started complaining about how stubborn he was.
Instead, he froze.
Your lips paused inches from his cheek. You blinked. He blinked back. A few seconds passed before your eyes slowly narrowed.
“Why are you standing like a soldier?”
Gun-woo swallowed. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m standing normally.”
“You look like you’re waiting for inspection.”
“I’m tired.”
You lowered your hand, still staring at him. “Did you get hit in the head today?”
“No.”
“Did Woo-jin tell you something stupid?”
Gun-woo looked away.
Your entire face changed.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Gun-woo?”
He regretted everything immediately.
You stared at him for three silent seconds, trying to decipher what was wrong with the statue of a man standing in front of you.
“Mr. Celibate decided not to kiss me today? What is this, some kind of pre-match superstition you’re following?” you asked teasingly, pretending to turn away from him.
“What!” Gun-woo jerked nervously.
That made you turn toward him so fast.
No way he was being for real now.
“Gun-woo?! Are you serious?” you asked, astonished.
He quietly lowered his head. That was his answer to you, and his ears went red so fast.
“Oh my God,” you breathed, covering your mouth. “You actually are following this bullshit?! Whose take was it?”
“I just heard it.”
“And you believed it!”
“I didn’t believe it.”
“Then kiss me!”
He froze again.
The look you gave him made him lower his head shyly in defeat again.
You stepped closer, and because he was still him, because his body had always moved toward you before his thoughts could interfere, his hand immediately lifted to your waist.
Then he remembered.
His hand stopped midair, hovering like a confused robot.
You looked down at it. Then back at him.
“Baby.”
He winced. “Don’t call me that right now, please.”
Your smile turned wicked. “Why?”
“Because you know why.”
“I really don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
You leaned closer just enough for your perfume to reach him, soft and familiar and completely unfair. “Are you scared of me?”
Gun-woo looked physically pained. “No.”
“Are you scared I’m going to ruin your fight?”
“No.”
“Are you scared I’m going to destroy your legs and your stamina?”
A sound escaped him somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and you nearly lost it right there on the sidewalk.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” he said.
“I’ve never enjoyed anything more.”
He stared down at you, trying so hard to look serious while his ears remained red and his hand still hovered near your waist like it wanted to disobey him.
Finally, he sighed and let it fall gently against your back.
“Just until the fight, please,” he muttered.
You blinked. “Wait. You’re actually going to do it?”
Gun-woo looked away again, and your laughter followed him all the way to the car.
—
By the second day, the situation had become unbearable.
Not for you, but for him.
You adapted beautifully. In fact, you treated the whole thing like a personal comedy show arranged for your entertainment. You wore his favorite sweater on purpose, sat closer than necessary whenever you visited the gym, touched him innocently whenever you felt like it, and every time he stared at you in disbelief, you simply claimed you were wiping sweat off his face or brushing dust off his shoulder.
Gun-woo, on the other hand, was suffering.
The problem was not that he lacked discipline. Discipline was the one thing nobody could question about him. If he was told to run, he ran. If he was told to rest, he rested, though badly. If he was told to control his weight, his meals, his sleep, his training load, he did it without complaint.
But you were not a training restriction.
You were his home. So it felt wrong to treat you like something dangerous.
That night, you came over to his apartment with dinner because you did not trust him to feed himself properly during fight week. Gun-woo opened the door and immediately regretted it because you stood there holding bags of food, wearing leggings and one of his oversized zip-ups, looking far too comfortable in his space and far too pleased with yourself.
“I brought actual food,” you announced, stepping inside. “Because I know you, and I know Woo-jin, and between the two of you, I don’t trust either of you with nutrition.”
Gun-woo took the bags from your hands automatically. “I ate.”
“One egg does not count as a meal.”
He smiled despite himself and carried everything to the table. For a while, things felt normal. You sat across from him, scolding him for not adding enough side dishes to his plate, and he listened with that soft patience he had only for you. His hair was still damp from a shower, his hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms, and every time you looked at him too long, you had the violent urge to bite him.
Which was, unfortunately, not allowed under his new imaginary religion.
After dinner, you moved to the couch. Usually, this was the part of the night where Gun-woo would stretch out with you tucked into his side, one arm heavy around your waist while some show played on the television and neither of you paid attention. Sometimes he fell asleep first as you played with his hair. Sometimes you did. Sometimes Woo-jin called to bother him and got insulted by both of you at once.
Tonight, however, Gun-woo sat at the far end of the couch.
You stared at the distance between you. Then at him.
Gun-woo stared at the television like it had just revealed the meaning of life.
You slowly shifted closer, and his shoulders tensed.
You shifted again, so he glanced at you, and you smiled innocently.
He exhaled through his nose.
“At this point, this whole thing feels disrespectful.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re moving.”
“It’s a couch. People move.”
“You’re doing it on purpose.”
“You think very highly of yourself.”
Gun-woo gave you a sassy look, but that was his mistake because the second his eyes met yours, his expression softened. That always happened. Even when he was trying to be stern, even when he was annoyed, even when he had every intention of holding his ground, looking at you too long made him forget why he was resisting in the first place.
Making use of that momentary lapse in judgment, you suddenly climbed into his lap.
Gun-woo went completely still.
His hands lifted automatically, hovering uselessly near your hips, and you almost laughed because for someone who could throw grown men across rooms, he looked genuinely helpless under the weight of his own girlfriend.
“Is this against your rule?” you asked.
His jaw tightened. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I don’t know the details.”
“So you’re following a rule you don’t understand?”
“I’m trying to focus.”
“You’re trying not to touch me.”
“That is part of focusing.”
“You’re not even blinking.”
“I’m focused.”
“You’re staring at my mouth.”
Gun-woo closed his eyes like a man begging for divine strength.
You smiled and leaned in, brushing your lips against his cheek instead of his mouth. His breath caught anyway, so quietly that anyone else might have missed it, but you were not anyone else.
You softened a little then. The teasing was fun, but missing him was not.
Because he was right there, beneath you, warm and solid and tense in a way that had nothing to do with fighting. His hands finally settled on your waist, careful and restrained, and the gentleness of it made your heart squeeze.
“Gun-woo,” you said quietly.
He opened his eyes.
“You know you can just kiss me, right?”
For a second, the humor disappeared from his face. Something vulnerable passed through instead, quick and honest. He looked down at where his hands rested against you, thumbs barely moving over the fabric of your sweater.
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like I’m going to suck the strength out of you through your mouth?”
His lips twitched, and you smiled too, but he didn’t answer immediately.
When he finally did, his voice was lower.
“This fight is important.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to make a mistake.”
Your fingers brushed gently through the damp hair near his temple. “You won’t.”
He leaned into the touch before he could stop himself, and that tiny surrender did something to you. Gun-woo had always been affectionate, but there was something different about him when he was nervous. He became quieter, more careful, like his own emotions embarrassed him.
“What if I lose?” he asked.
The question came so softly that your teasing died completely.
You looked at him for a long moment, taking in the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the small bruise near his jaw from sparring, the disciplined exhaustion sitting in his shoulders. This fight was not just another match to him. It was years of wanting, years of work, years of proving he could become something without losing the softness that made him who he was.
“Then you lose,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“And I’ll still be here.”
His expression changed. You continued, because he needed to hear it plain.
“You didn’t get here because you avoided me for four days. You got here because you worked harder than anyone I know. Because you trained when you were tired, because you listened, because you got back up every single time something knocked you down. Your success doesn’t come from a superstition, Gun-woo. It comes from you.”
He stared at you like every word had landed somewhere deep. Then he leaned forward and buried his face against your shoulder, so you hugged him immediately.
He didn’t resist. His arms wrapped around you properly, firm and familiar, pulling you close until your chest pressed against his and his breathing finally eased. You felt him relax slowly, the worry in his body softening under your hands.
“I miss you,” he muttered into your shoulder.
You laughed softly. “I’m literally on top of you, dummy.”
“I know.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m serious.”
That made you smile into his hair. “I miss you too.”
He lifted his head enough to look at you. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and the battle inside him was so obvious you almost felt cruel for watching it.
“You can kiss me, Woo,” you whispered.
Gun-woo hesitated for one last, painful second.
Then his phone buzzed on the table.
The screen lit up with Woo-jin’s name.
Gun-woo glanced at it.
Then you glanced at it.
The message preview screamed:
DON’T DO IT. THINK OF THE TITLE BELT. 🚨
You burst out laughing so hard you nearly fell off his lap, to which Gun-woo picked up a pillow and threw it across the room with impressive violence.
-
Read part 2 here!
It was too long to include in one post.
i recently found out this superstition actually exists in the boxing world, and considering i spent this week mourning the fact that Do hwan was literally twenty minutes away from me and i still didn’t see him, my brain immediately decided that someone needed to suffer for it. Unfortunately for Gun-woo, that someone was him :)
Pairing: Kim Gun-woo x Pregnant! Reader
Word count: 5.2k
Summary: Gun-woo wakes up in the hospital expecting relief. Instead, he finds a girlfriend who hasn't forgiven him for choosing to die for her.
Warnings: hospital setting, emotional confrontation, crying gun-woo, pregnancy, hurt/comfort, happy ending.
a/n1: finally, part 3 is here!!! life got a little busy, but it's here. thank you so much for all the love you've shown this series. i genuinely wasn't expecting it, and every comment, reblog, and message has made me ridiculously happy! i hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing it.
anyway, if you hear sobbing in the distance, it's probably me… or gun-woo. 😭🤍
a/n2: now playing - she's in the rain by the rose
☆ read here: part 1 and part 2
─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────
The first thing Gun-woo becomes aware of is the ache.
It sits deep in his body, heavy and unrelenting, settling into every bruise, every strained muscle, every injury he'd stopped noticing long before the fight was over. For a few seconds he doesn't understand where he is. Consciousness comes slowly, dragging him upward through fragments of memory that refuse to fit together properly. Concrete floors, blood, police sirens, a voice calling his name.
His brow tightens slightly, then an antiseptic smell reaches him. The realization that he is in the hospital settles in just as his eyes begin to open.
Light greets him first, pale morning sunlight filtering through partially closed blinds, followed by the faint hum of machinery somewhere nearby. Everything feels distant, muffled at the edges, as though his body hasn't quite decided whether it wants to wake up completely.
Then he sees you, and the confusion disappears immediately.
You're sitting beside the bed with your head resting against the wall behind you, one arm folded across your middle, the other hanging loosely at your side. Sometime during the night exhaustion must have finally caught up with you. Even from here he can see the tension lingering in your posture, the way your shoulders remain slightly drawn inward despite unconsciousness, as though your body hasn't yet received permission to relax.
Something painful twists in his chest. The last clear memory he has is watching Woo-jin drag you away while you fought him every step of the way. The image returns with uncomfortable clarity. The way you'd kept looking back at him as though refusing to believe he was actually staying behind. The way you screamed still echoes in his mind.
His jaw tightens. Slowly, carefully, he shifts his hand beneath the blanket and the movement hurts more than he expects. Enough that a quiet breath escapes him before he can stop it.
Your eyes open instantly. For a moment neither of you move.
Sleep disappears from your expression so quickly it almost seems impossible. One second you're exhausted, the next you're fully awake, your attention narrowing on him with the same intensity he'd seen countless times before.
Relief arrives first, he sees it immediately. It softens something in your face before you have the chance to stop it, washing over you so completely that it almost hurts to witness.
For one brief moment he allows himself to believe everything is okay.
Then, your calm expression disappears. Not completely, but enough for something else to take its place.
Gun-woo feels his stomach sink.
"...Hey."
His voice comes out rougher than intended. You don't answer immediately.
Instead, you stand so quickly the chair scrapes softly against the floor behind you, the sound cutting through the room with surprising sharpness. For a second he thinks you're about to throw your arms around him. The look on your face almost suggests it.
Instead, you reach for the call button beside the bed.
"I'm getting the doctor."
The words aren't cold, that would almost be easier. They're carefully measured, like you're holding something back.
The realization unsettles him more than anger would have. You disappear into the hallway before he can say anything else.
It takes the doctor twenty minutes to leave. Twenty minutes spent answering questions Gun-woo barely hears. Questions about pain levels, dizziness, vision, whether he remembers what happened or how many fingers he can see.
He answers automatically, his attention remaining fixed on the chair near the window. You haven't sat back down. Instead you've spent the entire conversation standing beside the glass with your arms folded tightly across your chest, staring outside as though the parking lot is somehow fascinating enough to deserve your complete attention.
You haven't looked at him once. The doctor finally leaves and the door closes behind him. The room becomes quiet again but still, you don't speak.
Gun-woo watches you for several seconds before finally breaking the silence himself.
"Are you okay?"
The question feels ridiculous the moment it leaves his mouth.
You're obviously not okay. You'd spent hours trying not to think about what he looked like when they finally carried him out. Trying not to replay the sight of blood smeared across his face, across his hands. Every time you closed your eyes, the image returned anyway. Not the fighter you knew. Just Gun-woo, broken in ways you'd never seen before.
In the midst of this chaos that was your mind, suddenly a wave of guilt settles heavily in your chest.
The baby. Oh God. Your hand drifts instinctively toward your stomach.
You wonder what any of this must have felt like for the tiny life growing inside you. Whether your racing heartbeat had become theirs. Whether they somehow felt every sleepless hour, every terrified thought, every moment you spent convinced they might grow up without ever knowing their father.
The thought hurts more than you expect. Quietly, almost unconsciously, you press your palm a little more firmly against your stomach.
I'm sorry.
The apology remains trapped inside your head.
“Are you okay? Did- did something happen?”, Gun-woo insists, his sore body tensing up watching you touching your stomach, already thinking the worst.
"The baby is fine." you answer quietly, taking a deep breath while trying to organize your thoughts.
Gun-woo closes his eyes. Relief hits hard enough to make his chest ache.
Thank God.
Thank God.
When he opens his eyes again, you're still standing by the window, still not looking at him. Slowly, carefully, he says your name. Nothing. Long seconds pass and still nothing.
Finally, you let out a laugh. The sound makes every instinct in his body sit up immediately. He's heard that laugh before, usually right before a conversation goes very, very badly.
"You know," you say quietly, still staring out the window, "I spent the entire night trying to decide whether I wanted to hug you or strangle you, if you woke up."
And suddenly, for the first time since waking up, he finds himself wishing he'd stayed unconscious a little longer.
The silence that follows settles heavily over the room.
For a few seconds neither of you says anything. The monitor beside his bed continues its steady rhythm, indifferent to the tension stretching between you, while sunlight slowly creeps further across the floor, filling the space with a warmth that feels entirely out of place. Gun-woo watches you from where he lies, taking in details he hadn't fully registered when he first woke up. The dark circles beneath your eyes. The untouched cup of coffee sitting on the table near the window, cold now, abandoned hours ago.
"Come here."
The request leaves him quietly, almost without thought. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't have needed to ask. You would already be sitting beside him, probably scolding him for trying to move too much or asking questions the doctors had already answered three separate times. Instead, you remain where you are, your gaze fixed stubbornly somewhere beyond the glass. The pause stretches long enough that he briefly wonders whether you're going to ignore him completely.
Then your shoulders rise with a slow breath. Gun-woo lowers his gaze briefly.
Whatever is waiting for him isn't anger in its simplest form. It isn't the kind that burns hot and disappears quickly. This is heavier than that, it is fear that has been left alone for too long, given hours and hours to grow unchecked until it has wrapped itself around everything else.
"You didn't even ask me."
The words leave you quietly, almost by accident.
For a moment, nothing changes. The room remains exactly as it was a second ago, washed in pale morning light and the steady rhythm of machines that seem entirely too calm for the conversation unfolding inside it. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattles across the floor. A nurse laughs at something you can't hear. Life continues with a normalcy that feels almost offensive.
Gun-woo stares at you from the hospital bed. Confusion flickers across his face first.
"Ask you what?"
Suddenly you don't know where to begin. How do you explain something that isn't really anger? How do you explain the hollow ache that's been sitting in your chest since the warehouse? The resentment that refuses to settle because every time you try to be angry at him, you remember why he did it?
Your gaze drifts toward the window, toward anything except him.
"Whether I wanted to leave."
The answer comes out softer than you intended. Exhaustion has stripped away most of the fight by now, all that's left is honesty. A bitter smile touches your lips.
"I know why you did it."
Something shifts in his expression immediately, not quite relief but something close to it, because of course you know, you always knew. That was never the problem. You shake your head before he can interrupt, your throat tightening painfully.
"That's what makes it so frustrating."
Your voice cracks around the words, and you fold your arms tighter across your chest as the cold of the room suddenly settles into your bones. Understanding should make things easier, but somehow it only makes everything worse.
"I understand. I know you were trying to save me. I know you looked at that situation and thought it was the only way."
The words come carefully, as if you're handling something fragile. When you look at him again, all you can see are the bruises, the stitches, the proof of what that decision cost him. Your chest aches so sharply that you have to glance away for a moment. Even now, seeing him like this hurts more than you can put into words.
"I know you would've done anything to get me out of there. But… you never stopped to think about what you were asking me to do."
His expression falters, just enough for you to notice. Your eyes burn, exhaustion and grief blurring together.
"You made the decision like it was obvious. You looked at me and decided that if one of us had to walk away, it would be me."
Something tightens in his jaw, but you keep going because if you stop now, you'll never finish.
"And maybe that was the right choice. I don't know. I honestly don't know anymore."
A broken laugh escapes you as you blink against the tears threatening to fall.
"I just know that you decided I could survive losing you."
The silence that follows feels enormous. You've finally reached the truth buried beneath all the anger, the fear, and the endless hours spent beside his hospital bed waiting for him to wake up.
"I sat beside that bed imagining a future where our baby never met you. I kept thinking about what I would tell them. What stories would I tell?”
A tear slips down your cheek, and this time you don't bother wiping it away. Gun-woo can only stare at you, as though every word is landing somewhere he never expected it to.
When your eyes finally meet his again, the anger is gone, leaving only the truth behind.
"I know you were trying to save me, but did you ever stop and think about what surviving without you would've looked like for me?"
The question hangs between you, quiet and devastating. This isn't about the warehouse anymore, or the fight, or Baek-jeon. It's about the fact that Gun-woo was willing to die for you and never once stopped to consider that you would've been the one left behind to live with it.
“You never stopped to think that maybe I would’ve chosen you too.”
Gun-woo could only stare. You watched the realization hit him in real time, watched confusion give way to something fragile and devastating. His gaze dropped immediately, one hand dragging roughly across his face as if he could wipe away the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. A shaky breath escaped him, then another. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded strained, almost desperate.
“You couldn’t,” he whispered. “You couldn’t choose me.”
You frowned, not understanding. “What are you talking about?”
Gun-woo shook his head, wincing from the pain the movement caused, but he barely seemed to notice. His eyes were already shining with tears. “You’re pregnant,” he said, the words breaking apart as they left him. “You’re carrying our baby.”
“You don’t understand,” he continued, his eyes red with tears.
“When I saw you there, all I could think about was getting you out.” His voice caught, and he swallowed hard. “You were scared, I knew you were scared. And all I could think was that they would hurt you. They would hurt our baby. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t.”
The confession tore out of him raw and unfiltered, and your own eyes filled immediately.
Until now, every fear Gun-woo had carried since that day had been pointed in one direction. Toward you, toward the baby. Toward the future that had almost been taken from him before he'd even had the chance to touch it.
In his mind, the choice had always felt simple, no matter how much it hurt. If protecting you meant risking himself, then there was no choice at all. There never had been. He would have made it again and again without hesitation, because the thought of something happening to either of you had been unbearable. The thought of losing you had followed him into every nightmare, every dark corner of his mind, every moment he had spent staring down men who wanted to use the people he loved against him. That fear had been with him for so long that it had become part of him.
Tears spilled freely down his face now, unchecked and relentless, and for once Gun-woo made no attempt to hide them. There was no embarrassment left in him, no instinct to pull himself together. Everything he had spent days holding back, every moment of fear he had swallowed down because there had always been something more important to focus on, came rushing out all at once. The helplessness he had felt standing in that warehouse knowing there was no perfect choice. The horror of realizing just how close he had come to never seeing either of you again.
And underneath all of it was love. So much love that it hurt. Love that had driven every decision he'd made.
“I’m sorry, (Y/n)”, he practically beggs, defeat filling his voice. “I’m so sorry-”.
As you look at Gun-woo sitting there in front of you, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs, you realize you can't stand another second of being this far away from him.
You cross the room in a rush, your feet carrying you forward so quickly it's almost a stumble. All you know is that you've spent the last days terrified of losing him. You've spent the whole night imagining an empty bed, and futures that didn't include him. You've imagined every terrible possibility your mind could create. And now he's here, alive, breathing, looking at you, crying because he loves you so much it hurts. The distance between you suddenly feels unbearable.
"Hey, hey..." you whisper, your voice breaking before you can stop it.
Gun-woo looks up just as you reach him and sink down beside the bed. Without thinking, you pull him toward you, and Gun-woo comes immediately, like he's been fighting the urge to do exactly that since the moment he woke up.
His forehead presses against yours, and suddenly neither of you is speaking anymore. Words no longer seem necessary. You're simply there together, breathing the same air, crying the same tears, holding onto each other like survivors who have finally found their way home. Your eyes drift closed, and his do too.
For a long moment, the entire world shrinks down to this single point in time, the warmth of his skin beneath your hands, the trembling breaths leaving his lungs, the feeling of his fingers finding yours and holding on tightly, and the overwhelming, almost painful relief of knowing that he's here. Still here. Still yours.
You don’t notice who moves first. Only that somehow you're both leaning closer, drawn together until there is no space left between you at all. The smell of his skin instantly makes you calm down.
"You're here," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. They sound small, fragile, almost disbelieving.
Gun-woo lets out a shaky breath. One of his hands rises to cover yours where it rests against his cheek, holding it there as though he needs the reassurance that you're real too. "I'm here."
His voice sounds wrecked, like every emotion he's been forcing down has finally surfaced all at once. You nod, then immediately shake your head as fresh tears blur your vision. A watery laugh escapes you, surprising even yourself. Maybe you're overwhelmed. Maybe you're relieved. Maybe after everything that happened, you still can't quite believe this moment is real.
"You scared me so much."
The words crack apart as they leave your lips, and Gun-woo's face crumples all over again.
"I'm sorry."
The apology comes instantly, instinctively, but you shake your head and press your forehead more firmly against his. Your fingers slide gently into his hair, combing through the dark strands in a familiar gesture you've repeated countless times before.
"No," you whisper softly. "It's over."
His breathing catches, and you feel it.
"It's over. We're here."
A soft, broken sound escapes him before his gaze drops slowly, almost hesitantly, toward your stomach. The movement is so small you nearly miss it, but the moment you notice, your chest tightens. Of course he's thinking about the baby too. The tiny life caught in the middle of all this. The tiny life he'd been trying so desperately to protect.
Fresh tears immediately fill his eyes. Then, with a care that makes your heart ache, Gun-woo lowers himself. His arms slide around your waist and around your stomach, and suddenly he's holding both of you. Holding you with a desperation so profound it steals the breath from your lungs.
His face presses against your bump, his eyes squeezing shut, and for several long seconds he can't speak at all. You feel his shoulders trembling beneath your hands. Feel the way he clings to you as though he's reassuring himself that you're real, that the baby is real, that he didn't lose either of you. Your fingers disappear into his hair automatically, stroking gently through the dark strands. The gesture is instinctive, comforting him the same way he's comforted you so many times before.
A tear slips down your cheek, then another. Your hand settles protectively over the place where he's holding your stomach, where your child is growing, where your future still exists. Your words come naturally then, soft enough to be almost a whisper.
"Hi, my love."
Your smile trembles as fresh tears gather in your eyes.
"Daddy's back."
Gu-woo’s arms tighten around you. For several seconds he simply buries his face against you, overwhelmed by emotions too large to fit inside him.
Then, finally, he lifts his head just enough to speak. His hand spreads carefully across your stomach, protective, gentle, reverent. When he speaks, his voice is shaking, raw and thick with tears, but steady in the way promises are steady.
"I'm here," he whispers. He takes another breath, another tear slipping free. "I promise I'm here."
His eyes close again before he continues, his thumb brushing slowly across your stomach as though he's already trying to memorize the shape of the life growing there.
"I won't leave you."
The words are directed at the baby, but somehow they feel meant for both of you.
"I won't leave you or your mom ever again," he says, his voice breaking completely. A sob catches in his throat, but he keeps going anyway, speaking through the tears, through the fear, through the love. "I promise."
His forehead comes to rest against your stomach once more, his arms tightening around both of you as though he never intends to let go again.
As you continue stroking his hair, tears slipping quietly down your own face, you find yourself looking upward for a moment, toward nothing in particular and toward everything all at once. You silently thank God, fate, or whoever might be listening. Because somehow, against every nightmare that had threatened to take this future away from you, you're back in each other's arms.
When the tears finally begin to settle, you pull back just enough to look at him properly. Your gaze drifts over the bruises scattered across his face, and despite everything, a laugh escapes you.
"What?" Gun-woo asks, immediately suspicious.
You shake your head.
"It's actually annoying."
His brow furrows. "What is?"
"The fact that you look like that and you're still handsome."
For a second, he simply stares before a surprised laugh breaks free. The smile that follows reaches his eyes, softening his entire face and making him blush, despite every bruise and stitch still healing there.
You point at him immediately.
"See? That's exactly what I'm talking about."
His laughter only grows, warm and genuine, and for the first time all day, no one is crying.
Later, when the room has finally gone quiet, you settle carefully against his side, your head resting on his chest while his arm wraps securely around you. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat fills the silence between you, familiar and comforting in a way that makes something deep inside your chest finally relax.
With your hand resting over his and his heartbeat beneath your ear, sleep finds you long before you're ready for it. And this time, you let it.
-
-
-
The first few days after Gun-woo comes home are strange in a way neither of you quite knows how to talk about. On paper, everything is improving. The bruises covering his body are finally beginning to fade, turning dull shades of yellow and green instead of the angry purple that had greeted you every morning in the hospital. The stitches no longer look quite so severe. The doctors are satisfied with his recovery. You are sleeping through the night again.
Little by little, the house begins settling back into routines that once felt so ordinary you barely noticed them: shared meals around the table, television playing quietly in the evenings, Woo-jin helping himself to food and pretending he hadn't.
The problem is that Gun-woo never seems to settle with the rest of it.
At first, it's easy to dismiss. Nobody expects him to bounce back immediately after everything that happened. You certainly don't. But as the days pass, certain things become impossible to ignore.
He checks the locks every night before bed, then checks them again a few minutes later. Whenever you leave a room, his eyes follow you automatically, tracking your movements until you're out of sight. If you take longer than expected coming back from somewhere, he notices. Every single time. More than once, you've caught him staring at you with a strange intensity, as though reassuring himself that you're still there. When you ask what's wrong, he always offers the same answer, accompanied by a small shake of his head and an attempt at a smile.
"Nothing."
It's never nothing and of course Woo-jin notices. He's known Gun-woo for too long not to.
The realization finally comes one afternoon while you're upstairs taking a shower. Nothing unusual. The television murmurs quietly from the living room while Woo-jin scrolls through his phone, only half paying attention to whatever is on the screen. At some point, he realizes the room has become suspiciously quiet. Looking up, he discovers Gun-woo is no longer sitting beside him.
It takes only a few seconds to find him, standing in the hallway, just outside the bathroom door.
Woo-jin watches him for a moment before lowering his phone.
"What are you doing?"
Gun-woo glances over immediately, almost as though he'd forgotten anyone else was in the house.
"Nothing."
Woo-jin lets out a short laugh.
"Bullshit."
A frown immediately settles across Gun-woo's face.
"What?"
"You've been standing there for at least five minutes."
"I have not."
"You absolutely have."
The denial might have been convincing if Gun-woo's attention hadn't immediately flickered back toward the bathroom door before returning to him. The movement lasts less than a second, but it tells Woo-jin everything he needs to know. A slow understanding begins settling into place, accompanied by a growing sense of concern.
"She can take a shower by herself, you know."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
Behind the closed door, water continues running steadily. The house is quiet, perfectly safe. The sort of afternoon neither of them would have thought twice about a few months ago. And yet Gun-woo still looks tense, his shoulders tight beneath his shirt, his attention divided between Woo-jin and the sound of water on the other side of the wall.
Finally, Woo-jin exhales.
"You're acting like she's going to disappear.”
Gun-woo looks away. The movement is small enough that most people would've missed it, but Woo-jin doesn't.
"She almost did."
For a moment, neither of them says anything. Gun-woo's gaze remains fixed somewhere beyond the hallway, beyond the walls of the house, somewhere much farther away.
"I keep thinking about it," he admits after a while, his voice carrying a kind of exhaustion that has nothing to do with physical recovery. "What if we'd gotten there later? What if Baek-jeon changed his mind? What if we couldn't get to her?"
He cuts himself off before finishing the thought, but he doesn't need to continue.
Woo-jin already knows how the sentence ends. What if she'd died? What if the baby had? What if he'd lost everything? The possibilities remain unspoken, lingering heavily between them.
Gun-woo drags a hand across his face.
"I know she's safe," he says quietly. Frustration flashes briefly across his expression.
"So why does it still feel like I need to check?"
The question sounds genuine. Confused. As though some part of him keeps reacting before the rest of his mind can catch up. Woo-jin studies him for a long moment before finally shaking his head.
"Because you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"Sure."
"I'm not."
Woo-jin almost laughs.
Instead, he folds his arms across his chest.
"You got beaten half to death. Your pregnant girlfriend got kidnapped. You almost lost both of them."
The words land one after another, impossible to dodge.
"You'd be insane if you weren't scared. I think, maybe… a part of you is still trapped in that warehouse."
For the first time since the conversation started, Gun-woo doesn't answer.
“I know it was awful. Sometimes, even I have flashbacks to those moments. But we gotta remember it’s over.”
Woo-jin watches him for a moment longer before pushing himself away from the wall and stepping closer. Gun-woo doesn't look up, and he doesn't seem to notice until Woo-jin's hand settles firmly on his shoulder. The contact is simple but steady.
For a few seconds, they are silent. Then Woo-jin gives his shoulder a small squeeze.
"You don't have to keep saving her," he says quietly. Gun-woo lets out a tired breath.
Woo-jin's expression softens as he keeps his hand where it is. "She's safe," he says gently.
"She's home. And she's not going anywhere."
Gun-woo's jaw tightens slightly, and Woo-jin understands why. Some fears don't disappear just because they're irrational, and some scars linger long after the wounds themselves have healed. Even so, he keeps talking.
"And even if something ever happens again, you won't be dealing with it alone."
That finally gets Gun-woo to look at him. Woo-jin meets his gaze without hesitation, his hand still resting on his shoulder.
"You've got me," he says. "Whatever comes next, I'll be there. For her. For the baby. For you."
Woo-jin gives him one last squeeze before letting his hand fall away.
"You think I'll ever let something happen to my niece or nephew?" he asks, snorting softly as though the very idea is ridiculous. "Nah. Over my dead body."
The words settle somewhere deep inside Gun-woo, slipping past all the fear and guilt and anxiety he's been carrying for weeks and finding a place he hadn't realized needed the reassurance quite so badly. He stares at Woo-jin for a second, and something in his expression softens completely.
His eyes sting unexpectedly.
"Thank you, hyung."
Woo-jin glances at him.
"For what?"
"For always being here."
His gaze drops briefly toward her stomach in his imagination, toward the future that still feels so new he barely knows what to do with it.
"You'll be the best uncle."
For a second, Woo-jin just looks at him.
Then something unmistakably proud flashes across his face.
"Obviously. If this kid likes me more than you, don't get jealous."
Gun-woo immediately scoffs.
"Impossible."
Woo-jin nods thoughtfully.
"Yeah, they'll probably like Grandma more than both of us."
They both agree and laugh, like nothing bad has ever happened.
Gun-woo’s arms suddenly tighten around Woo-jin instinctively, emotion catching him off guard as the reality of everything settles heavily in his chest.
"Seriously... thank you," he murmured, his voice rough with sincerity. Woo-jin immediately reached up and squeezed the back of his neck, the familiar gesture grounding him the same way it always had.
"You don't have to thank me," he replied firmly.
When Gun-woo started to argue, Woo-jin simply shook his head. To him, there had never been anything remarkable about showing up for Gun-woo, not in the gym, not in the streets, not in that warehouse.
"That's my family too," he said quietly.
Gun-woo found himself closing his eyes for a moment as gratitude and relief washed through him. Family had once meant only his mother. Now it meant something much bigger: you, their baby, and the brother standing in his arms.
The bathroom door opened before either of them had fully recovered from the conversation. You stepped into the hallway, still drying your hair with a towel, only to stop when you noticed the strange expressions on both their faces. Gun-woo looked suspiciously emotional. Woo-jin wasn't meeting anyone's eyes, and they were standing just a little too close to each other. A grin immediately spread across your face.
"...Were you both crying?"
The reaction was instant.
"What?" Gun-woo blurted out.
"No," Woo-jin answered at the same time.
You stared at them for a second before your grin widened. Neither of them looked remotely convincing. Gun-woo's eyes were still slightly red, and when you pointed it out, he immediately rubbed at them in a failed attempt to hide the evidence. The more they denied it, the more suspicious they looked, until eventually you started laughing.
"Hm," you hummed as you walked over and settled naturally beside Gun-woo. His arm wrapped around your shoulders immediately, automatic and familiar. "I leave you two alone for twenty minutes and suddenly you're having emotional bonding time."
"We were not," they both insisted.
"You hugged, didn't you?"
The silence that followed answered the question before either of them could.
Your jaw dropped. "Oh my God, you did."
Woo-jin groaned while Gun-woo immediately started laughing, and within seconds all three of you were laughing together. The sound filled the hallway, warm and easy and wonderfully ordinary, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was no danger waiting around the corner. Just home.
As Gun-woo pulled you a little closer against his side, listening to your laughter mix with Woo-jin's, he found himself thinking that maybe this was what moving forward finally looked like. Finding his way back to moments like this, one ordinary day at a time.
─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────
💌 tagging all my lovelies who left comments on part 2: @art03101 @satorustorm @jisoonnieslover @yoongishawtyyy @meiisamotherbitch @shamidreamer @practicalmagiick @miacullenstark @jaidawouldneva @ayookeikooo @blkbaecrimsonx @hsqvdk @revenger-barnes @hollxe1 @butter-scout @vonpeachy @nnkento
Pairing: Kim Gun-woo x Pregnant! Reader
Word count: 6.5k
Summary: Gun-woo comes to save you.
Instead, he’s forced to make a deal.
Warnings: kidnapping, hostage situation, mentions of pregnancy, violence
a/n: thank you for all the love on part 1, to every one of you that reblogged, liked and left such lovely comments 🤍
i wasn’t planning on continuing this, but your messages genuinely pushed me to come back to it! enjoy the pain!! heheh
☆ you can read part 1 here and part 3 here
─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────
A month passes in a way that feels almost deceptive, not because time moves quickly, but because nothing happens, and that absence slowly reshapes the way you breathe, the way you exist inside the space that once felt too exposed to relax in. The house begins to feel like yours again, where mornings come with soft light through the windows and evenings settle without that constant, suffocating anticipation of something going wrong. The tension doesn’t disappear entirely, not for any of you, but it dulls, softens at the edges, instead of sitting heavy in your chest at all times.
Gun-woo still checks the locks before bed, but the sharpness in him has eased just enough that you notice when he relaxes beside you, when his shoulders drop slightly. Woo-jin adapts in his own way, less visibly, but no less carefully, his awareness still there, still constant, just no longer wound as tight as it had been before. And you, without fully realizing when it happens, start to believe that maybe the worst has already passed, that maybe whatever had been building has stalled, or shifted, or simply lost interest.
That belief settles in quietly, built on routine more than certainty.
That evening feels like proof of it.
The house is warm, the kind of comfortable warmth that comes from sunlight lingering just long enough through the windows, settling into the furniture, into the quiet hum of the space. You’re in the kitchen, rinsing a glass absentmindedly, your movements slow, your mind somewhere softer than it’s been in weeks. In the living room, the television plays low, more background noise than anything else, while Gun-woo sits on the couch, one arm draped along the back, his posture relaxed in a way that would have been impossible not long ago. Woo-jin leans against the counter, scrolling through his phone, occasionally glancing up, present without needing to be fully engaged.
It feels normal. Suspiciously, dangerously normal.
And then his phone rings.
The sound cuts through the room sharply, snapping something in the air that had just begun to settle. Gunwoo reaches for it immediately, the ease draining out of his body in an instant as his focus narrows.
“…Hello?” he answers, his voice already lower, more controlled.
You don’t think much of it at first. Calls happen. Life doesn’t stop entirely just because yours has been on edge.
“What?” The word comes out sharper than expected, his brows pulling together, his entire body tensing slightly. “What do you mean she’s in the hospital?”
Your hand stills in the sink.
Woo-jin looks up immediately.
Gun-woo stands, already pacing, running a hand through his hair as he listens, his breathing changing in a way that makes your chest tighten without fully understanding why yet. “When did this happen? Is she–”, he stops, listening again, his jaw tightening. “Which hospital?”
He grabs a pen from the table, writing quickly, his movements restless now, urgent in a way that shifts the entire mood of the room.
“…We’re coming,” he says, and ends the call.
“What happened?” you ask, turning fully toward him now, the glass forgotten in your hand.
“My mom,” he says, too quickly, like the words are trying to catch up to the situation. “They said she collapsed. She’s unconscious.”
Your stomach drops. “Do they know why?”
He shakes his head once. “No. They just said to get there.”
Woo-jin pushes off the counter, his expression sharpening slightly, though he keeps his tone even. “Who called?”
“Hospital,” Gun-woo replies without hesitation. “They had her name, her information. It sounded legit.”
Something flickers in Woo-jin’s gaze, something uncertain, something that doesn’t fully settle, but Gun-woo is already moving, grabbing his jacket, his keys, his focus locked somewhere else entirely now.
“We need to go,” he says.
You step forward instinctively. “I’m coming with you.”
Gun-woo shakes his head immediately. “No.”
The firmness of it surprises you.
“It’s faster if we just go,” he adds quickly, softer now, but no less certain. “We’ll check on her and come back.”
You hesitate, your chest tightening slightly. “Gun-woo—”
“I’ll call you,” he insists, stepping closer, his hands briefly finding your arms, grounding, reassuring. “Okay? Just stay here. Lock the door.”
Woo-jin watches the exchange, his jaw tightening slightly, but he doesn’t argue, not yet.
“Keep your phone on,” Gun-woo adds, his gaze searching yours like he needs you to agree, like he needs one thing to stay controlled in the middle of everything else.
You nod, even though something doesn’t sit right, something small and persistent pressing at the back of your mind.
“Okay.”
They leave quickly after that, the urgency carrying them out before the moment has time to settle properly, the door closing behind them with a finality that lingers longer than it should.
----
The silence that follows feels different.
You stand there for a moment, staring at the door after it shuts, your hand still resting lightly against your arm where Gun-woo had been holding you, the warmth of his touch fading too quickly. The house feels larger now, emptier in a way that doesn’t match how it felt just minutes ago, the quiet stretching further than it should, settling into the corners like something has shifted without permission.
It’s nothing, you tell yourself. They’ll be back soon.
You move slowly back into the living room, trying to settle into something familiar, but the air feels off, heavier somehow, the background noise from the television no longer comforting but distracting. You lower yourself onto the couch, your phone resting in your hand now, your thumb hovering over the screen like you’re waiting for it to light up, for his name to appear, for something to confirm that everything is fine.
Minutes pass. You exhale, shifting slightly, trying to ignore the unease settling in your chest.
And then, you hear a sound. Subtle. But not part of the house.
Your head lifts immediately, your body going still as your ears strain to catch it again, your heart already beginning to pick up its pace. It’s not loud enough to identify, not clear enough to place, but it’s there, something out of rhythm with the rest of the space.
You stand slowly, your grip tightening around your phone.
“Gun-woo?” you call out, even though you know he isn’t there.
You take a step forward. Your breath quieter, your movements slower, more careful, your attention narrowing toward the hallway, toward the source of something you can’t yet see.
Your chest tightens, and before you can react the door behind you bursts open.
You don’t even have time to turn fully before someone is on you, a force hitting you from behind hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs, your body lurching forward as a hand clamps over your mouth, cutting off the scream that tries to tear its way out of your chest.
“Don’t,” a voice murmurs low against your ear, steady, controlled, like this is nothing more than a task.
You fight immediately.
Instinct takes over, your hands clawing at his arm, your body twisting sharply, your heel slamming back with as much force as you can manage, catching him just enough to make him shift, but is not enough.
Another presence moves in, faster this time, stronger, your arms pinned before you can react again, your body restrained completely as a wet cloth presses against your nose.
“No-!” the word barely forms, muffled against his hand, your vision blurring as panic spikes too quickly, too hard.
Your phone slips from your hand, hitting the floor with a sharp crack that echoes louder than anything else.
“Easy,” the voice says again, firmer now. “It’ll be over faster if you stop.”
You keep fighting, even as your movements weaken, even as your lungs struggle for air, even as your vision starts to dim at the edges.
Gun-woo. The thought hits just as everything slips. You feel your senses drifting away.
And then— Darkness.
----
Across the city, the fluorescent lights of the hospital feel too artificial, the kind that makes everything look colder than it is. Gun-woo barely registers it as he steps up to the front desk, his breath still uneven from the rush, the urgency that hasn’t left his body since the call. He gives his mother’s name quickly, his voice tight with restrained panic, waiting for the confirmation that will ground everything again.
But it doesn’t come.
The nurse frowns slightly as she checks the system, her fingers moving across the keyboard with practiced ease before she pauses, glancing back up at him. “I’m sorry,” she says, polite but certain. “We don’t have anyone admitted under that name.”
For a second, Gun-woo doesn’t react.
“What?” he asks, quieter this time, like if he says it differently it’ll make more sense.
She shakes her head. “There’s no record.”
Woo-jin steps forward immediately, his expression sharpening, his gaze flicking around the space like he’s looking for something that isn’t visible, something that’s already clicked into place in his mind before the rest of it has caught up.
“…Gun-woo,” he says slowly.
And that’s when it hits. The call, the urgency. the timing, all of this. It was probably just bait.
Gun-woo’s stomach drops so violently it almost makes him dizzy, his hand already moving, pulling his phone out with a sudden, desperate urgency as he dials your number. It rings.
Once. Twice. Three times.
No answer.
“Pick up,” he mutters under his breath, like you can hear him, like saying it will force the call through.
But it doesn’t. The line goes dead.
Something cold spreads through his chest, sharp and immediate, stealing the air from his lungs in a way that feels terrifyingly familiar.
Woo-jin is already moving. “We need to go. Now.”
Gun-woo doesn’t argue, because he already knows. By the time they reach the car, his hands are shaking.
The engine starts, his heart is already racing ahead of them, back to the house, back to you, back to the moment he left you alone. For the first time in weeks, the fear isn’t distant. It’s real.
----
The house feels wrong the second they step inside.
Gun-woo notices it immediately, not in a way he can name at first, but in the way the air sits too still, too empty, like something has already been taken out of it. His eyes move fast, scanning, catching details out of order—the chair knocked over near the hallway, the faint scuff marks along the floor, the door frame splintered just enough to tell a story he doesn’t want to hear.
“—No,no,no” he breathes, the words slipping out before he can stop it, already moving, already searching like if he moves fast enough he might undo it.
“Gun-woo,” Woo-jin says, sharper now, stepping in behind him, his gaze locking onto the same details, processing them faster, colder. “She’s not here.”
Gun-woo doesn’t answer. He can’t.
He’s already in the living room, already seeing it—the phone on the floor, the cracked screen still faintly lit, the call log open to his name.
His chest tightens so violently it almost hurts.
“She tried…,” he says, his voice low, breaking at the edges. “She tried to call me.”
Woo-jin crouches beside it, picking the phone up carefully, his expression tightening as he scans it quickly, his mind already moving ahead.
A moment passes. And suddenly, Gun-woo’s phone vibrates.
The sound cuts through the room like a blade. Both of them freeze. Unknown number. Then Gun-woo answers.
“…What did you do?” he demands immediately, his voice low, controlled, but shaking underneath.
There’s a pause on the other end before a calm, almost amused voice responds.
“I was wondering how long it would take you, you motherfucker.”
“Where is she?”
Woo-jin steps closer, listening carefully, trying to catch anything.
Gun-woo’s breathing slows down, like everything in him has just locked into place.
“What do you want?” he asks.
A soft exhale comes through the line, almost satisfied.
“I want you to come get her.”
A trap that doesn’t pretend to be anything else.
Woo-jin’s jaw tightens. “Don’t— ” he starts under his breath.
But Gun-woo already knows.
“Where,” he says.
As the location settles into the space between them, something shifts in Gun-woo completely, because now there’s a place, a direction, to get to you. Nothing else mattered.
The line goes dead and neither of them speaks for a second.
Woo-jin exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a setup.”
“I know.”
“You walk in like that, you’re playing his game. You know he wants you to join IKFC.”
Gun-woo grabs his keys.
“I don’t care. Let’s go.”
----
Consciousness returns in fragments, slow and disjointed, like your body is hesitant to fully wake up to whatever reality is waiting for you. At first, it’s just sensation, the cold beneath you, hard and unforgiving, seeping through your clothes and into your bones, followed by the dull, persistent ache in your head that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Then comes the awareness of your body, heavy, uncooperative, your limbs slower than they should be, your breathing uneven as it begins to pick up without your permission.
Your eyes open abruptly, your breath catching as panic rises too quickly, too sharply, your chest tightening as your gaze struggles to focus on the space around you. The room is unfamiliar, bare in a way that feels intentional. Concrete walls stretching out in dull, muted tones, the air thick and stale, carrying that faint metallic scent that makes your stomach turn the moment you notice it. The lighting is dim, uneven, flickering faintly above you, casting shadows that make everything feel more closed in than it actually is.
You try to move, but pain answers immediately.
Your wrists pull harshly against restraints you didn’t realize were there, bound behind you in a position that forces your shoulders back at an uncomfortable angle, the strain already settled deep into your muscles. Your ankles are secured too, limiting what little movement you have, grounding you in place in a way that makes your pulse spike all over again.
You swallow hard, your throat dry, your mind scrambling to catch up, to understand without spiraling, because spiraling means losing control, and losing control means–
“Awake.”
The voice cuts through everything. Your entire body goes still.
Slowly, carefully, you lift your head, forcing your vision to steady as you look toward him, your pulse hammering so hard it feels like it might give you away even if you don’t move at all.
Im Baek-jeon stands a few feet away, composed in a way that immediately sets him apart from the men who took you, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable, like this is exactly where he expected to be. There is no rush in him, no visible aggression, just quiet control, the kind that feels far more dangerous because of how little effort it seems to require.
You don’t speak right away, you don’t move. Because the first instinct that rises in you, to snap back, to push, to provoke, is the one you cannot follow.
Your jaw tightens instead, your breathing still uneven but quieter now, controlled, your gaze steadying on him even as your body remains tense.
“You’re awake sooner than I expected,” he continues, his tone serious, revealing his lack of patience. You swallow again before answering, your voice rough, but measured, quieter than it would have been before.
“…What do you want?”
“You already know the answer to that,” he replies.
His gaze drops then. Not to your face, but lower, and something in the room shifts immediately. You feel it before you fully understand it, the way his attention lingers, the way his expression changes enough that your entire body goes still.
“…Interesting,” he murmurs.
Your stomach clenches instinctively. Your posture shifts without permission, your body pulling inward again, subtle but enough. Enough for him to see it. Baek-jeon’s eyes lift back to yours slowly, something sharper now behind them, something more focused, more deliberate.
“…I was wondering,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “If it was just a rumor.”
Your pulse spikes. You don’t answer. You don’t move.
“Two months?” he guesses, his tone too casual for the weight of the words. “Maybe less.”
“Shut up,” you snap, the reaction immediate, unfiltered, your voice cracking with something you can’t fully contain this time.
“You shouldn’t have done that” he says quietly.
Your brow tightens slightly despite yourself. “…Done what?”
He takes his time answering, like he wants the words to settle properly before he gives them to you.
“Given him something else to lose.”
Your fingers curl hard against the restraints, your shoulders tightening as your entire posture shifts forward despite the way it pulls painfully at your arms.
“…Don’t.” you say, your voice low at first, strained, like you’re holding something back with effort.
“Don’t what?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, like he genuinely wants to hear you say it.
Your breath comes faster now, uneven, your control slipping at the edges despite everything you told yourself just minutes ago, despite the careful restraint you had been holding onto.
“Don’t talk about it like that,” you snap, louder now, your voice breaking through the space with something raw behind it, something protective, something that refuses to stay contained anymore.
“Like what?” he presses, harder now, like he’s testing if you are really raising your voice to him in that moment.
“Like it’s something you can use,” you fire back, the words coming faster now, sharper, your composure cracking open under the weight of it.
“I can,” he interrupts.
“No,” you fire back, the word breaking out of you sharper than you intended, your composure slipping despite everything you had been holding onto, despite the careful restraint you knew you needed. “No, you don’t get to stand there and talk about it like that, like it’s something you can use, like it’s just another move for you—”
You don’t even realize how far you’ve leaned forward until the chair scrapes harshly against the concrete beneath you, your body straining against the restraints, your shoulders pulling tight as the ropes bite into your wrists, the instinct to shut him down overriding the caution you had clung to moments before.
Baek-jeon doesn’t step back this time. He gets up and closes the distance between you two.
His hand tangles into your hair without warning, fingers curling tight at the base of your scalp before you can react, before you can pull away, and then he yanks hard, forcing your head back at an angle that sends a sharp, blinding pain shooting down your spine, a gasp tearing out of your chest before you can stop it. The movement is controlled but unforgiving, precise in the way it asserts dominance, in the way it leaves no space for resistance, your entire body going rigid under the sudden force.
“I don’t like that tone, you bitch” he says quietly, his voice closer now, lower, the calmness in it somehow worse than if he had raised it.
Your hands instinctively tense behind you, fingers curling uselessly against the restraints as your body tries to follow the pull, to relieve the pressure, but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to shift, your breath coming faster now despite your effort to control it.“
You were doing well,” he continues, his grip tightening just slightly, enough to make your vision blur at the edges, enough to remind you exactly how little control you have here.
Your jaw clenches, your chest rising unevenly as you try to steady your breathing, try to force the panic back down where it won’t make things worse, where it won’t make him push further.
“And then you ruined it,” he adds.
“I’m not scared of you,” you manage, the words strained, pulled from you despite the position he has you in, despite the way your body is already reacting, already betraying you.
“But you should be.”
His hand releases your hair only to strike across your face in the same motion, the impact sharp and immediate, snapping your head violently to the side as pain explodes across your cheek, the force of it sending your entire body jerking against the chair, the legs scraping harshly against the floor as the restraints cut into your skin.
Sound disappears for a second and is replaced by ringing and the metallic taste flooding your mouth as your vision blurs and struggles to refocus.
Your head hangs slightly, your chest rising and falling too fast, your cheek throbbing where he struck you, heat blooming under your skin as your body struggles to recalibrate, to ground itself again.
“Ple-please, don’t hurt me”, you say, finally breaking, now imagining all the possible ways this kind of impact could have on your body and on the tiny, helpless life growing inside of you.
A faint, almost satisfied smile touches his lips.
“That will depend on your stupid boyfriend. For your sake, he better be very smart.”
Before you can recover, a sound cuts through the space.
It’s distant at first, just enough to be wrong.
Baek-jeon pauses, his attention shifting for the first time, enough that the change is noticeable, and your entire body stills. Your breath catching as something sharp and electric runs through your chest, because you hear it too now, clearer this time, the unmistakable crash of something breaking somewhere deeper in the building, followed by voices that don’t belong to this place.
Baek-jeon’s head tilts slightly, listening, his expression tightening just a fraction as he processes it, and that’s when it hits you. He’s here.
The next sound is closer, louder, a door slamming open with enough force to echo through the walls, followed by the heavy impact of a body hitting the ground and the sharp, cut-off noise of someone losing the fight faster than they expected. Your pulse spikes violently, your breath coming faster now despite everything you’ve been trying to control, because hope is louder than fear in that moment, overwhelming and dangerous and impossible to contain.
“…So soon,” Baek-jeon murmurs, quieter now, though there’s something different in his tone, something more alert, more calculating. He finally steps back from you, his attention pulling away for the first time since you woke up in this place, and the distance should feel like relief, but it doesn’t, not when everything is escalating this quickly, not when you don’t know how this ends.
Another crash follows, closer still, and then, the door behind him explodes inward.
The force of it splinters the frame, the sound violent and abrupt as it fills the room, and for a fraction of a second everything freezes, the moment stretching thin before it snaps completely as he steps through it.
Gun-woo.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t take in the room the way anyone else would, because his focus locks onto you instantly, like nothing else exists, like the distance between you is the only thing that matters, and whatever he sees when he looks at you –the restraints, the blood, the way your body is held together just barely– it changes something in him immediately, something visible, something that strips away whatever control he had left.
“Get away from her,” he says, his voice low, steady in a way that feels far more dangerous than if he had shouted, the words cutting through the space with a weight that settles instantly.
Instantly, Baek-jeon’s hand closes around you, sudden and deliberate, dragging you back against him with a force that knocks the air from your lungs, one arm locking tight across your upper chest while the other comes up far too close to your throat, far too close, the implication immediate and unmistakable, and Gun-woo stops.
“Careful, asshole” Baek-jeon says, his voice carrying easily in the tense quiet as his gaze fixes on Gun-woo with something cold and assessing. “I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you.”
“Let her go.”
Gun-woo’s voice comes out low, controlled, but there’s something underneath it, something sharp enough to cut through the room, through the guards, through everything standing between him and you, his eyes locked on the way Baek-jeon’s arm tightens when you instinctively struggle, on the way your breath hitches, on the way your entire body goes rigid.
“I said,” he repeats, slower now, more dangerous, “let her go.”
Baek-jeon hums softly, tilting his head just slightly as if considering it, though the faint curl of his lips says he already knows his answer.
You can feel his grip shift– subtle, but enough to send a spike of panic straight through your chest as his hand presses more firmly, more deliberately, and your breath stutters, your body instinctively tensing.
“Gun-woo–” your voice breaks, barely holding together, fear bleeding into every syllable as your eyes lock onto his. “Don’t– don’t come any closer, please– ”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Baek-jeon cuts in smoothly, almost amused, though the way his hold tightens again contradicts every word. “Not unless I have to.”
Gun-woo’s jaw clenches.
“You touch her,” he says, each word measured, restrained in a way that feels like it’s barely holding something far more violent back, “and I swear– ”
“You’ll what?”
The interruption is immediate, sharp, and Baek-jeon’s tone shifts just slightly, just enough to strip away the amusement and leave something colder behind.
“You’re in no position to make threats.”
Baek-jeon leans in just enough that you can feel his breath near your ear, his voice dropping, quieter now but no less deliberate, no less calculated.
“You see,” he continues, his gaze never leaving Gun-woo, “your problem isn’t that you’re weak...it’s that you care too much.”
Gun-woo doesn’t respond, but something in his eyes shifts, something darker, that flickers dangerously close to breaking.
Baek-jeon notices.
His grip shifts, not to your throat this time, but lower, pressing against your abdomen, and your entire body goes rigid. A sharp inhale tearing out of you as instinct takes over, terror spiking at what he’s implying without saying a word.
“Stop–” you gasp, the word barely forming, your hands trembling against the restraints.
Gun-woo’s hands curl into fists so tight his knuckles pale, tendons straining, shoulders going rigid as every instinct in him screams to move, to rip you out of his grip, to end this now– but he doesn’t.
Something inside him caves in and hardens at the same time, like a fault line snapping under pressure, his breath catching sharply in his chest before it steadies again. The kind of control that only exists when everything underneath it is about to break loose.
It’s the exact moment he understands that this is no longer about winning, or pride, or even survival in the way he’s always known it. This is about making sure you walk out of this alive. Both of you.
“I’ll do it.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, the room changes.
“I’ll fight,” Gun-woo says, voice steady in a way that feels almost wrong for the situation, too calm, like he’s already decided this somewhere deep inside himself long before anyone else could argue. His eyes lock on Baek-jeon’s with a quiet intensity that doesn’t waver even when the man’s lips begin to curl into something satisfied, because of course this is exactly what he wanted.
A trade. A life for a fight. For you.
And for a split second his gaze drops to where your hand had been resting before everything spiraled, to the truth he carries with him now, something fragile and so powerful at the same time.
“On one condition,” Gun-woo adds, and now there’s something sharper beneath the calm, something that cuts through the air, as he steps forward just enough to make it clear he’s not negotiating from a place of weakness, even if everything about this situation says he should be, “you let her go. She walks out of here safe. No one touches her. Ever again.”
There’s a beat of silence, heavy and suffocating, before Baek-jeon lets out a low chuckle, glancing over toward you like you’re nothing more than an object being discussed, not a person whose heart is currently slamming violently against your ribs.
“Look at that,” he hums, almost amused. “All this… for her.”
Your stomach drops.
“No–” The word tears out of you before you can stop it, your voice shaking, as panic starts clawing its way up your throat, because you understand what this means. Suddenly the restraints around your wrists feel tighter, suffocating, unbearable. “Gun-woo, no, you can’t– don’t do this.”
He doesn’t look at you immediately. And that’s what makes it worse.
Because when he finally does, when his gaze shifts and lands on you, it’s soft in a way that doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong in a place like this, and that contrast cracks something open inside your chest.
Baek-jeon exhales like he’s grown bored of holding you there, his grip loosening just enough to shift you forward. One sharp, deliberate shove that forces you a step away from him, not free, not safe, but no longer pinned against his chest, no longer silenced by the threat at your throat.
“Go on,” he murmurs, almost amused. “Say goodbye.”
“It’s okay,” Gun-woo says quietly.
It isn’t. It isn’t okay.
“You don’t know that,” you choke out, shaking your head as tears start to blur your vision, your entire body tensing as you struggle uselessly against the bindings, as if you could somehow close the distance between you just by trying hard enough. “You don’t know what they’ll do to you, you don’t know– Gun-woo, please, don’t make deals with him, don’t– ”
“I do,” he cuts in gently, and there’s no hesitation, no doubt, just that same terrifying certainty that makes your chest tighten even more. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“No, you don’t– ” your voice breaks, cracking under the weight of everything you’re trying to say, everything you’re trying to stop. “You’re walking into a trap, this is what he wants, you’re giving him exactly what he wants!”
“And I’m getting you out.”
Your breath stutters, your throat tightening painfully as you stare at him, because he’s serious, he’s completely serious, and the realization hits like a wave crashing over you, cold and overwhelming and impossible to fight against.
“I’m not leaving you here,” you whisper, the panic spilling over now, raw and unfiltered, your voice trembling as tears finally slip free. “I’m not going anywhere without you, do you hear me? I won’t– Gun-woo, I won’t.”
He exhales slowly, like he expected this, like he knew you’d fight him on it, and for a second something flickers across his face, something almost fragile, but it’s gone just as quickly, replaced by that same quiet resolve.
“You will,” he says, softer now, but no less firm. “You’re getting out of here.”
“No– ”
“Listen to me,” he continues, his voice lowering, grounding, like he’s trying to anchor you even as everything around you feels like it’s falling apart, “you’ve been strong this whole time, you just need to hold on a little longer, okay? Once you’re out, you find Woo-jin, you tell him what’s happening, and then– ”
“I’m here.”
The voice cuts in from behind him. Rough, breath still uneven like he didn’t slow down once getting here, and Gun-woo’s shoulders stiffen just slightly before he turns his head. His eyes flick towards Woo-jin standing a few steps away, jaw tight, gaze already darting between you and the restraints holding you in place, taking in everything at once.
For a split second, something like relief flashes across Gun-woo’s face. Then it’s gone.
“Good,” he says, turning back to you, but now there’s urgency beneath the calm, something sharper, more immediate. “Then you go with him.”
“No– ” you shake your head harder, more frantic now, your pulse racing as the situation somehow becomes even more real, more final. “No, I’m not going anywhere, I’m not leaving you here!”
“You’re not staying,” Gun-woo says, and this time there’s no softness cushioning it, no room for argument, because now it isn’t just about convincing you, it’s about making sure this actually happens.
Woo-jin steps forward then, slower, cautious, like he’s trying not to set you off further, but his eyes flick to Gun-woo, something unspoken passing between them, something heavy.
“What the hell did you agree to?” Woo-jin mutters, low enough that it almost doesn’t carry, but you hear it anyway, and the question in it only makes your chest tighten more.
“It doesn’t matter,” Gun-woo replies, just as quietly. “She gets out. That’s what matters.”
“It matters if it gets you killed,” Woo-jin shoots back, sharper now, but Gun-woo doesn’t rise to it, doesn’t react beyond a slight tightening of his jaw.
“I’ll handle it.”
“You always say that.”
“And I always do.”
The confidence in it would almost be reassuring if it didn’t feel like the ground was crumbling beneath you.
“I’m not leaving you here,” you repeat, your voice breaking all over again, your entire body straining forward as if you could force your way past everything holding you back. “I’m not going anywhere without you, I’m not– ”
“You will.”
His voice cuts through yours again, steady, unwavering, but now there’s something deeper there, something that almost sounds like a plea beneath the firmness, like he needs you to understand this, needs you to accept it even if it’s tearing you apart.
“You have to.”
Your chest feels like it’s caving in.
“I don’t want to be safe if it means you’re not,” you whisper, the words spilling out broken and raw, your vision completely blurred now as you try to look at him, really look at him, as if memorizing every detail might somehow stop this from happening. “That’s not a choice, Gun-woo, that’s not– ”
“Hey–” he adds, softer now, something almost breaking through the steadiness for just a second. “Remember what I told you.”
His hand finally touches your cheek.
“Before… before all of this,” he continues, voice low, like the words mean something different this time. “I said I’d finish it before our baby gets here.”
His jaw tightens, his eyes water, but he doesn’t look away.
“I meant it.”
Silence crashes down again, heavier this time, suffocating. Because he really meant it. Every word.
“I’m not losing you,” he says, quieter now, but somehow even more intense, his gaze locked onto yours like he’s trying to imprint the truth of it into you, make you believe it even if you don’t want to. “Not like this. Not when I can do something about it.”
Your breathing turns uneven, sharp, your hands trembling as you pull against the restraints again, useless, useless, everything feels useless.
“And what about me?” you manage, your voice barely holding together. “What happens to me if something happens to you?”
He goes still, just for a second. And in that second, something cracks.
But he smooths it over quickly, swallowing it down, pushing it aside like it doesn’t matter, like he doesn’t matter.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he says, and it sounds like a promise he’s making more to you than to himself. “I’ll win. And then I’ll come find you.”
You let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh, tears falling freely now.
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can.”
“You can’t!”
“I will come back to you.”
Your heart lurches painfully in your chest, because the way he says it, so certain, so unwavering, it almost makes you want to believe him, and that’s what scares you the most.
“I don’t want you to come back to me,” you whisper, shaking your head, your voice breaking all over again. “ I want you with me. I want you safe.”
His expression softens, something achingly gentle settling into his features despite everything.
“I am safe,” he says quietly.
You stare at him, breath catching.
“How can you say that?”
“Because you will be.”
And that’s it. That’s the thing that matters to him. Not the fight, not the risk, not what he’s walking into. Just you.
Just you, and the life you’re carrying, the one he refuses to let be touched by any of this, even if it means stepping deeper into it himself.
Your chest tightens so painfully it almost feels like you can’t breathe, as you realize there’s nothing you can say that will change his mind, nothing you can do from where you are except watch him make this choice.
Watch him choose you. At the cost of himself.
“Time’s up,” Baek-jeons’ voice cuts in aggressively, as if this entire exchange has been nothing more than mild entertainment that he's lost interest in. “Untie her. Let’s see if our dear boxer keeps his word.”
The words hit like a final blow.
“No– wait– ” you start, panic surging all over again as footsteps approach, as hands reach for the ropes binding your wrists.
Gun-woo’s gaze never leaves yours.
“Hey,” he says softly, just before they pull you away, his voice steady, grounding, the only thing in the room that doesn’t feel like it’s slipping out of your grasp. “Look at me.”
“I’ll find you,” he repeats, quieter now, but no less certain. “No matter what.”
“Gun-woo–” his name breaks out of you like a plea, like something desperate and fragile and already mourning.
He doesn’t look away. Not even for a second.
And then, without breaking eye contact with you, he speaks again, this time to Woo-jin, his voice low but unyielding.
“Woo-jin…please, get her out of here.”
There’s no hesitation in it, no room to argue, just absolute trust placed in the only person he would leave you with. Even as Woo-jin’s jaw tightens, even as something conflicted flashes across his face, he steps in, hands steady as he reaches for you, grounding, firm.
“I’ve got you,” Woo-jin mutters, not unkindly, even as you fight him, even as you try to twist back toward Gun-woo, your panic spilling over, your voice breaking as you call his name again.
But Gun-woo doesn’t move.
He just stands there as Woo-jin pulls you away, like he’s already bracing himself for what’s coming next, like he’s already accepted the cost.
Like he’d choose it again.
Every single time.
─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────
☆ read part 3 here
i'm tagging the sweeties who commented on part 1 ❤️
@frxjm @nishimurarikisthings @bratsbri @satorustorm @jisoonnieslover @art03101 @butter-scout (🇧🇷🫶) @yoongishawtyyy @sunwayx @hsqvdk @hollxe1 @blkbaecrimsonx
pls leave a comment so i know if i emotionally destroyed you correctly 👍
Pairing: Kim Gun-woo x Pregnant! Reader
Word count: 4.3k
Summary: you get kidnapped (almost).
you get your hair pulled (rude).
you accidentally reveal you’re pregnant (worse).
Warnings: home invasion, mentions of pregnancy, physical violence
a/n: i just finished season 2 of Bloodhounds and i’m sorry i just can’t stop picturing dad!gun-woo 😭
ALSO season 2 dropped and y’all are still not writing about the boys??? fine. i’ll do it myself.
☆ you can read part 2 here
─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────
The apartment was quiet that night, too quiet, in the way that made the absence of sound feel like something pressing against your ears instead of something peaceful. You had been sitting on the couch, one hand absentmindedly resting over your stomach, thumb tracing the same small, unconscious pattern over fabric, over skin, over something that still didn’t feel entirely real even a month later.
Pregnant.
Even now, the word didn’t land cleanly. It didn’t settle the way it should have, didn’t root itself into certainty. It hovered instead, fragile and suspended between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.
Across the room, Kim Gun-woo was watching you.
He had gotten quieter since you found out, more deliberate in everything he did, from the way he moved through the apartment to the way he looked at you. He was constantly recalibrating his understanding of the world to account for something new and impossibly important.
“You’re doing it again,” he said after a moment, his voice low but steady, pulling you gently out of your thoughts.
You blinked, looking up at him. “Doing what?”
He nodded toward your hand.
Only then did you realize you were still tracing that same pattern over your stomach, your touch absent but protective in a way that had become instinctive without you noticing.
You pulled your hand back slightly, almost embarrassed. “I didn’t even notice.”
Gun-woo didn’t smile. He rarely did lately, not fully.
Instead, he stood and crossed the room in a few quiet steps, sitting beside you. For a moment, he didn’t move, like he was waiting, for permission, maybe, or for the right way to exist in this new space between you.
Then, slowly, he reached out towards your belly.
His hand hovered first, the same way it had that first day, like he was still learning where it was safe to touch. You took his wrist and guided him down again.
He exhaled softly when his palm rested against you, his fingers spreading just slightly, careful, grounding. There was still nothing to feel. No movement. No sign that anything had changed beyond the knowledge itself.
And yet, everything had.
“We should leave,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, more controlled.
You frowned, looking up at him. “Leave?”
“For a while.” His gaze didn’t leave your face. “Until this is over.”
You already knew what he meant.
Im Baek Jeon.
The name didn’t need to be spoken anymore. It existed between all of you, heavy and unavoidable, shaping decisions before they were even fully formed.
“You don’t think he’ll find us anyway?” you asked.
Gun-woo’s jaw tightened slightly. “Not if we move first.”
From the kitchen, Woo-jin let out a quiet scoff, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed. “You say that like we haven’t been trying to stay off his radar this whole time.”
Gun-woo didn’t look at him. “This is different.”
“Yeah,” Woo-jin said, his tone losing its edge as quickly as it had come. “I know.”
Silence settled over the three of you again, heavier than before. Because it was different.
A month ago, the threat had been personal, dangerous, yes, but contained within the boundaries of choices Gun-woo could make, risks he could take, consequences he could accept for himself.
Now, it wasn’t just him. And that changed everything.
“We can’t run forever,” you said quietly.
Gun-woo’s hand tightened just slightly where it rested over yours, his thumb brushing your skin lightly. “We don’t have to. Just long enough.”
You could see in his pleading eyes that he was desperately just trying to keep all of you safe, in any way he could.
“Can we talk about this in the morning?” you questioned, not having the mental energy to think about it right now. You just wanted to enjoy the feeling of Gun-woo’s hand against your belly and pretend you were just a normal, young and anxious couple like any other.
“Sure”, he agreed, sensing the tiredness in your voice. You kissed him softly on the cheek as a silent thank you.
____
By the time night settled in, the tension hadn’t eased. It rarely did anymore.
You had gotten used to it in small ways. The way doors were always double-checked before bed, the way Woo-jin insisted on keeping his phone within arm’s reach at all times, the way Gun-woo would pause sometimes in the middle of a conversation, his head tilting ever so slightly as if he were listening to something no one else could hear.
It had become routine.
You lay in bed beside him, the room dim, the soft hum of the city outside filtering faintly through the windows. His presence next to you was steady, solid, a constant in a world that felt like it was shifting too quickly beneath your feet.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Your hand rested between you, your fingers loosely intertwined with his, your thumb brushing lightly against his knuckles in a rhythm that was more for you than for him.
“Are you awake?” you murmured after a while.
There was a slight shift beside you.
“Yeah.”
You turned your head slightly, looking at him even though you knew he didn’t need the light to see you.
“…Do you think they’ll try something soon?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than you intended.
Gun-woo didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was calm.
“Yes.”
Your chest tightened, but you nodded anyway, even though he couldn’t see it.
“Okay.”
His grip on your hand tightened slightly, just enough for you to feel it.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said quietly.
You shifted closer, resting your forehead lightly against his shoulder. “I know.”
“Try to sleep”, he whispered, while softly kissing your hair. “Baby needs you to rest”.
With his warm hands holding yours, you closed your eyes and tried to relax despite the anxiety that insisted to grow in your heart.
----
It happened at 2:17 a.m.
You didn’t know the exact time until later, when everything was already over and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking long enough for you to look away from the clock on the wall.
At the time, all you knew was that something felt wrong.
It wasn’t a sound, not at first. It was the absence of one, the subtle disruption of something that should have been there and wasn’t anymore. The faint hum of the security system, the almost imperceptible white noise you had gotten used to without realizing it.
Your eyes opened slowly, your body still heavy with sleep but your mind already sharpening, pulling you toward awareness before you could fully understand why.
Beside you, Gun-woo stilled.
You felt it immediately, the shift in his breathing, the way his body went from relaxed to coiled in an instant, every muscle tightening with sudden, controlled alertness.
“…Did you hear that?” you whispered.
“Yes.”
He was already moving before you could say anything else, carefully disentangling his hand from yours as he sat up, his movements silent, precise. The room felt colder without him next to you, the space he left behind too noticeable.
“What is it?” you asked, your voice barely above a breath.
He didn’t answer right away because he was listening.
You could see it in the way his head tilted slightly, his focus narrowing on something beyond the walls of the room, beyond what you could perceive. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until-
You heard a faint sound. A floorboard. Not in your room, but outside.
Gun-woo stood.
“Stay here”, he said quietly.
Your chest tightened immediately. “Gun-woo—”
“Stay here”, he repeated, this time giving you a clear order. “I’m going to wake Woo-jin up.”
You swallowed, nodding even though he wasn’t looking at you anymore, already moving toward the door.
Seconds after, a crash echoed through the house. Something was knocked over, a chair, or maybe a table, followed by multiple footsteps.
Your body moved before your mind could catch up, your feet hitting the floor as you stood, your heart slamming against your ribs hard enough to make it difficult to breathe.
You shouldn’t leave the room, you knew that, but every instinct in your body screamed at you not to be alone. You stepped toward the door just as it burst open.
You didn’t have time to process anything beyond that, just the shape of him, the movement, the hand reaching for you.
Your body twisted sharply as he lunged forward, your hand coming up to shove against his chest with more force than you thought you had. He stumbled back half a step, surprised, but it wasn’t enough.
A hand tangles in your hair, so tight it yanks your head back with a force that tears a scream straight from your throat before you can stop it.
Pain blooms sharp and immediate, blinding in its intensity, your hands flying up instinctively to grab at the wrist holding you, trying to pry it loose.
“Let go—! Let go of me!”
Your voice cracks, panic rising fast and uncontrollable as you’re dragged forward, your balance completely thrown off. Your feet scramble against the floor, slipping, catching, failing to ground you as he pulls harder, forcing you toward the door.
“Move,” he snaps, jerking your head back again.
Another scream rips out of you, raw and uncontrolled this time, your fingers clawing at his hand, your body twisting in desperate resistance.
“Please—!” The word breaks out of you before you can stop it, survival instinct overriding everything else. “Please don’t—don’t hurt me—!”
Your hands drop from his wrist, instinctively, curling inward over your stomach as your body folds slightly around it, your movements shifting without thought, driven by something deeper than panic.
“Please—” your voice cracks again, softer now, desperate in a different way. “Please, I—”
The man holding you pauses.
His grip doesn’t loosen, but his attention shifts, his gaze dropping, following the movement of your hands.
“…Wait.”
The word cuts through everything and the others hesitate.
“What?” one of them snaps.
“Look at her.”
Your breath stutters.
No. No, no, no—
“She’s protecting her stomach.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively where they rest, your entire body going still as the realization settles in the air between all of you.
“…You’re pregnant,” he says slowly.
It isn’t a question.
Your chest tightens so sharply it almost hurts, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts as you shake your head instinctively, denial rising even though you know it’s useless.
“No—no, I—”
The lie dies before it can fully form.
A low laugh escapes him, quiet and almost disbelieving. “Well, Baek-jeon will love the news”.
Your heart drops.
“Please,” you try again, your voice trembling, desperation clawing its way through every word. “Please, don’t—”
“Shut up.”
His grip tightens in your hair, forcing your head back again, and pain explodes across your scalp, your vision blurring as another cry tears out of you.
“Gun-woo!” you scream, the name ripping from your chest before you can stop it, raw and desperate while the man in black tries to drag you down the stairs.
Suddenly, the man holding you is gone in an instant, his grip ripped away so violently it sends you stumbling forward, your knees nearly buckling as you catch yourself against the edge of the first step.
A sickening crack echoes through the room as Gun-woo’s fist connects with the man’s face, the force of it sending him crashing to the ground hard enough that the entire floor seems to shake with it.
“Get away from her,” Gun-woo says, his voice low and unrecognizable, each word punctuated by another hit.
Across the room, Woo-jin is already engaged with the others, his movements fast and aggressive, a curse spilling from his mouth as he blocks a strike and retaliates immediately.
“Bad move,” he snaps, slamming one of them back against the wall.
The room is chaos. But Gun-woo… Gun-woo is something else entirely.
The second man tries to move toward you again, maybe thinking Gun-woo is too focused on the one beneath him to react.
He’s wrong.
Gun-woo shifts instantly, abandoning the first without a second thought, intercepting the movement mid-step. His fist connects with the man’s jaw with brutal precision, snapping his head back before he even has time to react.
He follows through without pause, grabbing him by the collar and driving him into the wall hard enough to rattle everything hanging on it.
“She’s pregnant”, the man says quietly, flashing a sick bloody smile.
“Say it again,” Gun-woo demands, his voice deadly quiet now, his grip tightening.
“She’s pregnant, right?”
There’s no hesitation this time. No restraint. He slams him back again, harder, his fist connecting with a force that leaves no room for recovery, no chance to fight back.
The third man—still struggling against Woo-jin—lets out a breathless laugh despite the situation. “You think this helps?” he spits. “You think beating us changes anything?”
Woo-jin shoves him back hard, knocking the wind out of him. “Shut up.”
But the damage is already done, because the man keeps talking.
“You couldn’t even keep us out,” he continues, his voice strained but mocking. “What happens next time, huh? You gonna watch when we take her for real?”
“To keep her safe,” the man adds, pushing through the pain, “you know what you have to do.”
Gun-woo stills. But that’s all it takes for the words to sink in.
Without hesitation, Woo-jin strikes the man’s face with a punch so strong he passes out instantly.
“Shut up, asshole”.
But it’s too late. Because now, they know.
And worse—
They’ve given Gun-woo a choice.
----
For a moment after the last blow lands, there is no sound.
The kind of silence that follows violence isn’t empty. It’s thick, ringing, filled with the echo of what just happened. Your ears buzz, your breath comes too fast, too uneven, and the room feels like it’s tilting slightly under your feet.
One of the men groans.
Another coughs, dragging in a broken breath as he tries to push himself up from the floor. They don’t fight anymore. They can’t. Whatever confidence they had when they broke in is gone now.
“Get out,” Woo-jin snaps, his voice sharp, still edged with adrenaline. He doesn’t even wait for them to respond before stepping forward, grabbing one of them by the collar and hauling him roughly toward the door.
Gun-woo doesn’t help. He doesn’t need to. The look in his eyes is enough.
The men see it too. You can tell by the way they don’t argue, don’t try to say anything else clever or threatening as they drag themselves toward the exit. One of them glances back once and whatever he sees in Gun-woo’s expression makes him look away immediately.
They retreat the way wounded animals do, slow, uneven, desperate to put distance between themselves and the threat that nearly tore them apart.
The front door hangs open, broken at the frame, creaking faintly as it shifts on its hinges. Cold air spills into the apartment, brushing against your skin in a way that makes you shiver, though you don’t feel cold.
You don’t feel much of anything and your knees give out before you realize they’re going to. You don’t even remember moving from where you were standing, just the sudden absence of strength in your legs as you sink down, your hands catching you clumsily against the floor.
The world feels far away, muted and your hands are shaking.
You notice that first. The tremor is small at the beginning, barely noticeable, but it grows quickly, spreading through your arms, into your chest, until your entire body feels like it’s vibrating under your skin.
A sob escapes you before you can stop it.
“Hey—hey—”
Woo-jin’s voice cuts through the haze first, closer than you expect. He crouches in front of you quickly, his movements urgent but careful, like he’s afraid of startling you further.
“You’re okay,” he says, though his own breathing is still uneven. “You’re okay, it’s over.”
Behind him, Gun-woo hasn’t moved.
His chest rising and falling too fast, his hands still clenched at his sides like he hasn’t fully come back yet. There’s blood on his knuckles, some of it his, most of it not, and his entire body is rigid, like the fight hasn’t actually ended for him.
Woo-jin glances back at him, just for a second.
“…Gun-woo.”
No response.
He tries again, sharper this time. “Hey.”
Gun-woo’s gaze shifts, slow and heavy, landing on you where you’re sitting on the floor, shaking, your hands still hovering uncertainly near your stomach like you don’t know where else to put them.
He moves slowly at first, like his body is resisting the transition from one state to another, from violence to something softer, something human again. Each step is deliberate, measured, like he’s forcing himself to calm down with every inch he closes between you.
He lowers himself in front of you, mirroring Woo-jin’s earlier position, but closer, closer than anyone else is allowed to be. His hands lift slowly, hesitating for only a second before settling carefully on both sides of your face.
“…Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice low and rough.
You shake your head, though the movement is small, unsteady. “N-no…”
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words coming out before he can stop them.
Your head snaps up slightly, your eyes finally focusing on him. “What?”
“I should’ve-” His jaw tightens, the rest of the sentence catching somewhere in his throat. “I should’ve stopped them before they got to you.”
You shake your head quickly, the movement more desperate this time. “You did, Gun-woo, you did-”
“They were inside,” he cuts in, his voice sharper now, edged with something that hasn’t fully settled. “They had you-”
Woo-jin exhales heavily from beside you, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, we’re not doing this right now.”
He shifts closer, one hand coming down gently on your shoulder, grounding, steady, while his other reaches out to shove lightly at Gun-woo’s arm, just enough to get his attention.
“Hey,” he says, more firmly now. “Look at me.”
Gun-woo doesn’t want to, but after a second, he does.
“This isn’t on you,” Woo-jin continues, his tone steady despite the adrenaline still lingering beneath it. “They broke in. That’s on them.”
“They came because of me.”
“Yeah,” Woo-jin says bluntly. “And they left because of you too.”
That lands. Not fully, but enough to make Gun-woo exhale and drop some of the guilt he has holding all on his own.
Woo-jin squeezes your shoulder lightly, his voice softening as he looks back at you. “And you—breathe, okay? You’re safe. We’re here.”
You nod weakly, and squeeze his hand, your way of saying a silent thank you for saying the words you and Gun-woo needed so bad to hear right now.
Gun-woo’s hand shifts slightly where it rests on your arm, his thumb brushing once, grounding both of you.
“…They know,” he says quietly.
The words settle heavily in the room. Woo-jin exhales again, slower this time. “Yeah.”
You swallow, your throat still tight, your voice small when you finally speak. “…What does that mean?”
Gun-woo doesn’t answer right away and that’s worse than anything he could say. The silence is filled with everything he’s thinking, considering and Woo-jin notices it too.
“Hey,” he says quickly, sharper now, his tone shifting in warning. “Don’t go there.”
Gun-woo’s gaze flicks to him.
“I’m serious,” Woo-jin adds, holding it. “We figure this out. Together.”
For a while, no one moves.
The apartment feels wrong now, too open, too exposed, like the walls themselves can’t protect you anymore. The broken door lets in a slow draft of cold air that brushes against your skin, but you still barely register it. Everything still feels distant, like your body hasn’t fully caught up to what just happened.
Gun-woo is the first to pull away.
The movement is abrupt compared to how careful he had been with you moments ago, like something inside him has shifted again—snapped back into urgency, into action.
“We can’t stay here.”
Woo-jin exhales sharply through his nose, nodding immediately. “Yeah, we need to go.”
----
The place Woo-jin finds isn’t home.
You can tell the second you step inside. It’s clean, functional, temporary in a way that makes everything echo just a little too much. The furniture is sparse, the walls bare, the air carrying that faint, unfamiliar stillness of somewhere that hasn’t been lived in long enough to feel safe.
But the door locks. Twice. And the windows are intact so for now, that was enough.
Woo-jin checks everything first. Every room, every window latch, every blind, every possible entry point. He moves with purpose, still riding the edge of adrenaline, but more controlled now, more focused.
“Clear,” he finally says, exhaling as he steps back into the main room.
Gun-woo doesn’t respond right away. He hasn’t let go of you since you arrived.
His hand is still wrapped around yours, firm and grounding, like if he loosens his grip even slightly, something might take you again. His other hand rests at your back, guiding you gently further inside, his body positioning itself instinctively between you and the door even after it’s locked.
“Sit,” he murmurs.
Your body still feels like it’s catching up to everything that happened, your limbs heavy, your thoughts slower than they should be.
The couch is firmer than the one back home. You notice that.
Gun-woo kneels in front of you almost immediately, his gaze moving over you again, searching in that same careful, quiet way. It’s less frantic now, but no less intense, like he still expects to find something wrong if he looks hard enough.
“I’m okay,” you say softly, before he can ask.
He nods, but he doesn’t stop looking.
Woo-jin disappears into another room for a moment, the sound of drawers opening and closing faint in the background, giving you space without saying it out loud.
Silence settles between you and Gun-woo.
Your hand shifts in his, your fingers tightening slightly as you watch him, taking in the tension that hasn’t left his shoulders, the way his jaw is still set like he hasn’t fully come down from the edge yet and the fact that his knuckles still have dried blood on them.
“You need to rest,” you murmur.
His eyes flick up to yours. “I’m fine. I’ll rest later,” he says.
You know better than to argue right now.
Woo-jin comes back eventually, setting a glass of water on the table in front of you, his movements calmer now, more grounded.
“Drink,” he says gently.
You nod, taking it, your hands steadier now than they were before.
He lingers for a second, watching both of you, then exhales and drops into the chair across from you.
“We’ll stay here a couple days,” he says, more to Gun-woo than to you. “Figure out next steps after.”
Gun-woo nods once.
It’s enough. For now, that’s all any of you can manage.
----
After forcing the boys to take a shower, you and Gun-woo climb into bed. The sun will rise in a couple hours.
You lie in a bed that isn’t yours, staring up at a ceiling you don’t recognize, the faint hum of the building replacing the familiar sounds you used to rely on. Your body is exhausted, your mind heavier than it should be, but sleep doesn’t come right away.
Beside you, Gun-woo hasn’t moved.
He’s been like this for a while now, awake, even in the dark, even when he pretends otherwise.
“Are you going to sleep?” you whisper.
“In a bit.”
You turn slightly toward him, studying the outline of his face in the dim light, the tension still there, quieter now but not gone.
“You said that an hour ago.”
You shift closer instead, closing the space between you, your hand finding his under the blanket. His fingers curl around yours immediately, like he’s been waiting for it without realizing.
You guide his hand again slowly down to rest it over your stomach.
You feel him shift closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly against yours as his head dips forward, resting lightly against you. His hand stays where it is, warm, steady, careful.
“…I’m going to fix this,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that it barely disturbs the silence, but close enough that you feel it more than hear it, the vibration of it settling somewhere deep in your chest.
“I will,” he continues, softer now, but steadier in a way that feels less like certainty and more like something he’s forcing himself to believe, something he needs to hold onto so he doesn’t break under the weight of everything else. “Before–”
Then his fingers spread just a little, his palm settling more intentionally against you, and when he speaks again, his voice shifts closer, like it isn’t meant for you anymore.
“…before you’re here.”
“I know you can’t hear me yet,” he continues, his voice dropping even further, softer than you’ve ever heard it, stripped of everything sharp or guarded, “but I’m your dad.”
Your eyes sting suddenly, the feeling creeping in without warning as you listen.
“And I’m sorry,” he adds, his voice rougher now. “For tonight. For everything you don’t understand yet.”
Your chest tightens, your hand instinctively covering his where it rests, grounding him without interrupting.
“I’m supposed to make sure nothing touches you,” he continues, quieter still, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile. “That nothing gets close enough to hurt you. Or your mom.”
Your vision blurs further, your eyes fully glassy now, tears gathering without falling, held back only by the fragile stillness of the moment. You bite down softly on the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your breathing even, trying not to let it break.
“I’m still figuring out how to do that.”
“But I will,” he murmurs, more firmly now, even if his voice stays soft, the resolve settling into something quieter but stronger. “I’ll figure it out.”
And in the quiet that follows, with your eyes still damp and your chest still tight, something shifts again into something softer, something that feels like the beginning of hope.
And when sleep finally comes, slow and gentle and long overdue–it finds you like that.
Together.
─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────
pls leave a comment or scream with me about dad!gun-woo i need it ❤️
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex
Note: I’m on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi :-)
Word count: 2.1k
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.
You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.
By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.
That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.
And things had only been official for a week.
You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.
He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.
Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move
Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.
You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.
“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.
You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.
“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.
Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”
He slid deeper for emphasis.
You didn’t.
You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.
“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.
Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.
This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.
Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.
“Better?” The man’s question was simple.
Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.
You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.
Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.
“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”
“I—I know, I just can’t—”
At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.
You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.
“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”
The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.
“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”
“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”
“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”
But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.
Maybe you’d never found that place after all.
This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.
You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.
Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”
“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.
Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.
With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.
You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.
“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”
Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.
It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.
“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.
“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”
Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.
Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.
He still held onto your other hand tight.
Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.
Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:
“Higher.”
“Higher?”
“Um, to the…to the left.”
Simon tilted his hips left.
Yes.
That was just it. So close.
Almost…
Or, maybe…
“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”
Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.
Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…
“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”
The grin above you stretched even wider.
“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.
“Right there.” You nodded furiously.
A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.
“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.
“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”
Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.
The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.
Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.
You realized as much when he whispered it to you.
“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”
Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”
Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.
“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.
“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”
The ones that you’d been with before.
You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.
Simon was back inside you in a blink.
Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.
He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.
Vindicated.
“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”
You nodded in agreement.
You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.
“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”
When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.
And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.
Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.
“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.
His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.
You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”
“Feel good when I hit it?”
“Fucking perfect, Si.”
You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.
“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”
“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”
“Go on then, love.”
And, shortly, you did.
Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.
Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.
It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”
You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.
He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.
Y'all be careful. They will try to get you to go on discord and contact someone and once I said I didn't care if they deactivated my account, because I don't have a discord they told me I could make one.
I'm finishing this at 2am and scheduling for some random time because I am so tired im barely awake enough to type so enjoy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You did not sleep that night, not really anyway.
Even after Simon left just before dawn, after promising in that low rough voice that he would come back, your mind refused to settle.
A demon, an actual demon.
Every logical part of your brain insisted you had imagined it. Stress. Exhaustion. Too many horror movies late at night.
But your apartment still smelled faintly like smoke and rain after he left.
And when you checked the hallway security camera footage through your phone the next morning, the screen glitched every single time Simon appeared.
You stared at it for nearly ten minutes.
Everyone else in the footage looked normal, clear.
But Simon looked distorted, like static wrapped around a human shape.
Your stomach flipped.
The worst part was that you still wanted to see him again.
That should have terrified you more than anything.
Instead, you spent the entire next day distracted.
At work you burned your coffee twice and nearly sent an email to the wrong client because your brain kept replaying the way Simon looked at you.
Like you mattered, like he had been starving for centuries and suddenly found something worth wanting.
By the time evening rolled around, rain clouds had gathered again outside.
You found yourself glancing toward the door every few minutes.
Waiting.
Which was ridiculous.
You barely knew him.
A knock sounded at exactly eight o'clock.
Your pulse jumped.
You opened the door to find Simon standing there holding a paper bag from a local takeout place.
“You eat?” he asked.
You blinked.
“That depends. Is it poisoned?”
One side of his mouth twitched.
“No.”
You stepped aside to let him in, trying very hard not to notice how good he looked tonight.
Black henley.
Dark jeans.
Fingerless gloves.
Like some unfair combination of dangerous and exhausted.
“You remembered my favorite place?”
“You mentioned it once.”
Your chest tightened a little.
Most people forgot things about you almost immediately.
Simon remembered tiny details after one conversation.
He placed the food on the counter while you tried to act normal despite the fact he was apparently a supernatural being.
“You're staring,” he said quietly.
“I’m trying to figure out if I should be more concerned about the demon thing.”
“Fair.”
You crossed your arms.
“So are you gonna explain anything or just keep appearing mysteriously during thunderstorms?”
Simon leaned back against the counter, arms folded over his chest.
“You really want the truth?”
“Yes.”
A long silence followed.
Then he sighed.
“I wasn't born human.”
Not exactly the comforting start you hoped for.
“There are different kinds of demons,” he continued. “Some feed on violence. Some on fear. Some on pain.”
You swallowed hard.
“And you?”
His eyes met yours.
“Punishment.”
The word landed heavily between you.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I was made to drag bad people where they belong.”
Cold crept down your spine.
Hell, he meant hell.
Simon watched your expression carefully like he expected you to bolt for the door any second.
“You kill people?”
“Sometimes.”
Your stomach twisted.
But before fear could fully settle, Simon added quietly, “Only monsters.”
The answer should not have comforted you as much as it did.
“You're serious.”
“Aye.”
You sat down slowly at your tiny kitchen table.
“This is insane.”
“Probably.”
“You're telling me Hell is real.”
“Yes.”
“And demons are real.”
“Yes.”
“And you're one of them.”
Simon nodded once.
You rubbed both hands over your face.
“This is officially the worst dating experience I've ever had.”
To your surprise, Simon barked out a laugh.
A real one.
Deep and rough and startlingly warm.
The sound caught you so off guard you started laughing too.
Soon both of you were sitting in your tiny kitchen laughing like lunatics while thunder rattled outside.
It felt strangely normal.
That terrified you most of all.
Eventually the laughter faded.
Simon looked at you quietly across the table.
“You aren't reacting the way most people do.”
“What do most people do?”
“They scream.”
“Tempting.”
A faint smile touched his face again.
Then it disappeared just as quickly.
“You should still stay away from me.”
The softness in the room vanished instantly.
You frowned. “Why?”
“Because eventually something from my world is going to notice you.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What does that mean?”
“It means demons don't form attachments often.” His voice lowered. “And when they do… others use it against them.”
A horrible realization settled over you.
“You're saying someone could hurt me to get to you.”
Simon said nothing.
That silence answered enough.
You looked away first.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small again.
“I knew this was too good to be true.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Immediately Simon's expression changed.
Not anger.
Pain.
Real pain.
“Don't say that.”
“Why not? Every single time I finally meet someone who actually seems to care about me, something goes wrong.”
“You think I don't know that?” His voice roughened suddenly. “You think I don't know what I am?”
The lights flickered hard enough to make you jump.
Shadows moved unnaturally along the ceiling.
Simon stood abruptly, turning away from you like he was trying to regain control of something dangerous inside himself.
“I should leave.”
You stared at his rigid back.
For the first time since meeting him, Simon looked afraid.
Not for himself.
For you.
And somehow that hurt worse.
“Simon.”
He did not turn around.
“You're the first person who's ever looked at me without wanting something from me,” he said quietly. “Do you understand how dangerous that is for a creature like me?”
Your chest ached.
Slowly, you stood and walked toward him.
Simon stiffened the second your fingers touched his arm.
“You keep saying I should stay away,” you whispered. “But you came back anyway.”
He finally looked at you.
Dark eyes.
Tired eyes.
Lonely eyes.
“You make me forget what I was made for.”
The confession hit harder than it should have.
Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs.
“You scare me,” you admitted softly.
Simon nodded once like he expected that.
“But not because you're a demon.”
His brow furrowed slightly.
“You scare me because I think I could actually fall in love with you.”
Silence, complete silence.
Even the storm outside seemed quieter.
Simon stared at you like he had never heard those words before in his entire existence.
Then very gently, almost reverently, he touched your face.
“You have no idea what you've just done to me, sweetheart.”
Rain tapped softly against the windows of your apartment as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiping mascara from beneath your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt.
Again.
Another date that started with promise and ended with disappointment.
At this point it almost felt laughable. Your friends called it bad luck. Your mother called it poor taste in men. You called it exhausting.
You had spent years trying to make yourself easier to love.
Softer voice. Smaller opinions. Less emotional. More patient. More forgiving.
None of it worked.
One cheated on you with your coworker. One forgot your birthday three years in a row. One left halfway through dinner because his ex texted him.
After enough heartbreak, you stopped expecting good things from people.
Still, loneliness had a way of creeping in during quiet nights.
You tossed your ruined makeup wipe into the trash and shuffled toward the kitchen, flicking on the small lamp above the sink. The apartment glowed warm amber against the storm outside.
Then the lights flickered.
Once, twice, you frowned.
“Please do not die on me tonight.”
The bulbs steadied.
A knock sounded at your door.
You froze.
It was nearly midnight.
Another knock. Slower this time.
Your stomach twisted as you moved carefully toward the door, checking the peephole.
A tall man stood in the hallway.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hood.
Black gloves.
The overhead light buzzed strangely above him.
You hesitated before cracking the door open slightly.
“Yes?”
The stranger lifted his head.
And your breath caught.
He was handsome in a way that almost hurt to look at. Harsh features softened only slightly by tired eyes. A scar cut across his face, pale against tan skin. Blond lashes shadowed eyes so dark they looked nearly black in the dim hall.
“You dropped this downstairs.”
His voice was deep and rough like gravel dragged across velvet.
He held up your wallet.
Your eyes widened. “Oh my God.”
You snatched it from him, immediately checking inside. Everything was still there.
“You could've taken the cash.”
“Aye.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “Could've.”
You laughed quietly despite yourself.
“Thank you…?”
“Simon.”
The name settled strangely in your chest.
His gaze lingered on you for half a second too long. Not in a creepy way. More like he was trying to memorize you.
Then the hallway light above him burst with a sharp pop.
You jumped.
Simon did not even blink.
“Sorry,” you muttered nervously. “This building is falling apart.”
“Seems that way.”
Another silence settled between you, oddly comfortable despite the fact you had never met this man before.
You noticed rain soaking the shoulders of his black jacket.
“You can come in for a minute if you want,” you said before thinking too hard about it. “Until the storm calms down.”
His expression changed slightly.
Almost surprised.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
You stepped aside.
The second Simon crossed your doorway, the warmth in the apartment seemed to shift.
Not colder.
Heavier.
Like the air itself had thickened.
He removed his gloves carefully, revealing scarred hands and silver rings. Your gaze snagged briefly on one oddly shaped ring that looked ancient compared to the others.
“You live alone?” he asked quietly.
“Unfortunately.”
His eyes flicked around the apartment before settling back on you.
“You should get a better lock.”
You laughed nervously. “You sound like my dad.”
“Smart man.”
You made tea mostly to keep your hands busy. Simon stood near the kitchen counter, massive compared to your tiny apartment. Somehow he looked completely natural there, like he belonged in shadows and dim light.
“You always rescue strangers during storms?” he asked.
“No. Usually I make objectively terrible choices with men.”
That earned a low hum from him.
“Bad history?”
“Catastrophically bad.”
The words spilled easier than expected.
Maybe because Simon listened instead of waiting for his turn to talk.
You told him about the cheating, the lying, the way every relationship somehow left you feeling lonelier than before.
“You start wondering if maybe something's wrong with you after a while,” you admitted softly.
Simon went still.
“There’s nothing wrong with you.”
The certainty in his voice startled you.
“You don't even know me.”
“Don't need to.”
Your face warmed.
Rain thundered harder outside.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then Simon looked toward your window sharply.
Not casually.
Alert.
Like he heard something you couldn't.
“You expecting anyone tonight?”
“No?”
His jaw tightened slightly.
A cold shiver crawled across your skin.
Then came three knocks at the apartment door.
You frowned. “Who the hell…”
Simon was already moving.
Fast, too fast.
One second he stood beside the counter. The next he was near the door.
You barely processed it.
He glanced through the peephole and his expression darkened into something genuinely frightening.
“Stay back.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What is it?”
“Stay behind me.”
The deep tone in his voice left no room for argument.
The knocking came again.
Harder.
Your pulse hammered as Simon unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway, pulling it nearly shut behind him.
You heard muffled voices.
Low.
Aggressive.
Then silence.
A horrible silence.
You crept closer before the door opened again.
Simon stepped back inside calmly, shutting the door behind him.
Your eyes widened.
There was blood on his knuckles.
“Oh my God.”
“Not mine.”
“What happened?”
“Drunk bastard had the wrong apartment.”
Something about the explanation felt thin.
Still, Simon looked completely unbothered.
Not adrenaline high, bot angry, just cold controlled.
He noticed your expression and sighed softly.
“Scared of me now?”
Strangely, you weren't.
You should have been.
Every instinct said something about this man was dangerous beyond reason.
But beneath all of that danger was something else.
Something lonely, something aching.
“No,” you answered honestly.
Simon stared at you like the word physically hurt him.
“You should be careful saying things like that.”
“Why?”
His eyes met yours fully then.
Dark, endless, not human.
The lights flickered again violently.
For one impossible second you saw something behind him.
A shadow stretching too large across the wall.
Two massive horns curling upward.
Golden eyes glowing from darkness.
Then it vanished.
Your breath stopped.
Simon closed his eyes briefly like he knew exactly what you saw.
The apartment suddenly felt too small.
“What…” Your voice trembled. “What are you?”
Silence.
Rain hammered the windows.
Finally he spoke.
“A bad man.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.” His gaze lowered to the floor. “It's the safer one.”
You should have run.
Any sane person would have.
But instead you whispered, “You brought back my wallet.”
Simon looked almost amused by that.
“Your standards are low, sweetheart.”
“They've had to be.”
A quiet sound escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite sadness.
Then he stepped closer carefully, like approaching a frightened animal.
“You keep picking people who hurt you because part of you thinks that's all you deserve.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“How would you know that?”
“Because creatures like me can smell loneliness.”
The room went cold.
Creatures, plural.
Your heart raced but Simon remained perfectly still.
“I haven't lied to you,” he continued softly. “I just haven't told you everything.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
His expression immediately hardened with something fierce.
“No.”
The answer came so fast it felt instinctive.
“Never you.”
Your breath caught again.
Simon lifted one scarred hand slowly toward your face, giving you every chance to pull away.
When his fingers brushed your cheek, warmth spread through your skin despite the storm around you.
“You're the first good thing I've wanted in a very long time,” he murmured.
His thumb traced beneath your eye gently.
“And that's dangerous for someone like me.”
You should have pushed him away.
Instead you leaned into his touch.
Because for the first time in your entire life, someone looked at you like you were precious instead of temporary.
And somewhere deep beneath Simon Riley’s frightening smile and impossible shadows, something ancient and monstrous had already decided you belonged to him.
The first time he came home bleeding, you didn’t ask questions.
You just guided him to the chair, rolled your sleeves up, and got to work.
You learned quickly—where to press, how to clean a wound without making it worse, how to stitch if you had to. He never told you details, and you never pushed. It wasn’t your world, not really, even if it brushed up against your doorstep more often than either of you liked.
What you did know was enough.
Enough to understand the weight he carried. Enough to see it in the way his shoulders tensed when he thought you weren’t looking, or how quiet he got after certain nights. Enough to love him without needing explanations.
So you stayed out of it.
And he let you.
—
That was the deal, unspoken but steady.
He kept you safe by keeping you separate.
You kept him whole by being the one place he didn’t have to be anything but human.
—
When it happened, he didn’t even register it at first.
The mission was already going sideways—gunfire, shouting, the kind of chaos he could navigate without thinking. Muscle memory, instinct, survival.
And then someone said your name.
Not shouted.
Not confused.
Spoken clearly. Intentionally.
Like they knew exactly who you were.
Bucky froze for half a second, and in his world, that was too long.
It cost him.
A hit he should’ve dodged. A blow that sent him stumbling back, disoriented, something sharp and cold settling in his chest that had nothing to do with the fight.
“How do you think we found you?” the man sneered, blood on his teeth, eyes wild. “You think you’re the only one who knows how to hide things?”
Bucky didn’t hear the rest.
Because all he could think about was you.
—
The call comes the second it’s over.
He doesn’t even wait to clean himself up properly, hands still shaking as he dials.
You pick up on the second ring.
“Hey,” you say softly, like you’ve been expecting him.
His chest tightens. “Are you okay?”
A small pause. “Yeah. I’m fine. Why?”
He exhales shakily, dragging a hand through his hair. “Nothing. Just—needed to hear your voice.”
You hum, gentle, familiar. “Long day?”
“You could say that.”
“Well,” you reply, a hint of a smile in your voice, “come home. I’ll fix you up.”
Home.
The word hits harder than it should.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I will.”
—
The drive back feels longer than usual.
Every red light drags. Every second stretches.
His mind won’t stop.
They knew your name.
Not a guess. Not luck.
They knew.
And suddenly every choice he’s made—every time he let himself stay, every moment he convinced himself this was okay, that you were far enough removed, safe enough—feels reckless.
Selfish.
Because if anything happened to you—
His grip tightens on the steering wheel.
He couldn’t survive that.
Wouldn’t.
And that’s when the thought settles in, heavy and final.
He has to end it.
—
You hear the door before you see him.
You’re already in the kitchen, finishing up, the smell of food still lingering in the air. His clothes are folded neatly on the chair, clean and ready. There’s something sweet cooling on the counter, something you made even though your shift ran longer than it should’ve.
You’re tired.
But that’s normal.
He’s worth it.
You turn when he walks in, offering a small, soft smile. “Hey.”
Bucky stops in the doorway.
For a second, he just… looks at you.
At the normalcy of it all. The quiet. The warmth.
Everything he’s about to walk away from.
“You cooked,” he says, his voice rougher than usual.
“Figured you’d forget to eat otherwise,” you reply lightly. “Sit. I’ll grab you a plate.”
You don’t ask about the bruises.
You never do.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
—
Dinner is quiet.
Not uncomfortable, not tense—just… off.
You notice it immediately.
The way he barely touches his food. The way his eyes drift to you and then away again like he can’t hold your gaze for too long.
Something’s wrong.
You can feel it.
But you don’t ask.
Because you trust him.
Because you’ve always trusted that if it mattered, he’d tell you.
—
“I need to talk to you.”
The words come suddenly, cutting through the quiet.
You pause, hands stilling where you’re gathering plates.
Of course.
There it is.
You don’t look at him right away. You just nod once, setting the plates down in the sink, turning on the tap like it’s any other night.
“Okay.”
Your voice is calm.
Too calm.
Bucky frowns slightly, something uneasy settling in his chest.
“I… can’t do this anymore,” he says, the words sounding wrong even as they leave his mouth. “I can’t be with you.”
You inhale softly.
And then—
“Okay.”
That’s it.
No hesitation. No question. No break in your voice.
Just… acceptance.
You pick up a plate and start washing it.
Bucky stares at you, stunned.
“That’s it?” he asks, disbelief creeping in. “You’re not even gonna—say anything?”
You rinse the plate, set it aside, reach for another.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know—anything!” His voice rises slightly. “Fight me on it, argue, ask me why—something.”
You finally glance at him.
And there’s something in your expression that makes his stomach drop.
Not anger.
Not even sadness.
Just… quiet disappointment.
“Why?” you repeat softly. “So you can give me a reason you’ve already decided is enough?”
He falters. “That’s not—”
“You’re being a coward.”
The word lands heavier than anything else you could’ve said.
Bucky recoils slightly, hurt flashing across his face. “That’s not fair.”
“It is,” you reply, just as steady. “Because nothing I say right now is going to change your mind, is it?”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
You nod faintly, like you expected that.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “That’s what I thought.”
You go back to washing the dishes.
“And it’s fine,” you add, your tone almost too calm. “Really. It just… clears things up.”
His chest tightens. “Clears what up?”
You don’t look at him this time.
“How little I mean to you.”
“That’s not true,” he says immediately, stepping closer. “I love you. That’s the whole point—I’m doing this because I love you.”
You let out a quiet breath, shaking your head slightly.
“No,” you say. “You’re doing this because you’re scared.”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” You finally turn to face him fully, your eyes steady, unwavering. “You’re scared of something that might happen. Something that hasn’t happened. And instead of trusting me, trusting us, you’re running.”
His voice softens, almost pleading. “If anything happened to you because of me—”
“If anything even came close,” you cut in, “you taught me how to defend myself. And you’d be one call away. You always are.”
That stops him.
You can see it—the moment it almost clicks.
The moment he almost reconsiders.
But you don’t let it linger.
“I washed your work clothes,” you say, turning back to the sink like you’re discussing something trivial. “They’re folded already. You can pack them in a suitcase.”
The calmness in your voice is what breaks him.
“Don’t do that,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “Don’t act like this doesn’t matter.”
You don’t respond.
And that’s worse.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, panic creeping in now. “That call—it just—it scared me, and I panicked. I didn’t think—”
You turn then.
And the look on your face makes him stop cold.
Empty.
Not angry. Not devastated.
Just… empty.
“You were ready to let me go over something so small,” you say quietly.
His chest tightens painfully. “It’s not small—”
“It is to me,” you interrupt. “And I need you to leave.”
The words are soft.
But final.
“Please,” he says, stepping closer, desperation bleeding into his voice. “We can talk about this—”
“I need space,” you repeat. “Please leave.”
“Don’t do this,” he whispers.
But you already are.
You walk past him, not looking back, heading straight for the bathroom.
The door closes with a quiet click.
And then you’re alone.
For a moment, you just stand there, staring at the floor, your reflection blurred in the mirror.
Holding it together.
Holding it together.
Holding it—
Your knees give out.
You slide down against the door, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as the first sob finally breaks free, small and strangled like you’re trying to keep it contained even now.
Because he’s still out there.
Because if he hears—
Another sob slips out anyway, your shoulders shaking as everything you kept so carefully buried spills over all at once.
your crime family needs help. to get that help, your brother sells you to john price in exchange for a loan of money and man power. but you're not for john price. you're for his ruthless, right hand man: simon "ghost" riley
slow burn, mafia au, sad girl, simon puts his hands on her (in a mean way, but doesn't hurt her)
prev
you hadn't seen the owner of the house since you moved in. but then, you'd hardly left your room.
on your first morning, one of the maids had come to collect your phone. "Mr riley insists," she said as she took it from my nightstand. you tried to grab it from her, tried to stop her from stealing your only source of communication with your brother.
"please," you begged her, hands shaking with the weight of it, of what she was doing. "please, let me keep it."
she was gentle with you as she pet your head. "Mr riley will have a new one for you, sweetheart," she whispered, smoothing down your hair, which you hadn't yet brushed through. "top of the line."
still, you were reluctant. but kind words and soft touches had you finally releasing the phone. you sat back on the bed as she rushed out.
it was only a phone. at least, that was what you were trying to tell yourself. but it wasn’t just your phone, you knew. it was your only connection to your old life.
you tried to read while you waited, but you mind wouldn't fall quiet. the words on the page wouldn't paint a picture in your mind. you looked out of the window, caught sight of the man smoking outside, his back to you.
blonde haired, he was handsome. at least, the back of head head and your limited view of his side profile told you that much.
he didn't look up. you watched him, the way he flicked away his cigarette and turned towards the door. you gasped as he stepped through the door and disappeared.
you saw his face for only a second, but he was beautiful. truly beautiful. scars, one across his nose, his cheek and lip. you bet there were more, if only you could get a look at him.
with him gone, you looked out across the grounds. they were well maintained, grass cut short and the gardener pulling weeds from the ground.
you moved away from the window and sat back down on the end of the bed.
there was simply nothing to do. no phone to play on, no chess pieces to move across a board you didn't have. something to read would have been nice, but they took your bags the second you got into the house. when you got them back, they just had clothes in them, everything else gone.
you laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
lost and alone, far away from home.
you cried. you curled up and cried until someone knocked on your door. sitting up, you wiped away your tears, tried to make yourself look presentable, and pulled open the door.
not your future husband, just a member of his staff. she presented your lunch to you and you took it, returning to your bed.
you'd never had British food before, but your soup was just as bland as you expected it to be. the salted butter on the bread make it tolerable. and after it was done? nothing. nothing to do, nobody to talk to.
knees to your chest, you were crying again. ridiculous wasn’t it? just how much you could cry. if your mother could see you now she would lay a swift smack to your cheek and tell you that you didn't need the company.
you weren't strong like her.
the next knock at your door came in the evening. you sat still, no energy left to get up and answer it.
“ma'am?” came a voice. nobody in the house was familiar for you to recognise it just yet. “dinner is waiting downstairs for you. mr riley has asked you join him.”
you lifted your head from the soaked pillow you had been crying into. dinner with your future husband. you looked down at yourself, at the state you were in.
you couldn't face him. not yet.
you pulled the door open slightly to look at the well dressed young man. a member of the staff, you were sure of it. “I'm gonna have dinner up there,” you mumbled, your nails digging into the wood of the door.
the young man's eyes went wide with fear, his face white as a sheet. “y-you're not coming for dinner?” he squeaked, voice shaking.
“I can't,” you said, hoping he'd understand. even if he didn’t, you needed him to leave you alone.
he managed an ‘okay,’ his knees trembling. “is there anything I can bring you?”
“just some tea, please,” you answered.
when he disappeared, you shut the door. you sat at your vanity and looked at yourself in the mirror. it was like a mask of sadness was glued onto your face, turning you into someone you didn't recognise.
he returned with your tea and a plate of biscuits. you took them gratefully and sat back at your vanity, hoping this would inject some life into you.
there was noise from further in the house. bangs, crashes and shouts. you quickly locked your door and retreated to the bed, tea half finished and cold.
when his fist pounded against the door, you pulled your blanket over your head and pretended you were anywhere but here.
***
Simon didn't expect obedience from you. he didn't expect anything from you. but you were to be his wife and he had to lay down some rules.
he wanted you to come down for dinner. something tasty and nutritious to get you out of your room.
but you remained in there, his staff aiding in your isolation. mad was an understatement.
he pulled out his phone and texted john, his fingers flying over the keys.
ghost: give me a job
ghost: a violent one
the reply came just a few moments later, his phone dinging in a way he couldn't held but find mocking.
price: trouble in paradise already?
this wasn't paradise. a wife that wouldn't come and eat dinner, that wouldn't do something to take care of herself. he wasn't your babysitter and he shouldn’t have to feel that way.
he didn't expect obedience, but he wanted it. not to control you, don't get it twisted. but you were his wife to be, someone he had to take care of. that would be so much easier if you just listened to him.
John sent over the details of a job. it had johnny and kyles name on it, would have been cleaner that way, but john knew simon well enough to know he wanted it to be messy.
ignoring his staff and pushing down the thoughts of you, of your meagre dinner of tea and biscuits, simon left the house.
he got his car out of the garage and headed away from his stately home. too nice for someone like him. you, though? you could look like you belong if you let yourself be comfortable.
Simon was thinking about you as he drove away. maybe you needed a gentle hand, but he wasn't going to be the one to give it to you.
***
the house rattled when he slammed the door shut. you gave it a moment, waited to hear him come back. but you didn't.
you technically had the house to yourself.
you ventured out of your room. there must be a television around here somewhere, you thought as you tiptoed across the hall.
you tried to think back to your little tour.
the back room downstairs. small and cosy, you were sure he didn't decorate it. you made your way down the stairs and through the halls, trying to find the little room.
it was near the kitchen. at least, you thought it was near the kitchen. every room you went into seemed to be the wrong one.
he was going to be back any minute, you thought.
finally, you found the little room. soft lamps and a smaller TV than you expected in a house this big. still a pretty good size, perfect for this little, tucked away room.
grasping the tv remote, you sat with your legs underneath you. you grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around your shoulders, and sat back as your show came on.
some trash reality tv, something mindless you could watch to feel better about your own life.
it didn’t work.
I mean, it brought you comfort, but it didn't make you feel better about your own life. you picked at your fingernails, not really paying attention until something dramatic happened, a fight between the cast members or something.
you spent hours in that little room, nobody to bother you. the staff didn't come to check on you, giving you the peace you needed.
you only got up to use the bathroom, just to return to the exact same position you were in before.
you could have fallen asleep there. on the weirdly plush sofa, if you weren't so afraid of him. of him coming into the house to find you outside of your room. would he have another freak out like he did when you didn’t come down for dinner. you didn't know, but you didn’t want to find out.
but your eyes were growing heavier. it had been one of those days where you do nothing but its so damn exhausting. and that little room was so nice and warm.
you yawned, arms stretching up over your head.
if the front door hadn't opened, you would have fallen asleep sitting there. your body jolted as it slammed shut, sitting up suddenly.
fuck, he was home. he was home and you couldn't sneak past him to get up to your room. quickly, you turned off the tv and the lights. you sat still on the sofa, knees pulled up to your chest.
he wouldn’t find you in here, would he? this tiny room at the back of the house. you were safe here.
you were safe.
slowly, the door opened, letting light flood into the room. light that never hit you, sitting so far away from the door.
he didn’t see you as he slipped into the room and sat in the armchair. he let out a breath, his eyes shut as he slumped down.
you were still, holding your breath. maybe if you just sat there, he wouldn’t notice you.
you watched him though, just where you thought his mouth would be under his mask. he breathed in deep and reached for the mask. for a moment, you thought he was going to remove it. show you more of what you had seen earlier.
and he did lift it, just enough to uncover his mouth. you couldn't see much in the dark, couldn’t see much before he lowered his mask again.
“you didn’t come down f’ dinner,” he said and peeled the leather gloves from his hands.
you wanted the ground to open up. you wanted to slip from the sofa and descend into the fiery pits below. “wasn't hungry,” you mumbled, hugging your knees to your chest.
“don't care,” he answered, rolling up his sleeves. his skin was stained with something, but you couldn't tell what in the dark room. you could only guess, and every guess has your stomach churning. “when I tell you to do something, fucking do it.”
your brows furrowed. “I wasn't hungry,” you repeated, a little more certainty to your voice. you still sounded like a terrified little mouse, cornered by the cat, but like a mouse making a final effort to get away.
and simon? simon clearly didn't like that.
he pushed himself out of his chair so quickly, quicker than you expected such a big guy to be able to. two quick strides and he was on you, hand around your neck. not squeezing, but the threat was there. he ‘could’, all you had to do was push the right buttons.
you could smell it on him now, somebody else's metallic blood. you could feel it on his hand, crusted over and pressing into your neck. your eyes watered in a way you couldn't control.
“when I tell you to do something, fucking do it,” he growled out, voice low.
you hadn't no choice but to whimper. a pathetic response, but it was all you had.
when he left the room, you still sat there, frozen in fear.
your crime family needs help. to get that help, your brother sells you to john price in exchange for a loan of money and man power. but you're not for john price. you're for his ruthless, right hand man: simon "ghost" riley
slow burn, mafia au
prev
no more words were exchanged between you on the drive. a mix of tiredness and terror was playing on your mind, keeping you quiet in the passenger seat.
you didn't expect the stately home. you didnt expect gates that towered over you, the iron twisted into all manner of creature. you didn't expect the fountain just beyond them, the cherub spitting water into the bowl. you didn't expect the shrubbery and neatly arranged flowers surrounding the house, didn’t expect the well maintained stone steps.
in your mind, the ghost was a creature. chained up in the basement, kept docile with mind numbing television and fed slop.
but he wasn't. he was a man with a real home. a home that looked like a manor.
he glanced at you as he parked the car. you made no move to get out, to explore. no, you just sat staring, as if you could do nothing else. fine, stare. he had better things to do.
simon pulled your bags from the boot as two of his staff ran over. "when she's done, take 'er to 'er room," he mumbled and tossed them the keys.
they nodded rapidly and continued pulling your things from the boot. as one began taking it to your new bedroom, you continued to stare. five minutes turned into ten, ten nearly turning to fifteen.
there was no telling how long it would have stretched out for if the remaining staff member hadn't pulled open the door. "ma'am," he said, offering you his hand.
you looked at him, took in his polished uniform, his white gloves. he looked like he came with the house, like an immovable painting, glued to the wall.
you placed your hand in his white gloves and let him help you to your feet.
"sorry," you mumbled, taking one look back at the car as he led you to the stone steps. any cracks had been filled but they were still visible, as if intentional.
the entire house was beautiful. the time taken, the careful restoration, had woven its way into every detail. the paintings on the foyer wall were carefully picked out, all fitting the house but no two the same.
"mr riley has picked out a room for you," he said as he led you up the stairs.
picked out a room for you. it came as no surprise that you weren't going to be sharing his room. actually, it was more of a relief. at least you had your own space in this loveless marriage.
you didn't need to ask for a tour; the member of staff was happy to give it. he led you around, pointing out every little detail and giving you a history of the house. you wondered if simon riley had hired him, or if you were right and he really did come with the house.
clearly, this house was his love.
most of the house was covered in sheets. furniture protected from dust in unused rooms. the member of staff cleared his throat and rocked on the balls of his feet. "i hope having a lady of the house means that these rooms are fully utilised," he said and turned to quickly walk away.
you followed him out of the unused rooms, unsure of how you would use them. your future husband didn't look like he'd let you throw parties, fill the rooms with music and laughter. you weren't sure you wanted that, either.
maybe you could find a small room to make your own. a little nook full of books and things to keep you entertained when you weren't playing the part of the perfect wife. you didn't need a lot of space, just somewhere to sit and be alone. maybe with a nice window that overlooked the gardens.
the member of staff took you up the stairs. he pointed out all of the rooms for you, the multitude of unused bedrooms. what could one man need with so many bedrooms?
his office was in the centre of the hallway. two doors kept firmly shut. you could imagine a drop bolt keeping it shut, keeping you out. keeping him in solitude.
the member of staff took you further through the house. several doors separated you from him, from his office. "your bedroom, ma'am," he said and pushed open the door.
you stepped into your bedroom. so far away from home, but this was your home now. a tastefully decorated room, but it felt so lifeless. "thank you," you mumbled to the member of staff as you stepped inside. a whole tour of the house and you hadn't bothered to get his name.
his low bow wasn't really a bow at all. just a way for him to pull the door shut without really entering your bedroom.
your bags were in front of your bed. sitting on the end, you reached for your bag and pulled it open. mostly clothes, a couple of books, and a teddy bear. one of his ears was becoming unstitched and falling away from his face.
laying him on your bed, you searched through your bags for your little sewing kit. it sat in the bottom of your suitcase, in a little tin. a tiny pair of scissors, black and white thread, and a couple of needles. just what you needed to fix mr bear up.
the repetitive motion was soothing. pushing the needle through the ear and through the head in a looping motion until the ear was fully attached to the head again. tying the threat, you cut it, put your sewing kit away and held your bear close.
a tiny piece of home held in your arms. a piece of your life from before. before you came here, before your father became so paranoid. you laid on your new bed, on a mattress too hard for you, on sheets too thin for you to be able to sleep in, and cried.
***
the first thing simon riley did when he bought the house was put cameras in almost every room. even the bedrooms were full of cameras. your bedroom was full of cameras.
he didn't mean to watch you move from room to room. your lips didn't move as you were taken around his house. nothing until you got to your bedroom, until the door was shut. even then, you didn't speak. you just cried after you fixed up that old bear.
body shaking with sobs as you laid in that bed, laid with your bear.
simon changed the camera, watched his staff talk in the kitchen. there was only one interesting topic of conversation in the house; you.
he couldn't read lips, couldn't tell what they were saying, but it had to be about you. nothing else interesting had happened since he bought the house, a year ago. moved out of the shitty apartment he'd grown out of.
you wouldn't have been able to live there with him, not separately. not in your own bedroom. he would've taken the sofa, given you the more comfortable space.
you hadn't asked for this. he just didn't want it to be him.
he checked his texts from price. all of them were about you. the poor little lamb he'd been forced to take as a wife.
you wouldn't be happy here. you'd never be happy here. the crying would stop eventually, but you'd never feel settled, never feel happy.
if he was a better man, he would have left his office. he would have gone to you, asked you what your favourite dinner was, what would make you feel less home sick.
for him, it was chicken soup with a little bit of bread and salty butter. nothing special, just what his mother used to make him when he was sick. half the time it ended up splattered up the kitchen wall when he dad came home in a blind rage. but the nights he got to finish it, got tucked up in bed with a sweet forehead kiss, those were the best.
that sounded like what you needed right now. you just had nobody that could give it to you.
simon switched the camera feed back to you. you hadn't moved, weren't moving. your body was no longer shaking as you slept on top of the blanket with your bear in your arms.
he called one of his staff to throw a blanket over you. you weren't used to the cold in england yet, weren't used to how low the temperatures could drop at night.
his phone vibrated twice on the table. the screen lit up for only a few seconds as a message flashed across the top.
price: get her a new phone
simon responded with a thumbs up. he locked his phone and turned back to his cameras. back to you.
you were going to be so damn lonely in this house. simon didn't know what to do with you. what were you going to do while he worked? what did you do while your brother worked?
at his message request, one of the maids walked into your room. she walked carefully, making sure you stayed asleep. going into one of the cupboards in your room, she pulled out a blanket and laid it over your body.
you stopped shivering, but simon didn't stop watching you. he should have been working, but he was looking at you. you. his future wife.
your crime family needs help. to get that help, your brother sells you to john price in exchange for a loan of money and man power. but you're not for john price. you're for his ruthless, right hand man: simon "ghost" riley
slow burn, mafia au
prev
“you shouldn't be here,” john price said as he walked past simon riley's office.
even in solitude, shut away in a room only price would dear enter, he still wore his mask over his face. what had once been about protection and anonymity became his normal. it had been years since anybody had last seen his face.
simon had nobody left to protect anymore.
a grunt left his lips. he didn't look up from what he was doing, order sheets, if price had to guess. a restock of ammunition m johnny had blown through like it grew on trees before he went to the united states.
“you should be home, preparing for your new wife.”
finally, simon looked up. he had a quiet fury in his eyes that price knew better than anyone he couldn't count how many men had seen that look before they died. “johnny or gaz woulda taken her,” he said, voice a little more than a deep grumble.
john nodded in agreement. “I'm sure johnny's probably trying as we speak,” he mumbled. it didn't pull the reaction he had hoped.
“piss off, price.”
“you're picking her up from the jet, ghost.”
“soap can bring her.” he moved his pen faster, writing becoming unintelligible. any harder and he'd be tearing through the paper.
finally, john stepped into the office. “don't fuck this up for me simon. I mean it,” he warned. “this deal could end with our influence in at least three different states.”
this, simon knew. his presence in the conference call with your brother was what had him agreeing to almost anything. he must've just missed the part where the deal involved him.
"pick her up. take her back to your apartment. it's not up for debate."
john price. he was maybe the only person that could control simon riley, control ghost. when simon glared through his skull painted balaclava, john knew he had him.
he left the room, confident simon was going to follow his instructions.
and simon was. he just wasn't going to be nice about it.
opening the bottom drawer of his desk. simon pulled out his other mask. the skull stitched onto black fabric, designed to terrify anyone who saw it.
he swapped his masks over before anybody could walk past and see his face. grabbing his car keys, he put his paperwork in it's drawer, walked out of his office, locked it behind him, and headed down to the garage.
***
you tried to sleep on the flight to the united kingdom. you closed your eyes and pushed your seat back. but it was useless.
the two men, soap and gaz, as they'd introduced themselves, played cards on the other side of the jet. they didn't bother to keep their voices down, the scottish man shouting whether he won or lost. each time you felt yourself maybe drifting off, he shouted again and woke you up.
towards the end of the flight, soap looked towards you as you shouted. he watched as you jolted awake uncomfortably, hands gripping the arms of the chair.
"aye, sorry, lass," he called across the jet and threw down another card. "nearly there. ghost's meeting us when we touch down."
your head shot up. "ghost?" you asked, the first thing you'd said to them since they'd arrived at your house. "i thought it was simon."
the two men looked at each other. eyebrows raised, they put their cards down and turned in their seats to look at you. the other one, the pretty one, gaz, spoke. "simon is ghost, sweetheart," he said as soap picked up his cards again.
simon is ghost.
simon is ghost.
simon
is
ghost
simon is ghost.
you felt bile rising in your throat. ghost. the ghost. you'd had dreams of him standing over the end of your bed, pistol pointed in your direction. you always woke up when he pulled the trigger.
you ran towards the window, tried to see what was below you. if it was ocean, you still had time, just a little bit of time, before you landed, before you were his.
but it was land beneath. patches of green with the occasional house. cattle (sheep, cows, horses, you didn't know) in fields and thickets of trees. the clusters of houses got bigger and bigger as you got closer to a city.
you didn't know which city, just assumed it was london.
"better buckle up, bonnie," said soap. "landin' soon."
swallowing down the bile rising in your throat, you returned to your seat and buckled yourself in.
it was a dumpy landing. you gripped the arms of your seat, nails digging into the white leather, as the wheels touched the tarmac.
breath stuck in your throat, you looked towards soap and gaz. not as panicked as you were, but they didn't look exactly happy with the landing.
you breathed, deep and calming, as the jet slowed right down. still moving, just very slowly towards the hangar.
towards the sleek, black car. towards the big man leaning against it, who didn't look like he would fit inside.
you saw the skull mask on his face and immediately knew who he was.
immediately, you were afraid.
the jet stopped, the doors opened, but you couldn't move. why couldn't you move? you should have been able to walk down those steps with your chin raised, unafraid as you stepped towards him.
but you were rooted in place.
"c'mon, sweetheart," gaz mumbled, reaching for you. he slipped his arm through yours and tried to pull you away. but you stayed where you were, staring at you through the window. "your future awaits."
***
the jet had touched down, but there was no movement from inside. simon waited as patiently as he could, but you were taking your sweet time.
he had half a mind to climb those steps and drag you back to his car.
he flexed his fingers in his leather gloves. so he didn’t have to touch you, didn't have to feel your skin against his own. he didn't want to touch you if he could help it.
the door opened. still nothing, no movement from inside. he could just about see you through the window. a pretty thing, younger than him, and terrified.
good.
finally, you climbed down the steps of the private jet. your knees were trembling, threatening to give out as gaz and soap busied themselves with your bags.
simon pushed away from the car. hands in his pockets, he walked towards you. your name was engraved in his memory, but he didn't memorise it for you to be his wife.
he didn't say it. even at the bottom of the few steps, barely looking up at you, inches from you, he didn't say it. he stared at you, and you stared at him.
"nearly there, bonnie," soap said from behind you. you dropped simons gaze, turned back towards him. when you took the few steps down, he stepped back.
he didn't get closer to you, wouldn't get closer to you. he stared down at you now that your feet were on the ground. hands at your sides, hair blowing slightly to the left.
finally, he said your name. your mouth opened as if you were going to respond. but your lip shook. you looked like you were going to say his name, a gentle simon that wouldn't change the way he felt about you.
"ghost."
it was barely above a whisper. he opened the passenger side door of his car, the opposite to what you were used to, as soap and gaz shoved your bags into the back.
you hesitated. door open, but you couldn't climb in. couldn't be that close to the man you were going to be linked to for the rest of you life. his leather gloves looked like they were going to be a cold to the touch and his mask was enough to terrify you.
you wanted to ask him to take it off, wanted to ask him why on earth he would wear something like that around you. but the lump in your throat stopped you from speaking to him.
"get in," he said, voice just as deep and gruff as you expected it to be
too afraid to disobey him, you climbed into the passenger side of his car. as soon as you were in, he shut the door and turned to the men stood with him.
"if I can convince price, would either of you take her?" he asked them, folding his arms over his chest.
soap and gaz looked at each other. quiet contemplation between the two of them, which one would take you. you were incredibly easy on the eyes, and there wasn't much more they knew about you. but you seemed perfectly agreeable.
"can't, ghost," soap muttered, unable to hide the way he grinned. "got the missus over t' trim me mohawk."
missus. of course john 'soap' mactavish would have a missus.
simon looked to gaz. but gaz shook his head. "this is your mission, ghost," he mumbled and walked away from the car. johnny caught his eye, following after him.
leaving you with him.
he looked at you through the drivers side window. eyes set forward, hands in your lap, like you’d been trained for this. maybe you had, simon didn’t know. he reached under his mask to scratch at his neck.
you and your brother looked so alike, but you were much prettier. even simon had to admit that. his hand rested on the handle of the drivers side door. all he had to do was climb in and sit beside you.
so why wasn't he?
he looked around. at the jet, at soap and gaz as they drove away. he'd faced monsters of men, killed them without a second thought, but he couldn't get into the car, couldn't sit beside you.
his hand shook.
he pulled open the driver's side door and climbed in. the entire car shook as he settled down and pulled the door shut.
he didn't look at you, just glanced in his rear view mirror. he took up the entire drivers side, thick thighs pressed against the door and the centre console.
foot poised on the pedal, he twisted the key in the ignition. no words were exchanged between you as he put his foot down, put the car into gear and put the handbrake down.
you said nothing. why weren't you saying anything? the silence settled between you but simon couldn't tell whether he was comfortable or not.
you wouldn't talk first, that much was clear. normally, simon wouldn't mind. normally, he was happy in silence. but this was different.
"have you eaten?"
his voice was so deep and gruff. he glanced at you just in time to see you shiver. you held your hands together in your lap, as if holding yourself together, and shook your head.
he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "I need words," he said, voice almost sounding like a growl.
you swallowed thickly. "yes," you said, voice proper. like you'd practiced over and over again until it came out perfect. in a family like yours, simon wouldn't have been surprised if that was the case. "soap gave me something to eat on the jet."
good lad, simon almost said.
for a few more minutes, you were still. not looking out of the window, to your left, just at the few cars in front of you.
finally, you reached for the knob on his stereo. your fingers were slightly hesitant as you twisted it, turning the music up.
simon bit back the words that threatened to spill from his lips. a sharp, biting warning. he didn't let himself, kept his mouth shut as you settled back in his seat.
it was like, suddenly, he didn't want to scare you.
he kept his mask on.
next
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your crime family needs help. to get that help, your brother sells you to john price in exchange for a loan of money and man power. but you're not for john price. you're for his ruthless, right hand man: simon "ghost" riley
slow burn, mafia au
you moved the chess piece across the board, hitting his own. "check," you said, snatching up his knight. It wasn't going to take much for you to win, one more move and you would have his king.
your older brother stared at you, a mixture of annoyance and amusement written on his face. "how the hell did you get so good at chess?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. there was no point in trying to make his next move, not when you were inevitably going to win.
with a smile of your own, you made that final, winning move. "i played with mom while you were off with dad," you said and snatched up the white piece that represented his king.
you kept your mouth shut, stopped yourself from saying something stupid that would get you into trouble. you loved your brother dearly, but he got his temper from your father.
still, you held up the chess piece. your way of celebrating your win; you did it every single time.
the two of you were siblings, grew up side by side, but you were raised so damn differently. he was raised to be a ruthless killer, to run a mafia family. you were raised to be the perfect mafia wife, to stand by your husband's side, nodding along to whatever he said.
your future had been decided for you.
"have you seen dad recently?" you asked. leaning back in your chair, arms folded over your chest. if your mother was still here, she would have chastised you. her ruler would have smacked her hand and you would've instinctively straightened your spine.
your brother shook his head. your father was a very busy man. a paranoid one, at that. once the leader of the most successful family in America, he was the shell of his former self.
he once was the lion, now he was the lamb. frantic, panicked, always on the phone with a shrill voice, always hiding out of sight of windows.
he was an embarrassment.
you knew your brother wanted to take over the family. it might have been the only way to save it. your father hadn't been the same since the death of your mother. erratic, out of control.
he terrified you. he wasn’t the man you remembered growing up, wasn’t the man that loved your mother. he was crazy, out of control, and somebody needed to put him down.
at least, that was what you’d heard your brother say. it wasn’t exactly a meeting, wasn’t something he’d warned you away from. just him and a few of his men, the men he claimed were his friends but started every week with a fresh paycheck for doing just that, in the drawing room.
you didn’t linger long for that meeting, just long enough to hear that phrase. but the cigar smoke was thick enough to be wafting out of the room, to have you nearly spluttering as you tried to listen. you left before you could get anymore details.
“I only go when I'm called,” your brother muttered. “it's best to stay out of the way.”
you knew what he meant. in your world, your father was known as a loose cannon, a madman. he had been ever since the death of your mother.
that what what had driven your father so mad. the not knowing. the desperation for answers. operations in the family had halted and money was quickly drying up.
even you knew that. you, the sheltered daughter. trained to be the perfect wife. you had no other skills. being a wife, that was all you were meant for. hobbies and interests weren't allowed to be anything more than that.
“what has he called you in for recently?” you asked, setting the chess set back on the board as if to begin another game. your brother wouldn't compete in another game, you knew. not when he was too busy.
he was singlehandedly keeping the family running.
your brother pushed his chair back. “business,” he said and stood up. “nothing you need to worry about.”
the way he said it made you worry. the family was going to shit and you had nothing without it. no transferable skills, no job experience, no references. without the family, you would be utterly lost.
your brother left you in the library with the chess set ready with another game, you stood and wandered around, looked for something to read. something you hadn't read before. new books hadn't been put on the shelves since your mother died.
with nothing new, you picked up the same book as always, one you had loved ever since you were a teenager. notes were in the margin from the fourth time you read it and your favourite pages were dogeared.
a well loved book. your mother would have flipped if she was alive to see the state.
as worried as you were about the family, your life was peaceful. you had no responsibilities, no etiquette lessons, nothing. you were just waiting, biding your time until your father found somebody to marry you off to.
you just had to wait.
as a child, you thought about running away. starting over again, going to school and getting a degree. at sixteen, your bag was packed and your father’s car keys were in your hands. but you didn’t make it, stopped when your brother asked you just two words.
you okay?
he was older than you, took it upon himself to look after you. he was the first born son, the future head of the family, the favourite. but you were his favourite. his baby sister. he was going to protect you, no matter what.
you were what the business had been. you had been the business you brother had been speaking to your dad about. now, he wasn’t ready to tell you this. how was he supposed to say ‘yeah, dad found you something to marry and i don’t think i can stop it’?
sitting on the sofa by the window, you tucked your legs under you and began to read. there used to be men in your garden, surrounding your house. protection that was needed in this line of work. but slowly, they'd been let go.
no finances, no staff. your family was slowly becoming nothing.
after leaving your in the library, your brother strode down the halls of the house. your father's office would be empty, he knew. it always was nowadays. not enough room for all of his papers, he liked to say.
papers. for most heads of family, most leaders in your world, their papers were all about business. deals, trade routes, people to take out. your fathers papers weren’t that. his room had become a hub of information, walls plastered with papers on the whereabouts of your mothers killer. some of it was ineligible, covered in coffee stains, and some of it just didn’t make sense.
nobody was brave enough to tell him that. he was determined, as if it would somehow bring her back.
he let himself into the office and sat in his fathers seat. his seat soon.
opening the laptop, he read through the email correspondence from england. he knew john price was as powerful a man as his father had once been. but his father had ruled cities with an army, john price had done it with just three men behind him.
he was as terrifying as he was impressive.
two weeks, the email said. two weeks didn't feel like enough time but that was john price's answer. any attempts to push the date back had resulted in the same answer.
two weeks.
that was all you had left. two fucking weeks and you didn't even know its he typed out a response, didn't have it in him to beg for anymore time.
now, he just had to find it in himself to tell you.
you had been raised for this, to be the perfect wife. but not his perfect wife. not that monster.
a sigh left his lips as he sat back in his seat. you never should have been involved in any of this. you were all he had left in the world, but he had no other choice. it was for the good of the family.
for the good of the family.
***
for two weeks, he tried to find an opportunity to tell you. it wasn't an easy thing to say ‘hey I'm sending you to get married to one of the most ruthless men in england’
he couldn't stop imagining your reaction. horrified. but then you would run away, hide from him. you would hide from everything if you could.
but you were prepared for this, for being married off to another family as if part of a deal. a shiny prize to be sold to the highest bidder.
this just so happened to be the ghost.
your brother wasn't sure how much you knew about the ruthless killer. assassin turned right hand man. those who were smart feared him. those who weren't ended up with a bullet in their brain.
only three days now. three days until he put you on a plane and shopped you off across the world. it would be just any plane, but john price's private jet. your family hangar had already been cleared for it.
“hey,” he said, slipping into the seat beside you.
you slipped your bookmark between the pages and put your book down “you okay?” you asked him, anxiety swirling in your gut. you knew your brother too well to know this was a social call.
he breathed in, his breath shaking. “what do you know about john price?”
“the man who runs the 141 in england?” you asked and your brother nodded.. “I know he started with nothing, slowly spreading over england and now he pretty much rules the place,” you said.
your brother linked his fingers together. “what do you know about the men that work for him?” he asked next.
“the three he built his empire with?”
again, your brother nodded his head.
your shoulders raised with a subconscious shrug. “nothing,” you said sincerely.
but then something sprung to mind. “I've seen a picture in dad's office. I think he was part of the 141. the man with the skull mask over his face. I had nightmares about it for weeks.”
guilt immediately started bubbling in his stomach. you were marrying someone you were afraid of, and it was all his doing. but this marriage would do some much for your families alliance with the 141. it would save your family.
“pack your bags,” he grunted out, his tone harsher than he meant for it to be.
“you're going to england.”
you looked towards your book on the table. weathered and dogeared with age, but, in a strange way, this was where it belonged. in the same way, this was where you belonged.
“for what?”
no answer. instead, he strode out of the library and called for one of the many staff members in the house. never seen, never heard, until they were needed.
“hattie?” he called and the young maid came running. she hadn't been employed for very long, but you knew your brother had a soft spot for her. hers was the only name he remembered.
harriet ran into the room. she smoothed out her skirt and clasped her hands together as he waited for further instruction. something your grandmother had expected if the staff, the current head of staff had kept it going.
“take my sister upstairs and make sure she packs her bags for england.”
she bowed her head. “of course, sir,” she said. knees bending as she dipped in acknowledgement.
“hang on, harriet,” you said as you stood, finger raised in her direction. “I'm not going anywhere until you tell me why and for how long I'm staying for.”
your brother turned away from you in a fashion that was entirely too dramatic. but that was your brother; entirely Roo dramatic.
he braced his arms against the table that held the chess set. “you're not coming back,” he managed through gritted teeth. “you're to stay in england with the 141 and maybe we're got a chance at saving this family.”
his fist hit the table and the neatly arranged pieces on top of the table rattled. “don't argue with me on this,” he said suddenly. “this is hard enough.”
but you wanted to argue. of course you wanted to argue; he was uprooting your entire life and moving you across the world. anyway from everything, away from everybody, that you knew and loved.
in your desperation, you looked towards harriet. but she couldn't help you. nobody could. nobody but your brother, and he was the one sending you away.
“when?”
you didn't have it within yourself to ask anything else.
the expression your brother looked at you with was so damn sad. "three days," he said.
you swallowed uncomfortably. for the good of the family, that's what he was saying. for the good the family, but what about for the good of you?
“Harriet?” you looked towards the young maid. “I'll meet you upstairs.”
“of course,” she said and rushed out of the library, leaving you with your brother. you waited for her to pull the door shut, waited until you heard it click, before you dared speak again.
arms by you side, back straight, as if that would hold you together. “what did you get in exchange for me?” you asked him, trying to keep your voice steady.
a sigh left his lips, leaning against the table as he threw his head back. “help,” he said “we need help. price is gonna loan us the money and the men we need to rebuild.”
“but why me?”
he shook his head. “I don't know,” he confessed. “you're not for price, though. you're for one of his men.”
one of his men.
“which one?”
he didn't answer.
“which one!” you insisted, face growing hot.
he opened his mouth, eyes searching your own ad he found the right words. “simon riley,” he finally confessed.
simon riley. not the ghost. you released a breath, the anxiety squeezing your chest easing slightly. “what does this mean for the rest of my life?”
“I can't say,” your brother answered. “but it's happening.”
the way you nodded, it was like you were being controlled by something else. you walked out of the library in a daze. he didn't stop you, didn't follow you as you walked down the hall and up the stairs.
harriet packed your bags while you sat there. there was nothing you could do, just sit there while harriet put everything you needed into your suitcases.
“if there's anything you need I'm sure the 141 will buy it for you,” she said, as if trying to be reassuring.
you nodded, the movement mindless. the 141. your new family. the thought had bile burning your throat.
three days. that was all you had. three days, you spent them in bed, too upset and drained to do anything.
if anybody came to your door, you shouted for them to go away. food brought for you was left half eaten, nibbled on. you were numb and upset, but you knew you had no choice.
and suddenly, the three days were up.
it was a sharp knock at your door, one you weren't used to. grabbing your pillow, you put it over your face and hid beneath it.
another knock. you didn't make a sound.
the door flew open.
you moved your blankets down slightly, watched as the two unfamiliar men walked into the room, flanked by your brother.
you wanted to shout, to scream, to tell them to get the hell out, but you didn't have it in you. your brother had sealed your fate with nothing more than a signature.
“aye, this ‘er?” the first man asked. no hair around the sides of his head, just on top.
“I'm sorry,” your brother said before the men could get any closer. you just spied the other one, close cropped hair and an unfairly, effortlessly pretty face. “I'll have her maid dress her and get her ready for you.”
the apology wasn't for you, you realised. it was for making them wait, not for ruining your life.
as they left the room, harriet entered. “come on,” she said and pulled your covers back. “let's get you dressed.”
you let her pull you around the room, getting you into your little black dress. minimal jewellery, and harriet picked your makeup.
“they're waiting for you downstairs, miss,” harriet said, grabbing your bag from your vanity. it had everything you might have needed for your long flight. phone, lip gloss, kindle, hair brush.
as harriet handed you your bag, she fixed your hair, pushing it just out of your face. “tell your brother once you've landed safely,” she mumbled, hand coming to rest on your shoulder. “I'll try and work on him, get him to bring you home,” she mumbled.
your hand found hers. “thank you, harriet,” you mumbled and stood.
the rest of your life was only moments away and you were terrified.
harriet followed you out of your room. without her behind you, you wouldn't have continued. you would have stopped, run into another room, and hidden yourself away. but you couldn't, you couldn't turn and run with harriet there.
when you got to the top of the stairs, there were three sets of eyes on you. one familiar, the other two strangers. they stared, but you couldn't move.
“hello, love,” one of them said. your bags were by the door, ready to go. he held his hand out to you. “ready when you are.”
cw: explicit sexual content, morning sex, somno? but its consensual, unprotected sex, dirty talk...
You remember saying it once, half-joking, laying on your back in bed, still sore from the night before, your hair a mess, and Simon standing shirtless at the foot of the bed pulling on his sweats while you groaned dramatically and said something dumb like, “I wanna start every day with a good fuck,” and he’d turned to you with that lazy grin, all sleepy eyes and messed-up hair, and just said, “Say less,” like it was a promise instead of just something to laugh about.
And now? Now it’s a few weeks later, and the bed is warm, and your limbs are heavy, and the sun is barely up yet, but he’s behind you, his big arm slung across your waist, bare skin pressed up against your back, and your brain’s still halfway in a dream when you feel him shift just a little, nudge his hips forward and slot himself right up against you like he does every morning now, but this time it’s different—this time he’s already hard and pressed up right there, thick and hot and heavy between your thighs, and you let out this soft little breath when you feel the way he pushes forward just enough for the tip of him to catch and press right at your entrance.
“Still wanna start your day like this, sweetheart?” he whispers right in your ear, voice all gravelly and deep from sleep, because he hasn’t spoken a word until now, and you’re so tired and turned on already that all you can do is nod and whine a little, shifting your hips back into him like that’s permission enough.
And Simon, fuck, he doesn’t even wait—he kisses the back of your neck real slow, one hand sliding up your thigh, gripping your hip, and he just sinks in like he’s got all the time in the world, sliding inside you so gently but so deep that your breath hitches and your toes curl under the covers.
“There you go, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, hips rocking slow as hell, savoring it. “Nice way to wake up, yeah? All warm and wet f’me already… been dreamin’ about me, haven’t you?”
You manage to let out this sleepy little moan, eyes fluttering shut again as he keeps fucking you slow and deep, trying to draw those sounds out of you, wanting to keep you stuck right here between sleep and bliss, and his hand moves up your body, cupping your breast, squeezing it softly while his other arm tightens around your waist to hold you exactly where he wants you.
“You’re so good like this,” he whispers again, mouth right against your skin, breath warm as he keeps fucking into you in these long, unhurried strokes. “So fuckin’ perfect, lettin’ me in like this… every single morning, baby. Gonna spoil you rotten.”
You’re whimpering into the pillow now, body arching into his with every roll of his hips, and it’s slow, it’s so fucking slow you could scream, but it feels too good to ask him to speed up.
“Don’t even have to say a word,” he keeps talking, voice all low and cocky and sweet at the same time, like he can’t shut up when he’s this deep inside you, and he needs you to hear every dirty thought in his head. “Just wake up and take it, yeah? Always so ready f’me. Fuckin’ made for this, I swear.”
His hand slides down again, slow and lazy like everything else he’s doing, fingers finding your clit and rubbing little circles that make your whole body tense up and shake just a little under him, and he hums when he feels it, all proud of himself.
“That’s it, love,” he says, a little louder now but still all low and husky, still in your ear, still so damn close you feel every word. “Come for me. Let me feel it, baby. C’mon, let’s start the day right, yeah?”
And it’s too much, all of it—the warmth of his chest pressed to your back, the way his cock stretches you out so slow and deep, the constant soft praise in your ear, the way his fingers don’t stop even when your body’s twitching and gasping for air—and you come with this choked-out cry, biting down into the pillow to muffle it, legs shaking as he keeps fucking you through it, gentle but firm, holding you tight like he never wants to let go.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder, hips starting to move a little faster now, just a little, chasing his own release while you’re still trembling in his arms. “Takin’ it so good, always so good for me…”
You can feel it when he gets close—his breath starts coming faster, hips stuttering, arm tightening around you until you can’t even move, just feel him rutting into you, the way he groans low in his throat and presses his forehead against the back of your head, whispering your name like it’s the only thing keeping him together.
And when he finishes, it’s deep and messy and perfect, spilling inside you with this quiet, broken noise that makes you clench around him all over again, and he stays there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard, kissing your shoulder over and over like he’s thanking you just for letting him have this.
Neither of you moves for a long while—just breathing, tangled up, skin on skin, his hand rubbing slow circles into your belly now.
“Best part of wakin’ up,” he says eventually, voice all smug and soft and still out of breath, and you laugh into the pillow even though your thighs are still shaking and you feel like jelly.
“You’re an idiot,” you mumble back, reaching behind to smack his thigh, and he just laughs too, hugging you tighter, still inside you, not even thinking about pulling out yet.
“Yeah,” he says, kissing the back of your head, “but I’m your idiot. And I got your morning routine memorized now.”
You hum, smiling. “Good. Keep doing it. I’ll never need coffee again.”
And he just chuckles again, nuzzling into your neck like he’s getting ready to doze off all over again, still deep inside you, and that’s exactly where he plans to stay for the rest of the morning.
And honestly? There’s no better way to start the day.
simon riley whose insomnia went away when he met you
cw: pure fluff - no tag list
after retirement simon still felt the scars and pain as if they were fresh. he often found himself staring up at the popcorn ceiling of his shabby apartment, his large body sprawled out as the thin grey sheets were half on him and half on the cold wooden floorboard.
it was like he could hear the gun shots, the commands being shouted and the smell of smoke. if he was lucky and got some sleep, he would wake up in the middle of the night sweating, jolted awake as his scarred hand was in his chest, his breaths heavy and sharp. never did he think he would get a good night’s rest.
until you.
at first he didn’t even recognise it, his head on your lap as you watched soccer on the television, and simon never missed a game. his eyes felt droopy, the commentary from the show slowly faded as his breathing evened out, the feeling of your nails against his hair making his whole body go limp.
and when he woke up, it wasn’t like the usual nightmare induced sudden jolt, no. it was peaceful.
slowly blinking groggily before realising what had happened.
he fell asleep.
it was only for an hour, but that was the best sleep he had ever gotten.
slowly, he started to sleep more, taking occasional naps with you in his arms, where the two of you slowly migrated from watching tv on the couch to the comfort of his own bed.
his sad flimsy excuse of a bed now adorned in thick blankets and throws just to make the experience a little better.
then he started to go to bed early. usually he would be in bed at best by 1am, finding any excuse to not go, and yet he found himself bundled up next to you by 9.
then, he woke up later, finding any excuse to sleep in. “jus’ ten more minutes,” his voice muffled as he snuggled deep into the crook of your neck, pitting his whole body weight on you so you couldn’t leave.
